[for mr ramirez]
I thought I would write you here – it’s as good a place as any. I’ve been playing with the edges again and they appear sharp, but not sharp enough to kill you. You said the pain is only in one’s head. One synapse to another. It is not real, but imagined. The feeling that the pain is real is only because of the thinking that makes it so. The trick, you said, is to remember that its not real. But, of course I forget that all the time. Fool that I am.
“Are you happy yet? Have you learnt what happiness is? Can you teach me?”
But before the words are even off my lips I know your reply. “I am no teacher,” you will say to me. “The only one to teach you, is you. The self. The only real and true god.”
Of course you know my reply even before it is formed.
“If that’s the case,” I retort. “Why the fuck did I invent you?”
Then we laugh. Together.
And for a moment we forget that the joy, like the pain, isn’t real.
But knowing that this brief happiness is all in our heads doesn’t make it less delicious.