The Lonelys

The Lonelys are a happy family. They are content, satisfied and have no complaints. They are the envy of the neighbourhood and all who in the course of their rountines and mediocrity may be fortunate enough to make their acquaintance deem them envy worthy and the ‘picture’ of what they would imagine their lives to be, content, satisfied and with no complaints. They huddled in groups, in corners secret and otherwise, they conspired and considered, what could be it, what could be the secret behind The Lonelys; new theories sprung up everyday, new conspiracies but to no avail. The Lonelys remained happy and content and satisfied with no complaints whatsoever.
Mister Lonely was the ideal man,husband,father, friend as was Missus Lonely as were the childern, Lonely Junior and Lovely Lonely. They were ideal befitting every one’s description of ideal; they were flawless. A sceptic would scoff and smirk and speak at lengths about the incurable boredom such a life would entail, a cynic would speculate over the infinite hypocrisises unknown to us the Lonelys must be part of; you and me, people too confused too indecisive, ready to grasp, to clench on, ready to believe, something concrete something absolute and definitively true, we might just believe in The Lonelys. Their very existence and content and satisfied lives with no complaints, is enough to hope, to smile with no reason, to twirl alone, to hum a song, to be silly and stupid, to just be amidst our rented apartments, dead end jobs, lackluster lives.
What distinguished the Lonelys from other middle class families was not their jobs or their lifestyle or anything else that might be termed absurd or bizzare or as the old spinister around the corner said, scandalising and explicit. They lived ordinary lives. They had cavities and accidents, fights and funerals; they died unremarkably of cancer and alzhiemer’s, at the hand of an intoxicated driver, at the hand of an intoxicated fanatic, they died, a statistic to the statisticians, a sigh to the people who knew them.
Mister Lonely died alone, put to rest to his wife of fifty years after a bout with a disease that rendered her a child. He saw his children live incomplete lives, abrupt they ended, still he lived content, satisfied and with no complaints. He wrote a letter to Quentin before his death. In it he wrote with his inimitable humor and heart, he wrote, the secret lay not in a hidden marijuana field or in a superior being, the secret lay in acceptance and that was all he wrote before he died in his bed with a smile on his face.

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