''I don't understand...’’ he said with an expression of complete bewilderment on his face.
The two men were sitting in the office of the poet and writer, who was standing by the fireplace, starring into the sizzling fire like it was a spell unravelling the secrets of the universe. His thoughts would be explained as scattered by any ordinary human being (using the term “human being” quite loosely), but to him one thought was inextricably connected to the other. He was thinking of her, of how she must be feeling, how much she means to him, the nature of human relationships, the philosophically hopeless question of the meaning to all life and so on. These were just drops of water in the sea of contemplation that was drifting in his mind.
He snapped out of the tide to respond: “Which part?” His gaze was still fixed on the fire, his eyes still unfocused and wondering.
His guest was the local merchant, quite well known and established, with a tavern in the busiest part of the city which, despite its location, wasn’t doing too well. He was also the husband of the woman whom occupied the mind of the poet and filled him with something he had never had before; the drive for life. The merchant was unaware of this fact, but suspicious nonetheless; he was quite aware of the friendship they shared and the connection between them, which (he feared) was much stronger than he had with her.
In the hour of need he turned to him for he seemed wiser than anyone else he knew…that’s what he told himself anyway. The truth was that he wanted to see if the reason of their crumbling relationship wasn’t the fault of the poet. The merchant wasn’t the one who would ever point the finger at himself; the source of all aggravation, misunderstanding and confusion in the world was external and emanating from society which drove him down...or so he thought.
“Her unhappiness! Its unreasonable and completely foreign to me. She has everything she wants at her disposal…sure, we are not financially wealthy and I’m working on that, so is she. I offered her everything; my family, my friends, a home and a life…and does she appreciate it?! NO! She is still depressed and removed from me…I just don’t understand it.”
The poet’s gaze never switched, it was absolutely transfixed on the flames of the fire and the crackling sounds of the wood. Despite this he didn’t miss a word the merchant was saying. There was a long silence after his small outburst where both men were thinking about matters…one more deeply than the other and both thinking in completely different directions.
“Have you ever seen her happy?” the poet said very clearly but silently, still gazing at the fire.
The merchant paused although his first reaction in his mind was a clear yes, recalling the past and when he saw her smile with exuberance and delight…but why didn’t he say it straight away? He has too, he has to make the poet and himself sure that she was happy before. Appearances are vital. But… she was happy only for a minute period of time; maybe just for minutes, then he felt the same distance between them as he always did, this unmistakable gap in their minds which couldn’t be ignored. But that’s regular, isn’t it? Everyone has that…
“I have. But its short and so fleeting. It must be a brain deformation, a clinical form of depression which prevents her from enjoying what’s obviously positive.”
The poet smirked to himself, the smile he offered himself every so often. He heard this response before from many although always directed at him. Even if it wasn’t said, he always felt it from people in an unspoken manner, which was even worse. He felt it from every human he ever met, stretching from his parents to his friends and former partners, the only exception to this rule being her… oh what irony for her to meet the same reaction from people so close to her as well…is this divine intervention? A deliberate way of preventing anyone else coming close to your heart except the right one? Maybe it’s a physical law of spiritual attraction. These were split second thoughts which rushed through his mind like an overcrowded freeway.
“Why do you think its fleeting?”
The merchant became confused, mistakenly thinking the poet must have overheard what he said. Then his heart filled with anger and immediate denial for he was sure that he was heard. The implication was clear and he wasn’t having it. It was just impossible.
“Oh no no no. I know what you must be thinking and you’re wrong. I have gone above and beyond myself to treat her the way she wanted, I have been understanding to my utmost limits and I have given her everything she could have ever wanted. I mean, you know her! I gave her a family, a home and a stable existence which she never had! For fucks sake, I saved her!!!”
“Oh the injustice, the hero doesn’t get the glory and admiration he deserves. Is this world not cruel?” the poet remarked. He couldn’t help being sarcastic and cynical. He didn’t know how else to respond to any stupidity being spoken out of anyone’s mouth. His heart didn’t feel as witty and naughty as his words portrayed; instead he was heavily annoyed and frustrated by such a lack of understanding, particularly because it was directed at her. He was constantly fighting the impulse to punch the merchant in the face. “I ask you again, why do you think then her happiness is so fleeting?”
The merchant spitted two words angrily: “Brain deformation.”
The poet walked away from the fireplace and went to sit behind his mahogany desk which was filled with papers of illustrations, poems and other creations he did throughout his days. He faced the merchant straight on this time, his eyes unmistakably screaming anger and fury but his posture remaining calm and centred. He starred at him with the same intensity as he did at the fire, only now determined to speak his mind and poke through the bubble of self-righteousness the merchant was living in.
“Do you know the nature of true love?” He waited for a response patiently, expecting a bewildered reaction mixed with annoyance and anger. The merchants face didn’t fail to meet those expectations; there was obvious confusion in his expression with eyes which spoke of disbelief that this young poet could speak to him in such a way about matters he possibly couldn’t know about. Before he muttered a response, the poet continued:
“All I heard in the last few minutes was a lot of I’s. I did this, I did that, I saved her, I made her, I am her saviour. Not once did you entertain the idea of her perspective, the only time you did try was concluded with a remarkable diagnosis which only signifies your complete lack of understanding and this immense pedestal you put yourself on.” The poet stood up and walked to the window:
“The nature of true love lays in the abandonment of the I. It goes outside of the ego you hold yourself so dearly to. It makes you realize your place in the universe, the nature of all life, the meaning to all the misfortunes and tragedies which strike us all in our lifetimes, it puts all pieces into their place and it makes you see the bigger picture. The love you feel takes care of you, because you start caring about someone else. Their happiness, joy, peace, content, freedom and health become much more important to you than your own. You make all the effort your mind, body and soul can produce to assure that their existence is as pleasurable and enjoyable as possible, even if that means removing yourself from their lives if that assures they again become free to love. But such are the ways of the universe that when the love is true, you never have to remove yourself. No one runs away from true love.”
With the last sentence he turned to the merchant and looked him directly into his eyes. The merchant was still confused and desperately searching for excuses which he felt were running out:
“You have never been in love! Everyone has needs! I’m a man, I have needs! You’re living in La-La land, in this utopian vision of everything. Things don’t work that way, no one ever really felt that, it’s just impossible!”
The poet smiled to himself again, this time out of pity when he heard those words. The sight he saw in his eyes made him worry for him. The initial anger turned to pity, which he disliked even more.
“You have seen her happy and it annoyed you, because you wanted it to come from you. You live in your own world where you have to be the hero in order to feel good about yourself, to feel in control. I’m so sorry I have to say these things to you although its everything you intuitively already know.” He paused for a minute, then softly spoke: “you haven’t saved her… you trapped her.”
“IMPOSSIBLE!” he screamed, jumping out of his chair to confront the poet. He didn’t plunge himself onto him, he just stood in place, trying to intimidate as if the truth the poet spoke would be scared of if beaten out. Soon the immense anger turned to depression, he lowered his head and held it with his hand, muttering through the tears: “I just don’t understand.”
The poet looked at him sympathetically, remembering the times when he felt the same and the distance he had to travel to confront it. “I know you don’t and that is the problem.”
There was no conclusion, no progression, no revelation. The poets’ hope of some breakthrough was proven to be wrong and the merchant came out of the conversation feeling as hopeless and directionless as before, still intending to pretend all is alright, all is fixable…how can it be wrong when it appears right?
The merchant went for the door to leave. As he grabbed onto the handle, the poet spoke: “Good luck, fellow traveller. There are many roads we all must cross. I wish you the best with them.”
The room became silent, both men standing still, only interrupted by the crackling sounds of the flames in the fireplace.
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