i was under the impression that you and i were finished. we are, and the lessons continue.
already the first time around my being knew that it was not personal, now this not being personal has advanced one quantum level, the lesson is personally mine, it is egoistical, it is what i have been searching for, and it has hit me with all the mercilessness that nature often has to offer when providing humanity with a new chance; we usually refer to these as catastrophies. my dear alpha! how could you? you could not.
you could not have known, and the truth is something which i do not search for. the truth is fleeting and ethereal, the instant that you want to hold on to it, it perishes, it disappears. oh my dear man! why must you be so much like me?
it is difficult to not be overwhelmed at this time, now. i search and all of a sudden it is there, it is staring me straight in the face, it is not smiling, it is not seducing, and i, the arab, the man, i am a coward with a fantastic ego. i will not lose face, i will not step down, i shall be. how can one possess the powers of destruction and know that it is senseless?
guilt and responsibility, and there we are my friend. it is ours, isn't it? how very ours it is, how very different the circumstances of our delusions are!
we were born poets, we insist in giving form to objects, stories, images. we struggle when we deny ourselves, and we struggle when we indulge in our deepest passions, those that we share from A to Z. yes, all of those, also that other one. no, do not come ringing on my door, i have thrown away and discarded your phone number, i have forgotten your address, and the lessons continue, on a few points you were right. this time you have not gotten under my skin like a demon to be exorcised with my writing. if you knew all the faces that have you show up in my world! what a rich world it is. just yesterday, you, that is me, shows up in an interaction with another american. a man, one who would like to be a writer, one who tries so hard to be interesting, although he is already interesting before he tries, his efforts are amusing. he is good but he does not know it; only if he would stop trying to prove to the world that he is good, then he would be truly self expressed, happy and by far not perfect. are you happy, his mother asks. those are the kind of questions that always have a man at a loss. my mother never asked.
now, it is up to you. you can continue reading this, you can also stop. it will not make a difference in my world, it will not make one in yours. or is the "picture of dorian gray" returning to haunt you? is what i do and write going to influence you?
you did not want to be trapped inside my stories, inside my world. are you? you did not want to be a part of it, and you are asking where it is. the lure, the fascination, the magic, the seduction of my world...
"it doesn't mean anything, Sid! Except that you're a little off in the head. And I am just as off as you are. We write books, don't we? What else can you expect from people like us?" Paul Auster "Oracle Night"
why the exaggerated highly publicized egotistical persona, you asked. you used slightly different words, and you were damn pissed that of all that i wrote, all the story, none of it was about you, it was all about me. silly me wanted to apologize, and i always forget why on earth i would want to apologize for my own existence, for being me, for being the pompous, arrogant ass that i am. i am as i am, and i am a master of deception if and when i chose to be so. i can only be myself, but who am i?
last fall, i met a swiss sailor, one of my neighbors, and once at my house he made a remark that i could have betted had come out of your own mouth. so much about him reminded me of you, the blue eyes, the profession. not the voice, he has a voice far sweeter and deeper than yours. for weeks his remarks had me spinning. finally i gave him a call, and i cleared what needed to be clear, i see this man almost every week, the last thing i wanted was a constant reminder of you, or to have to deal with my unfinished business with you in some ill projection on an innocent bystander. it was unfair to him, it was unfair to me, it was unfair had i left it standing and incomplete.
you wanted to know about the story that i am writing now, i can tell you, it is about guilt and responsibility. thank you for asking.
