You asked me and I answered you.
What did you say? What did I say?
Words come out of my mouth so easily.
I didn’t mean it, I swear. But anyway.
And why did you ask me? Nonsense.
Where have you been? I almost forgot
that you exist. Gosh, is that what you mean?
Every evening I would think of you. As
if you existed, I would talk to you. But no,
it was not so important, just the trivial
gibberish. You may remember how it used
to be. I will never see you again, never
talk to you again, you are dead. How do
I know? I don’t know, I just say it, I enjoy
saying it. Is that important? I don’t think so.
No, you are not an idiot, you are just trying
to find your way out in the labyrinth. I am very
aware of your effort. I am full of sympathy. God
bless you. We all have some excuse to remember
when things go wrong. You do and I do. Have you
ever been in Porto Rico? Or in London? In Paris?
I may have seen you there. No, I wasn’t there last
week, I am having strange dreams lately. You forgot
to tell me. You never wrote to me indeed. You were
so busy writing your crazy story. Is it ready to
print? Not yet? Don’t worry, be patient. This
kind of poem is born of the pure physical pleasure
of writing with one of my old English fountain pens.
I purchased it in Portobello years ago, when I was still
living in London. Every Saturday I would go to
Portobello. Sometimes I would have a pizza and
a glass of Chianti near the corner where they
used to sell cheap CDs. Then I would go to see
the guy who had a lot of old fountain pens to sell.
I purchased a few but two of them I gave to women.
Stupid idea. Almost sure they never use them and are
not even aware of the value of the gift. But so is life,
a perpetual misunderstanding. We do one thing after
the other as if belonging to the same coherent
narrative. Maybe they do but I am not so sure.
It’s irrelevant. We will all die soon, one after the
other, silently, tired and exhausted. And the world
will not even pay attention to us, the world doesn’t
need us. The world? Just a concept, nothing else.
Why would the trees and the rivers feel any pain?
They don’t care. Nobody cares in fact, we are all
alone in our bodies, we search the pleasure and
face all kind of fears, we expect to be loved, we
imagine our death to be an impossible event. I
could go on talking until the end of this notebook,
until the end of the night. But what for? No need.
I don’t even know why I started all this bla bla bla.
Let’s put an end to it. Have a good night, sleep well.