Who are you, Roberto?

I just got off a long conversation with a friend. He pointed out that my so-called stories left much to be desired while my poems and essays were pretty good. He also noted that apparently I only wrote about love and violence. In reply, I said that I concurred with his assessment and that I was not really a writer of fiction. I merely wrote about the issues that preoccupied me, aesthetic and or redeeming, uplifting messages be damned. I wrote about love and violence because I was fishing, angling, hunting, searching for an answer. I like violence. I know about its function and role in life. I think I know about love, but I am not really sure anymore, despite having been married five times and having been in and out of love more than two dozen times. Almost everybody chuckled when I told them my name was Roberto Wissai. I lectured them with a straight face that it was rude to laugh at somebody's name, and what was so fucking funny about the name and sound of the words Roberto Wissai? I like the name and the way it sounds. Next time, if some asshole makes a snotty remark about my name, I hope I would be in some position of power and able to make him pay for his insolence.

I used not to be overly touchy and hypersensitive. I used to be calm, cool, collected, and reasonable kind of guy. Something happened to me way back when I finished college. Now I am plagued with a propensity for violence and a preternatural desire for love. Today is the first day of the year. If I am a sociable guy, I would call my friends up and say "Happy New Year". But I am not. I would rather read a book and be true to myself and others.

(to be continued)