119 Rage, Rage Against the Dying of the Light

Do not go gentle into that good night — Dylan Thomas

James Ferguson had done it all. He had completed all his self-imposed challenges, made a great company, successfully raised three children with his extraordinary wife of 48 years, and accomplished the life's work of many men.

But he was not tired; thus, he wasn't ready to retire. Yet, the bureaucracy he himself had etched in stone had called for it.

At his commemorative ceremony, devotees spoke eloquently of his victories, humanism, and integrity. His older son, who spoke of a birthright of compassion and integrity that came via Ferguson’s paternity, had excelled in his own vocation. His younger son, who praised him as his guiding light for the important things in life, had made a name for himself, as well. Even his daughter, named “one to watch” in several magazines, spoke of how she had watched him instead, learning how to live. Employees cried.

James Ferguson had no other interests or hobbies to fall back on, so it wasn’t long before he was back at it again, but using a home office to orchestrate new ventures. Quietly, at home, he had doubled--even tripled--his previous earnings.

Those who loved him urged him to take inventory: he deserved better.

His wife repeatedly told him, “You can rest now. You don’t have to work yourself to death.”

His older son told him, “Relax. You've earned it.”

His younger son told him, “You don’t need the money. Take the time now to just bask in your rewards--take some time for yourself.”

His daughter told him, “Stop. Smell the flowers.”

His doctor said, “You’re in great health. With many years ahead of you, don’t risk them by stressing.”

So he relaxed. He basked in his wealth. He eliminated stress; he rested.

Fulfillment and self-actualization circulate as the lifeblood of men like him so, within three months, he had forgotten how to walk. Within six he was dead, buried under the proverbial flowers he had stopped life to smell.

James Ferguson had not worked himself to death. He had worked himself to live. Then both stopped.

________________

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

For Sunday, April 28, Day 119 of the Story-a-Day Challenge. Now well into triple digits!

366 WORDS (without A/N)

All pictures are AI-generated, but the pathos is not.

We all have known people like James Ferguson, who with nothing left to do, they do nothing. Doing nothing is death. ("Move, or die." — Thomas Jefferson.) To some, rest is not fun; to some, doing what is done best is the best fun one can have--making life worth living.

Dylan Tomas' famous villanelle was a letter to his dad not to give in to a fatal illness, yet it applies across a broad swath of temptations that urge us to retreat from life:

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

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