the old man

'how many ways are there to lose yourself' she asked the old man in grey.
'how many ways are there to fuck myself up so I can bury myself like ashes in the ground.' and finally she said 'how can I see that I am a loser and not run away. - I am tired of fighting.'

so he turned around, all pale and ashgrey in his face, the dust coming out of every single pore in his face. 'losers suck' his voice trembling with fierce contempt. 'losers give up on themselves'.

he pointed with his walking stick made out of spinebones to the foggy horizon. 'losers don't see the difference between them and a warrior who just takes a rest in order to strike from an unexpected angle and in an unexpected moment to his advantage.'

and slowly he withered into the midwintersun, shining pale through the fog, illuminating both, his glassy bones and her pumping heart.

sweat dropping down right beside my feet. I lose my pasture, stumble and fall: Lost