X’s decline

X tells me he’s discovered that his life is a long, slow decline. But at least it’s his decline, he says. No, not his exactly, he says. No one has much influence on it, not even himself. It’s a successful decline in that sense, he says, there’s a certain integrity about it. We start dying the minute we’re born, he says, who said that? Someone or other, he says. What a profound statement! he says. But it depends on how you look at it, doesn’t it, he says. You might just as well say we start living when we’re born, he says. Life’s a mixed bag, it swings in roundabouts. Maybe he should be more positive, he says, after all life’s what you make it and you make your own luck. But why does he feel he’s on the decline when he wakes up every morning? That’s his first thought, he says, I’m on the decline. Right before he starts worrying about the colour of his tongue and checking his balls for lumps. It’s because I don’t have a positive outlook, he says. Maybe he secretly wants to be on the decline, he says, maybe he thinks it’s cool or something, like a teenager, what do I know, he says, you make your own luck that’s all I know. Maybe he needs to train his brain to think positive thoughts like the Americans, that’s how it’s done now, isn’t it? Or maybe he should just get some responsibility, he says, grow up be a man, choose life, choose a future, get involved in local politics, get a chinchilla to take care of. No, he’s on the decline, he says, no doubt about it. He’s just one of those sad cases like Eleanor Rigby or the guy down the street with the stained jacket. He probably just needs to get laid, he says, can I find him a girl? No, of course I can’t.

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