The old man was not doing so well. He had done enough in his life, really. His thoughts now were rather confused, and contradicting, sometimes just bitter, sometimes very sweet. His eyes had slowly covered themselves with a layer of brownish sticky dust. His organs had grown thinner and weaker and his blood just barely resembled the substance it used to be.
He had created so much in his lifetime, so many ideas had come from his tired head. There had been so many beginnings in him. Some even thought that the very idea of “beginning” was one of his inventions.
He tried to remember some of the things that he had done. Some of his experiences were written in the deep layers of his skin, just for that reason.
He felt that he was about to collapse, he was about to have another internal injury again, another implosion of one of his many weak parts.
He wanted to ask for help, somehow, but the words that came out of his tired mouth were not as fresh and joyful and positive as it was fashion these days. He was not even sure. Or… oh it was just all far too confusing by now.
Was it something in his diet? Should he eat something else? Should he drink some magic potion? Should he just put on another layer of makeup? Hide from the sun, somewhere? Pull up the pants higher? Sleep? Die?

Therapy was decided on the other side of the room, behind thick glass, that probably looked like a mirror. There were young doctors, their methods rather experimental, their ambition endless, their brains freshly hatched. This one was bound to be quick. Just a nip here, a tuck there, some low carb diet, some botox, chemo, come viagara, some chemical peel, some laser eye surgery, fresh set of ceramic teeth, some quick and easy search for tumors…

They spread him out on the table, it took minutes, no resistance. They sent their best to perform the surgery. They used the most advanced new methods, they cut right through the old and patchy skin, they grabbed the liver, they grabbed the heart. They removed the cataracts. They shaved the head, they cut the nails, they put in a new set of teeth, they declared their performance as a great success, live on international television… the process looked great. (Especially surrounded by happy tickers and those ever flowing graphics.)

Yet for some reason… he was still an old man, with the same old habits, some much older than the doctors themselves. He was even older than the methods they were employing to sedate him. Some of the methods were even his very own invention.
He would survive, of course… but he would be a different himself. However he would never become a young and dynamic surgeon who thinks that he needs to always cut in order to heal…
But that was okay… he had been there, he had done this himself… in the past… pretty much the way they did it to him now…
It was now just slowly coming back to him. Partially… in some ways…

His body would eventually accept the medication, it would grow a new organ around the forgotten scalpels and tools. His body would eventually grow even older, there would be more memories drawn in the deep layers of the skin as well…

In the end… it did not really matter… the bigger picture was far beyond the old man and the young inexperienced brilliant surgeons…
in the end… there really was no end…
just as much as there had never really been a beginning… (it was just one of those early ambitious inventions…)