Reflection: One Hundred Seventy-Six.
……………………………………..
Ah! Some days unfold just like this. As today did.
After office, to IBA. There was class today.
That class at IBA where we don’t sleep—not because sleep doesn’t come, but because if we doze off, sir makes us stand,
today was that class. Coming out of class, I saw it was raining;
not a downpour,
but the kind of rain that somehow
stirs intoxication when you have a little time,
that much rain. I began walking past the Arts Faculty.
No one was with me,
except the umbrella in my hand. Remembering something about the umbrella, I closed it and called out. Hey
rickshaw,
hey!!
When he came close, I asked,
Brother, where is your home?
A bit startled, the rickshaw-puller said,
Barisal.
I see,
go on then.
Where will you go?
Haven’t decided yet,
brother. You go ahead.
Why did you call me then?
Where’s home—
just to ask that.
Here, take this,
have some peanuts. (I had a packet of peanuts in my pocket.)
Brother,
are you mocking a poor man?
Alright, I’m going.
Before I could say anything, as swiftly as he had come,
he left the same way. Both my mind and mood turned sour. Alas!
How cruelly poverty steals away even jest! I threw away the packet of peanuts. Damn! I’m a complete
romantic fool!
I decided
I’d walk to the hostel today. Walking past Nilkhet. My mood wouldn’t
cool down at all. I noticed a vending machine at a shop. Got some coffee. Opened my umbrella and started walking again.
The warm steam from the coffee, touching my wet lips, was heightening the rain’s intoxication even more. Sip by
sip, I felt
this moment when I wanted to do what I wanted to do
wasn’t the moment for wanting it. I tried to forget that scene from ‘The Notebook’
movie,
but it was coming to mind more
than it was in that moment.
Nothing worked—
the scene kept returning more vividly. In moments of intimate communion with nature,
how meaningless and pale nature becomes in the face of an irresistible physical and emotional attraction to a beloved—
today I understood. In this defeat lies nature’s victory. …… Being alone like this—
quite alright/ no light anywhere, all covered in clouds/ shadows everywhere, all obscured/ the one the heart seeks isn’t
Seeing/ Absentmindedly this alone-alone/ All covered in clouds,
All covered in clouds……… The Sahajiya
pathos of this song by Srikanta was awakening my entire body and mind with a gentle touch,
and then as always happens,
just like that
the steam from the coffee ended before the coffee itself. Closing the umbrella, walking again. Suddenly I noticed,
I was walking along, flailing my arms and legs, singing along to whatever song was playing in my headphones. In my shoulder
laptop bag: watch,
mobile, wallet. From the wire emerging from the bag, now playing in my ears: If the heart
weeps,
come to me…….. I’ve had coffee in the rain before too;
before meaning,
long ago,
when the
20 rupees needed to buy coffee was hard to part with. How beautiful those days of not-having were;
I think now.
Now I sit having gained everything and lost everything. While thinking such thoughts, the first lollipop was finished. Yes,
in between
I had bought a lollipop;
I’ll buy another. What has happened today,
I don’t know. The pain of not getting something, or
the pain of losing everything before even getting it while thinking I’ve gained everything, had seized me
this evening. Another green lollipop. Getting soaked in rain while eating rain-soaked ice cream feels so
wonderful,
I didn’t know this before. Two more ice creams merged with Bappa……. Rain falls in torrents
………..
Sublime! Then came Lata…….Rain rain rain, what wondrous creation is this!…….Aha aha!
Soaked to the bone, I returned to the hostel. Still ringing in my ears…………. My midnight’s rainstorm
cascade. Come… secretly… my dreamland’s lost wanderer………
Right now it feels like,
rain-soaked coffee and ice cream are far more precious than many other things in life. While
writing this post, I’m listening to Shri Radha Bandyopadhyay singing: Where is such a wealthy man who can buy my dreams?
Where is such color that will blend with my water-painting?
………… Oh my!! Just being alive brings so much!
One could live just to hear this song.
Thought: One hundred seventy-seven.
……………………………………..
The house is full of geckos. I feel like catching them and releasing them on someone’s head.
Where are you?
What are you doing?
Why do you write so much?
Whatever has been written,
won’t you give it to me! I’ll
read it!
Strange! Did the person fall asleep while writing?
You know, beloved,
so many, many, many things about you are quite disagreeable to me! When something very disagreeable exists within a very dear person…….let it be! That’s fine! Can one bear so much dearness anyway?
So with dearness
Let the unpleasantries mingle too. Occasionally one can catch a breath, leaning on the disagreeable! In the closed chamber of affection,
breath often grows short. I pray that
the beloved remain well. But certainly not in the way
that false wellness eventually exacts its cruel revenge.
Hey there, sir! Still not finished writing?
I’ve got some cockroaches too! I’ll unleash
them as well! Huh!
Write,
write more and more! Only by writing will your handwriting turn awful. Otherwise you’ll never realize how hideous
your writing is! Your handwriting is seven kings’ shit! I mean,
toilet, you know. Though it’s also possible
that only I, the fool, can’t understand your writing!
I mean,
in the midst of profit-loss transactions, lose one huge second and just give a selfie
won’t you! I want to see you! Want to grab your mind and slap it!
At the bedside,
in a bottle of clear water
the arrogance of completeness.
Yet,
in the existence of the soul beside
the sharpness of thirst!
If I should die in my sleep tonight,
there’s no guarantee I’ll be able to ask you for another selfie
again.
Alas…my heart wants to grab you…gift you a burqa, sit there
wearing it! Picture…! Such an egomaniac! Are you listening…?
The boy a little tall,
the girl a little short. Embracing tightly,
leaning on his chest…in a movie
I had seen. What I saw,
cannot be told. But what I saw,
I liked seeing and that night
I slept holding my pillow very tightly.
Say,
do you have lice in your head?
If so, please give them to me. All my hair
is falling out,
so I very much wish that when there’s no hair left on my head,
only lice
should remain! Some have hair on their heads but no lice,
while I have only lice on my head,
my head is
a living head;
therefore, I am more honored than them.
Oh what a state…what to do about this head! Is there a mirror around,
a mirror? Or perhaps a bowl of clear
water?—let me count the hairs!
In childhood we had to write examples of countable nouns,
what did I write,
I don’t remember. If I had to write in adulthood
I would certainly write: orphaned hairs
Reading one of your poems upset my mood,
gave me pain in my hair!
Girls—when they cut their hair,
Boys—when they grow their hair,
look the same!
This girl! Good to love,
but the hair gets in the way,
the hair gets in the way!
If there’s no hair left at all,
what will hold the fragrance?
A neck that hair cannot veil—
what lover loses himself there?
If hair becomes mere wind,
what will the wind play with?
Hair doesn’t part to reach the back,
who makes the mistake of reaching there?
The elephant’s ear
and the bald man’s ear—both naked,
thus cursed with ugliness!
Would lips meet lips so often
if hair didn’t play so much in fistfuls?
One who never had a bun in this life—
tell me, what will feel the flower’s touch?
This girl! Listen to me.
When embarrassed,
sweat beads gather on the nose tip.
I’m telling the truth,
I won’t look,
unless the braid coils like a snake!
Without silky hair, silky love cannot be,
right?
Ha, I’m telling you!
Alas! Because there was no hair… was that love a mistake? You don’t understand.
(The lament of one bald or nearly bald)
May your head full of hair become a good nest for bucketfuls of cockroaches!
Thought: One hundred seventy-eight.
……………………………………..
To a writer, the emotions of his story’s heroine are worth far more
than the emotions of his life’s beloved. Can I be the heroine of your story,
sir? Or perhaps the supporting actress? I want to stay
in your mind a little. Won’t you give me a role in your story?
Even a negative role will do. Or at least let me
serve tea to your heroine! Still… keep me a little! Keep me as the neglected one in your story,
at least!
Can I hope that if I ask Dhiman for help in some trouble, I’ll receive it?
Or am I standing far from where
such hope might be warranted?
Why do you
suddenly send me “How are you?” texts? Lucky there was this “How are you!” If not,
what would you have sent?
Think a little before answering,
please?
Dhi,
you’re well, aren’t you?
Let me give my answer… I’m quite fine,
let the end come at the start. There’s joy in pain—though the heart
may break… (haven’t you heard the song?)
What is being well?—the world’s most difficult question! Having all the external and internal elements
of well-being constantly present in life is not being well. When all the arrangements for being unwell
grip life from all sides yet cannot shake the inner ‘I’—
that is being well. This
Well-being is really a great labyrinth,
whose solution takes a thousand forms in a thousand cases. Those who can
draw out the unseen from within and effortlessly dash it onto paper—
their pens can walk miles upon miles across the page
exploring this. Perhaps even then the walking will never end.
“Come see me, but in the village of Ujantoli.”
The village of Ujantoli exists.
Of course it does!
People who go to see it—they exist too, perhaps!
People who see?
They exist as well.
What doesn’t exist is just that pull of longing—the pull that draws one to Ujantoli!
Half a lakh likes,
a hundred and fifty shares,
and two and a half thousand comments—in your ‘beloved’s’ real life, these truly
serve no purpose. If you were in ‘their’ place,
I would say the same thing. Think about it
for a moment—
without all this, would they really lose anything?
What do these virtual things accomplish in life?
Yes,
you have acceptance,
you have talent,
you have ability—this is certainly cause for joy,
for pride. But what they truly
need in life, and what, if absent or diminished,
genuinely brings many things into life—toward that
pay attention with heart and soul. This way, in the love of people both at home and beyond, you’ll advance quite far.
Continuous good wishes.
I feel like giving you lots of free advice,
but you pay no heed at all. Don’t neglect me
this way,
Chowdhury Saheb! I may be poor,
but I too have status—
on Facebook.
All rhythms lose their rhythm—in search of rhythm itself!
Mother news again!
“Today the heat seems a bit much. I’ll stay in this room. What’s the point of running two fans for nothing?”
Mother’s old excuse for staying in my room! Not an excuse, really—
it’s her scheme to see what I do at night. Yet
if I were to say,
“Mother, I feel like staying with you today”—what terrible thoughts would make her
spend the night weeping! Mothers are just a wicked breed! Wicked, aren’t they?
Their own lives they exhaust
bit by bit,
giving selfless love continuously,
worrying about their children constantly—making life absolutely
troublesome—for their children,
for themselves! Can one really worry that much?
I don’t share a room with Mother for two reasons:
One. If I ever accidentally marry some fool,
then Mother will have to sleep alone
anyway. So let the practice begin early!
Two. Even in the blazing noon sun of Chaitra, I sometimes feel cold! Almost always my
room fan stays off,
and just the thought of AC makes me feel suffocated! And Ma is completely the opposite of me.
Even during cold waves she somehow feels hot! Even in bitter cold, Ma keeps the fan running at full speed and lies
there covered with a blanket.
No matter how much I think about this wicked woman every moment,
and no matter how much I love her deep inside,
if that woman were asked,
“Who is your only enemy in this world and the world’s only heartless
person?”
Without a moment’s hesitation, she’d give my name!
End of Ma-talk. Happiness is…….finding three and a half thousand taka tucked in a book
in the middle of the night!!! I’ve forgotten when I put it there.
Sometimes finding such hidden stashes is quite nice! If you can make
good earnings from hiding money,
then hiding is the way to go!
Thought: One hundred seventy-nine.
……………………………………..
I feel like picking you up and giving you a good shake! Should I go ahead and shake you?
But there’s a problem with that too—
once I pick you up, I won’t want to put you down! What should I do!
Hey old child,
why don’t you just send a photo,
let’s see what happens! If you don’t feel like it for no other reason
than pure laziness,
then I’d say,
throw your right hand up in the air and give yourself a good
punch on the nose to shake off the laziness and send that photo. Will you, sir?
I’m waiting! Should I make a video
call,
just for twenty seconds?
Alright fine,
never mind,
forget it! What is given unwillingly
isn’t really given at all. Whenever I feel like it,
I ask for what I want to ask for. When I don’t ask, I think,
maybe I could have gotten it if I had asked!
What a beautiful, foolish, innocent heart!
Let me tell you what happened today.
I went to a restaurant to bring food for Ma. After ordering, I was sitting and waiting
when I noticed
three very small boys sitting at the next table, eating. I thought
their guardians must be at some nearby
table. A little later I realized they had come all by themselves. I went closer.
I was shocked to see so much food on their table! Among those three, the boy who looked the most well-behaved and innocent,
I put my hand on his head and said,
“Son, did you boys come here alone?”
“Yes sir, our school is right here, so we came to have lunch.”
I said affectionately,
“Which class are you in?”
“Fifth.”
(They looked like third graders, fourth at most. I noticed that after he said “fifth,” his friends
looked at each other and smiled knowingly.)
“Have you told your mother?”
“Yes, we told her.”
“Son, if you don’t mind, could I get your mother’s phone number?”
(With a look of smartness on his face) “Yes, of course! 017…”
I noticed
the other little ones were taking out their phones from their pockets, looking at something and giggling. I
hadn’t brought my phone with me,
so I jotted down the number on a piece of paper and patting the little boy’s head,
said,
“Son, you’re all still very young. Don’t come here to eat alone like this, okay?
Look around,
no one your age comes here to eat alone. When you feel like eating out,
come with your parents. And when you’re all grown up like this aunt,
then you can come with friends
to eat. Okay?”
The good boy listened to my words like a darling child, but the other two boys were looking at me
rather rudely.
The food had arrived. I took the food and headed home.
I called that number when I got home. If the boy had given me a wrong number,
some mischievous
boy might yell “Hellooo” and burst my eardrums! Having gotten a girl’s number, he might call at night to
disturb her. Lately I’ve noticed
that boys young enough to be my knee-high think I’m their girlfriend! I feel like
slapping their teeth out. Or perhaps
some ultra-modern mother would speak in an English tone, mixing half-Bengali half-
English: “My child will eat whatever he wants with my money. It’s none of your
business!” and hang up abruptly.—I might even get such a verbal beating,
but I made the call anyway, prepared for such possibilities.
No,
Sabbir (that little boy’s name) hadn’t given me a wrong number. I told Sabbir’s mother everything in detail. After hearing it all,
she was thunderstruck! She was deeply hurt by her son’s behavior. She expressed tremendous gratitude
toward me. I consoled her. I told her to thank Sabbir for giving me the correct number,
and asked her to explain things to the little one as much as possible rather than scolding him,
and hung up.
Then I called the ‘Bhuter Adda’ restaurant. I said, “Surely just serving food in exchange for money
can’t be your only responsibility. You must have some minimal social commitment,
right?”
“What’s wrong,
madam?
What are you saying?”
I explained the whole situation to them. They understood and said they would
be more careful next time, thanked me, and hung up. But I clearly understood
they were just being polite. Even if a newborn baby came to the restaurant, they would still serve food.
The power is out at home. Sitting alone, I’m thinking
about my time in Class Five. I couldn’t even speak
properly then. Wandering around alone outside was unthinkable! Alas,
we’re becoming
modern! Is the country really progressing,
society, family! If those Class Five boys had at least bought
and eaten just a shawarma from the fast food shop near school,
that would be something. But no,
three young boys
went to a restaurant for lunch! Can you imagine! What kind of guardians do they have! What’s the point
of giving smartphones to such little children?
Just because you have money, does that mean you should buy
whatever money can buy?
Something deep inside me…….is hurting so much. There’s something I just can’t accept. This happens to me
often.
Thought: One hundred eighty.
……………………………………..
The deep crimson of alta
washes away in the rain.
What fault is that of the rain?
The one whose heart should understand
doesn’t understand—
what blame does the rain bear?
“How can one stay alone for so long?” Maybe it’s possible! But still, for so long?
I’m forgetting how to be alone these days—from being alone so much. For so long. Does everyone forget
like this?
The way I do?
Insects butterflies birds flowers grass leaves trees rain clouds. Or,
books movies music. A solitary coffee mug and
crackers. And,
like this or different or nothing like anything at all,
so many other things.
Even their laughter seems to have frozen, I think. At this time. At least to me.
I don’t like being deceived so smoothly anymore—as I have been for so long,
and still am. How much
longer?
“A sparrow can change a life.” Can it? Really? If that’s true, then just working
Beyond just going, I must find other work too. In that promise. Whether false or true. Gradually. I see I must grow accustomed to cohabiting and dwelling with falsehood. What choice is there?
Lately, sometimes it happens—
coffee mug in hand, listening to instrumentals at low volume, the melody of rain
no longer stirs the same response as before. The rhythm falters in rain’s song,
the moist breeze
no longer moistens the mind. Special food for special moments—I find myself thinking this very thing hackneyed! Bhuna khichuri,
fried hilsa—even this menu will fail,
did anyone ever think such a day would come?
The coffee’s steam
loses its warmth;
not that the coffee turned out badly.
Nescafé. With Coffee-mate. Did it ever taste
off before?
I can’t remember! The song whose instrumental is playing—it’s not even of the ‘not bad, passable’ type, but one of the most
beloved melodies. That even Rabibabu would sit there having failed like this—
did anyone ever imagine such a thing?
No new recipe was tried for the hilsa-khichuri experiment. The god-gifted chef hasn’t changed either.
Yes,
mother cooked it herself. Even with a transferable job, to eat mother’s cooking—
how many are blessed with this,
tell me?
Yet why…!?
What is this then?
A luxury of melancholy?
Or voluntary embrace of sorrow? Or, in happiness’s company,
sorrow’s kinship?
In the whooshing wind’s force, has rain’s magical melody suddenly vanished? Did it
vanish like this before too?
But how could that be?
God himself is playing the piano. Can this too be lost?
Or
have I been lost?
Is it lack of context again?
I’m not outside though. It’s not as if,
wading through knee-deep mud and water, rain’s relentless stream
is ruthlessly washing away all romanticism! I’m at home. That steam from the coffee mug which, sitting on the balcony in such rain,
has awakened what tremendous tremors on moist lips with perfect fidelity all this while—
has that old
steam’s intimate warmth really been lost?
Why was it lost?
Or have I lost it? With coffee,
just Coffee-mate isn’t enough it seems,
something more is needed! Who knows what! Just being a mate to coffee
won’t do anymore these days!
I’ll return to childhood if necessary. Enchantment is far safer. Why isn’t it easy to simply
accept staying just as I am?
Why don’t I wish anymore to sit quietly for two days by the sea or in a mountain’s shade?
Silently? Forgetting the surroundings? Only in wonder’s power? Just to live for a while—in this small
desire alone?
That’s all… “One doesn’t have to try to stay alive.” Behind these words today lies a questioning
The time has come to add the signature.”
Footnote. The words within quotation marks belong to my beloved poet Bhaskar Chakraborty.
Reflection: One hundred eighty-one.
……………………………………..
Among the handful of books I’ve managed to read in this lifetime without dozing off in class,
one is Jafar Iqbal Sir’s ‘Shanta Family’.
An impossibly heart-stirring book. I read it and kept thinking how wonderful it would be—I too
want a family like this Shanta family. But two conditions. One: Shanta must absolutely remain
beside me. She cannot die. Because for as long as I live, I want to love her with tremendous
intensity. Not loving such a woman would be impossibly difficult for me. Besides, if Shanta were gone,
I could never raise her children the way she did. Two: I have no objection if the children
are fewer in number. They don’t have to be exactly six. Shanta’s daughter is Shaoli. Among the siblings, she’s
the eldest. This girl is completely her mother’s carbon copy. I’ve fallen in love with her too. Why is she so enchanting? A little
foolish as well. Girls don’t quite suit if they aren’t a little foolish. Let her be a little silly! Nothing wrong with that.
But there’s a problem. This makes me quite angry. Why do infinitely enchanting girls like Shaoli
seek out and find the tender aspects of terribly thuggish boys like Jahid to fall in love with?
It irritates me. “Jahid burst into laughter again. When he laughs, he looks incredibly handsome.
He doesn’t know this.”
This is in the book. Amazing! Why must one write this way about boys like Jahid?
Do those of us who aren’t thuggish look terribly ugly when we laugh?
Thinking about such things, it seems
writers are even more mad than those slightly unhinged beauties. This Shanta family was supposed to have
6 children; that was Shanta’s wish. Shanta’s untimely death stops it at 5. Among them, the
youngest is Jhumur. Her job is to speak with such wisdom that she bewilders everyone. This little one is quite
cute indeed. I want one like her too. I won’t teach that little one any studies,
only how to be cute. There are more such playful thoughts in this book. Reading such writing has many problems.
I am already excessively, excessively, excessively weak toward good writers. I can effortlessly
forgive all their transgressions. While reading any good writing, I keep thinking,
“Writing like this, mine
is simply impossible.”
I have no desire to inflict the punishment of making my friends read my writing. Good writers
douse water on the sacrificial fire of readers’ literary confidence and extinguish the flame.
I was speaking of Shanta. She had only one purpose in life:
to love her family,
to cherish her children. Her
results were excellent,
she could easily have taught at university,
could have taken a well-paying job. Some aspect of her
philosophy of life made me fall in love with her. But it’s not as if such women don’t exist
elsewhere. I had
met one such woman myself. How beautifully a person can think—
I wouldn’t have understood without seeing her.
Despite my intense desire, knowing I couldn’t offer her shelter, I didn’t encourage her. Why?
As it happens,
as usual! By God’s inexorable signal, greater than man himself, the heart’s claim fell flat-faced before
religion’s stern glare. Heart
proposes, religion disposes.
Thought: One hundred eighty-two.
……………………………………..
Damn bastard offspring of Mir Jafar!!
Those who were watching the play that day—
the shoes and sandals they hurled left grandfather’s nose and forehead bleeding
from the blows. The play couldn’t be finished that day.
Grandfather taught Bengali at Kanungopara Sir Ashutosh Government College. I’ve heard many people praise
his method of teaching Bengali in the style of recitation. He also wrote occasionally (I add ‘also’ because
not all professors write). He had vast estates in Moheshkhali. He lived in quarters in Kanungopara,
and acted in plays as a hobby. I’ve heard from my uncle that people came from far away to watch grandfather’s plays.
That day in ‘Sirajuddaula,’ grandfather’s performance enraged the audience. That day’s hatred was nothing new
in grandfather’s acting career. He preferred playing negative roles. In stage drama, while the audience’s
love isn’t always directly expressed, hatred often is. And the external intensity of that expression
depends on the artist’s acting skill.
I urge those who haven’t yet seen ‘Hachi: A Dog’s Tale,’ based on a true story, to watch it.
Perhaps dogs are the only creatures that can love another’s life more than their own.
I couldn’t hold back tears watching that movie. Even watching the melodramatic ‘Meghe Dhaka Tara,’ seeing
Nita’s anguished cry echoing across sky and mountainside, it took quite a while to shake off the melancholy;
I remember. For at least a week, profound sadness had enveloped me.
There are several other such movies. Those who’ve seen ‘Moroner Pore’ know that one cannot remain
How difficult it is to exist! What joy there is in weeping,
one cannot know this without weeping. They say,
emotional fool!
Let them say it!
There are some books
that make you want to murder the author after reading them.
In real life, most of the time I can bear much sorrow,
but I cannot bear as much happiness.
When I read fiction,
watch movies,
listen to songs,
exactly the opposite happens. Perhaps in imagination one cannot
become too sorrowful. Yet,
sometimes it feels good to be so. One book literally made me cry (truly
weep-till-you-drown-your-chest type crying) and that was ‘Jagori’. Reading this book in one sitting is nearly impossible. After
reading a few pages, the eyelids grow heavy. When tears fall on the book’s pages, somehow blotchy
stains appear. Looking at them ruins the mood. The idea of keeping a tissue box in front while reading never even occurred
to me. What else could I do! I had to cry. Satinath is such a cruel, merciless, ruthless writer! This
gentleman died beforehand and escaped my wrath that day. I clearly remember, I would read the book only after
mother had fallen asleep. If I cried in front of mother, mother would suffer. Mother’s suffering hurts more than the reason
for the crying. Besides, that was my utterly personal, childish weeping. It was very precious. Crying in front of others
diminishes the value of tears.
Writers are a strange breed. They can be more merciless than God,
and even more compassionate than God.
It was on Sunil’s recommendation that I read ‘Jagori’. Thank you, Sunil, for making me cry too.
While reading ‘Hazaar Chaurashir Maa’, didn’t the suppressed tune of weeping resonate in the chest like a wail again and again?
The gentleman must surely have lost his wife. Alas! How else could anyone sing such a song?
In such a way?
May God
give him the strength to bear this sorrow. ……… While many were offering this prayer,
wiping their eyes with handkerchiefs,
how was Jagannoy Mitra’s wife feeling?
………. O beloved,
why did you sing this song?
I haven’t gone
so far away,
then why did you sing with such tenderness?
How?? Did she ask her husband these questions
that day?
…… I’m very curious to know …….. I don’t think
she did.
When a few of my grandfather’s friends and colleagues were about to start a ruckus with the agitated audience, grandfather
managed with great difficulty to convince and restrain them himself. This is the charisma of a great artist! He makes everyone believe
and won’t stop until they do—
that exactly this is happening!
Friends,
It’s been so long
since I’ve wept with abandon. Suggest the names
of a book or two that have caused you
deep anguish.
Give me some movie titles too. Let’s see if weeping might bring
joy………