Stirrings Still

One night as he sat at his table head on hands he saw himself rise and go.

One night or day.

For when his own light went out he was not left in the dark.

Light of a kind came then from the one high window.

Under it still the stool on which till he could or would no more he used to mount to see the sky.

Why he did not crane out to see what lay beneath was perhaps because the window was not made to open or because he could or would not open it.

Perhaps he knew only too well what lay beneath and did not wish to see it again.

One night or day then as he sat at his table head on hands he saw himself rise and go.

First rise and stand clinging to the table.

Then sit again.

Then rise again and stand clinging to the table again.

Then go.

Start to go.

Seen always from behind whithersoever he went.

Same hat and coat as of old when he walked the roads.

The back roads.

Now as one in a strange place seeking the way out.

In the dark.

In a strange place blindly in the dark of night or day seeking the way out.

A way out.

To the roads.

The back roads.

There had been a time he would sometimes lift his head enough to see his hands.

What of them was to be seen.

One laid on the table and the other on the one.

At rest after all they did.

Lift his past head a moment to see his past hands.

Then lay it back on them to rest it too.

After all it did.

No matter how no matter where.

Time and grief and self so-called.

Oh all to end.

Samuel Beckett