As he grew older, he felt as if he were being led into a succession of rooms, each one smaller than the last. He refused to make any choices; he simply found the path of least insistence, and flowed.
Planning, he felt in his twenties, distracted from the great adventure of life. When he realized his error, he was older and fatter than all of the other applicants, and sometimes he would just leave his resume in his seat if there were a lot of young people applying; especially if any of them knew each other and seemed to be enjoying themselves. He would excuse himself, and walk around downtown in his suit, wasting time imagining how important he must look to others.
There was a narrow eclipse where he could have married, but none of his loves loved silence and regret like he did. As his libido slowed, he was grateful to be free from another appetite that required too much energy and planning and being decent to strangers and such.
He had a closet where he kept his hopes for himself, clothes he would wear when he was thin enough and an attaché case to fill with important papers. He enjoyed purchasing things of moderate expense to reward himself for imagined frugality or a slightly stressful day that he had conflated into a proud victory of patience. He allowed his life to belong to things that were beneath him.
When he is remembered, people will place his death up as a yardstick to measure the passing of time – as in –
“Didn’t he die?”
“Oh, yeah. That must have been… 7 years ago. Wow.”
And they will both remark at how fast it all goes by.