Life of two writers

You read the review of a memor written by a writer whose father was a famed short story writer. You saw some similarities of the chaos and the struggles to find identity, self-respect, and solace and meaning through words. Reading the review made you more determined to be honest with yourself and more persistent in your own quest.

You held her close to you and uttered in a faint, rasping, stuttering voice: "we, we need to be, be good and true, true to each other", by which you meant to say, you need to be true to her. You couldn't bring yourself to tell her that as much you liked her and didn't mind spending time with her, love had become a stranger to you. You had lost faith and trust in the immortality of love. All you saw was a stark naked reality that people used each other in the name of love and sex was merely a way to allay the itch of loneliness. There was no longer devotion and sacrifice and forgiveness. Instead, what was plainly shining and glittering in the sunlight was selfishness masqueraded as love. How would you know it so? Love was not love if there was a preoccupation with self, and not much concern for the Other, if there was too much insistence on being right and not enough listening, if there was a constant keeping track of scores. Love was not asking what the Other was doing for you, but asking yourself of what you were doing for the Other. Love, simply put, was giving without bothering asking back for anything in return. Remember, when we were young and green, when calculation did not yet infect our souls, all we wanted to do was to please the one we loved, to make him or her feel happy. Seeing him or her happy also made us feel happy. Now we have become walking calculators. The other day your client burst into your office, crying and sobbing and wailing that her husband of 40 years was seeing another woman and initiating a divorce proceedings. You calmly told her, but without sympathy, that you had seen that brewing for years. Nobody wanted to spend time with a self-righteous, bossy, domineering woman. All men want peace and tranquility. They have no stomach for arguments and excuses and pathology.

What's going on, sweetheart? Why are you crying? I am sending you a message, preparing you for a goodbye of our own? Nah, you imagine too much. Anyway, que sera, sera, you know what I mean. What counts is the here and now. We get some good sleep, eat right, get some exercise, be nice and pleasant despite petty, even major, provocations. We live for the moment. We put up with stupidity masqueraded as wisdom, pontification presented as knowledge, and cruelty shown as love. I talk too much as usual. I've got to go to work. I really have a very tough job, as you know. Everyday I am tested to the utmost. Everyday is the fight to the finish. I don't know how long I can do what I'm doing. I'm not getting any younger. I just looked outside the window. It seems to be a beautiful day. And I am feeling good and glad to be alive. Life by itself has no meaning, as you know. It's up to us to give it meaning. I hope your meaning makes sense, if you know what I mean. I've got to go.

Roberto Wisdai

Roberto Wissai