He is an old doll.
Thrown about by life as her plaything: tossed here and there with no say in the matter. At least, it feels like that sometimes.
After all, there's only so much that a person can take control of their destiny. He can change through the places and the times, but it always comes down to this. It is always still him at the end, the only one left.
His love shrivels up and dies in his arms, full blooming life to dust in what seems like no more than a blink. He's old and he's weary, but there's no end in sight. Not through the tears: crying out "please! no! come back..." as all of them leave him behind.
He can count them, if he chooses, each separate scratch on his heart that life's dealt him. Each chip in his porcelain, each missing piece - they've got to add up. They've got to mean something, right?
Because otherwise there's no point in living, and she throws him around still. Just a doll, a plaything: lonely and lost in a corner, because life forgot.
He sees the end of the world. Witnesses the death of life herself. And still he's lost - all his strings cut - because the girl that wouldn't let her favorite plaything go is gone. And he carries on, and on, and on. Worse for the wear, always worse, and whispers to himself in the darkness.
Based on the poem: The Good Old Dolls
By Allan Ahlberg and Bruce Ingman
We are the old dolls We are the old dolls We are the old dolls We are the old dolls We are the old dolls
Losing our hair
Hats and dresses
Worse for the wear
Noses worn
By little girls' kisses
Before you were born
We sit or flop
In the Old Dolls' Home
Or the second-hand shop
Fingers broken
Old food still in our mouths
Last words spoken
Worse for wear
The little girls who loved us
No longer there