I had a friend once,
a poet.
We used to see each other
some times.
and every time we met
he'd say great things,
about life,
and love,
and beauty,
about suffering and pain,
and memory,
and I'd wonder
where he's coming from,
and he'd say
these ideas,
they just come to him,
and I'd smile,
but soon I got tired of this
little game of ours,
and so one day
he said something about
being and knowing,
and I said,
'Foucault said so',
and he threw his cigarette away,
disappointed.
Another time,
he said something
about
existence being particular,
and I asked
'didn't Heidegger say that?'
and he stopped
and turned around,
and stood facing me,
looking in my eyes intently,
and said,
'that's not what you say
to a poet'.
I laughed.
He said no more.
And then we met
after a long long while,
and while I had suffered,
all this while,
and had tried to find meaning
in my suffering,
painstakingly,
upon meeting me,
when he said something
about suffering,
and finding
meaning in suffering,
all I could do
was smile.
An effortful smile,
like when we smile
with a heavy heart,
and eyes all wet,
though only
on the inside,
and while our heart,
is about to burst open
with suffering,
we are smiling,
trying to find meaning
in our suffering,
but he looked at me
with disappointment,
the sort of disappointment
that shows in someone's eyes,
when they suddenly feel empty inside,
and their eyes feel like shattered glass,
though again,
only on the inside,
and he said,
'you already know this one too, don't you?'
I smiled.
'But that's not what you do
to a poet!
How could you be
so heartless!,
Aren't you
in your heart,
a poet too,
afterall?'
'Yes',
I said,
looking away,
'but a woman too'.
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