The Thespian

I have outlived my time. Born to a life of tinkering, I have been forced against my will to live into an age when the concept of repair has become alien. To your generation the mere thought of mending a domestic appliance is laughable. Yours is the age of the disposable, the throwaway.

Why then, will you not dispose of me? I have no relevance to this time and I am tired, so very, very tired; tired of being the gatekeeper to happiness for so many innocents.

I want to die. Are you shocked to hear me say so? Then remember I have faced death so many times, stared it down on occasions beyond number when the energy was coursing through me, like fairy dust carrying laughing children to the stars.

But now my light has dimmed with age. My bones and my sinews ache for the grave. Why will you little gods not let me die? Night after night – for years of nights, for decades of nights, I have hoped you will show compassion and let me pass over. But each night your voices come to me out of the darkness again, summoning me back from the restful sleep of death. Your voices, high pitched and intense, dominant and demanding, damn me yet again to eternal life.

I scream back, “Let me go, let me die, let me be at peace.” But my voice is like music to you, my meaning unintelligible, my pain irrelevant.  This is a world rooted in the depravity of piracy and the voices of you little gods rule supreme. Belief is the currency of Neverland. Children! In my agony I beg of you. Please, please stop believing in fairies.