Once More, Near The End Of The Year

I met a man with a sore on his foot. I could not, myself, see the foot. I could only hear the sore.

"That's some sore, sir," I told the man, who was old & could no longer wince.

"Sorcerer?" he said superciliously, which I took super-sillily.

"Does it often sound as sad, your sore?" I asked once more.

He told me a story, which he bade me not to tell, but I will tell, now that his own tale is told.

He said, "I once was a titan, a leader of men. I led some women too, but only astray. The men I led were men of iron, not of lead, & they followed me to the end. The end of the street. They went to their one-room shacks on the right, I went to my mansion on the left. It was a company town. But that night I did not want company. I wanted to be alone. I wanted to eat alone. I wanted to sleep alone. I wanted to remind myself that I was a lone wolf."

I said, "Was this before or after the present day?"

He continued, "Night came & went, & still I was alone. But now I no longer wanted it. I wanted to hear the bells of the factory & the whistles of the church bells. I wanted to be reminded of Emma, now long forgotten, whose life had so nearly touched mine. Or of Emma, Emma's cousin, with the same, unfortunate name, who to this day runs a mile & a half every morning just to wake up. Her alarm clock, you see, is a mile & a half away."

I said, "I can't hear over the soaring score of your sore!"

He waved a dismissive hand. "The more I grew aware of my surroundings the less I cared about the mansion, the men I led, the place from whence we all came. Instead, I had to go where I was certain I could be more or less myself. So I went to Mysore."

"Your sore?"

"Mysore," he said, "in India. Though it's a lovely city - second in size only to Bangalore - & rated the second cleanest city in India in 2010 - it turned out to be a terrible chore. I could not find myself in Mysore."

"But," I asked, "did you find your sore in Mysore?"

"Young man, your sore is not as loud as my sore, nor (I might add) is it as loud as Mysore, which is a great city of nearly a million inhabitants, all with something to say."

I was late for writing this blog entry so I became impatient. I suddenly realized the man was an outpatient.

"You have been treated for your sore!" I said triumphantly. "& now you are returning home."

"Alas," said the man, as his sore made a low moan, "the story is never that simple."

"Humor me," I said phlegmatically.

"I will not humor you!" he said with bile.

"Then you leave me no choice," I said. "I will ask the sore!"

To the sore I swore I would say no more. Do not implore nor explore this lore! I cannot ignore the roar of your esprit de corps, but though I am done for, I'll underscore the origin's core: it was something of a bore.