I am the last of the Playboys, the last of our kind

We are the last of the legendary Playboys, the last of our kind. Of an era that was exceptionally grand, or an era that was selfishly fun, carelessly partaking of what seemed an undying joy.

I miss the dead, hopelessly wishing I could join them in their peaceful slumber. An excuse to escape the horrific thought of being the last and only one to remain in what is a dying epoch. I look to the left and to the right, glancing at the delusional apparitions that my consciousness portrays, ghosts that were once here which had significant names and cherished faces. My heart rejoices at the mere thought of beloved friends, desperately wishing that my delusional apparitions were true. As I stand there glancing reality lurks into position and strikes it’s cold blow. I, in panic, look to my left and to my right, realizing that I don’t recognize a soul. Who can I recognize and identify in this murky crowd? Who do I know in this unbearably desolate orb? Some at the most,. But the rest? This crowd is full of empty canvases. They have eyes, nose, mouth, hair or no hair, yet their faces remain insignificantly and undesirably empty. Empty, for tomorrow I won’t remember them. Fitting, for they are empty canvases in an empty epoch.

We are the last of the Playboys, the last of our kind. In an era that was sporadically united, of an era that was wonderfully random. Such a time seems now so surreal that it seems to be a beautiful dream, a wonderful wish that never was. The mere thought of such an era even now seems so inconceivable to even dream about it, for how can my era seem so magnificently wonderful and this time so repulsively vague. Ages, Eras, Epochs, Generations, Eons have always existed, but I don’t care about those. I care about my era, for it was mine and mine alone. My vanishing selfish possessions.

I miss all my fading friends desperately holding on to faces and names. Some have faces, other only names, and at times only a tingle of their existence remain. I cant remember their faces or their names but I have taken their ambience and made it my own, manifesting themselves in mannerisms, in conscious and subconscious actions. Keeping them close to a faithful heart knowing that they too will disappear from thoughts but never from my faithful heart.

I may be the last but I still strive to remain faithful to the life of the fabulous playboys. It’s hard to uphold the better days when we venture in such endeavors with insignificant empty canvases and meaningless places. We are bludgeoned, bruised, and banished by the winds of time into our destined untimely silent disappearance. Its hard to live in this era that’s so vague hollow and void of anything worth fighting for. Even with so much going against me, I rise from the humble dust from which I was beaten to proudly stand to tolerate the silent storm.

I am indeed the last of our kind, the very last of the playboys. Of an era that was immensely majestic, of a era that was so egotistically and selfishly gratifying. I am a playboy, I was, we were, they were and soon to be a question. Who were they?

I am the last of the playboys from an era that was delayed its death by my very existence, that was and soon to end.

The End.