You know this guy

[FLASH FICTION, 916 words]

You know this guy. He writes poems, he says. You know him enough to remember his name.

He wrote his last poem months ago. It was about milk, but he’d explained how it was about family. You’d nodded along.

He says he’s been writing on and off. You know how unpredictable inspiration is, he says. He shows you a poem — it’s still a draft. Only two lines. They’re not bad lines.

He writes poems — that’s all he does.

He says it’s getting difficult for him to write these days. He’s a morning person, you see, but lately he’s been having trouble waking up early. He’s tried everything — except sleeping pills. He thinks they’ll make him slow. And poetry needs a mind that is awake.

So he wakes up in the afternoon. And who can work in the afternoon anyway? he asks rhetorically. The day is already half over.

Plus, since he’s a pessimist, he sees the day as half over, not half left. Philosophy is integral to poetry after all.

He says poetry is the history of the heart — a history of emotion. Poetry is words that mean more than other words; words that sound better than other words.

Poetry is heavy, he says between gulps of tea. You nod. Something certainly feels heavy.

He tells you poetry is consuming him. His tone should worry you, but it doesn’t. He’s always been odd.

He gets up and leaves suddenly — an idea has struck him. He needs to go somewhere to pen it down. He’ll know where that is when he reaches there. You nod and wave goodbye.

You run into him at the D-Mart one day. He nods back at you but doesn’t remove his earphones right away.

He gives you an update. He has a few poems ready. He’s looking for a publisher. And an agent. And a book-cover designer.

You know one of those, you tell him. He asks you to send him the contact number, he says. He’s no longer on Whatsapp, though. Bad for creativity, all that social media. That reminds him, he’s also looking for a social media manager for his future official profiles.

You see him months later. You ask him about his search for a publisher. He looks up at the ceiling, then into his phone. Shows you a photo of a face of a man with glasses. He’s the editor who rejected him. The third one. He has all their photos as reminders. Rejection is good for art, he says. Necessary even.

He tells you poetry is like a painting — a painting of a burning fire on a winter night. It warms only those who let it. “Those editors didn’t know what to do with my fire; They are -

He stops mid-sentence and looks at the photos again.

You bring up self-publishing and his face shows horror. He looks around, asks you to confirm whether you actually did say the S-word! The s-word! How dare you? He’s a real poet, you see. Do you see? Do you?

He leaves without saying goodbye.

You only see glimpses of him after that. Ducking out of sight, flashing a quick apologetic smile that disappears quickly, gestures that tell you he’s running behind schedule suddenly…

You wonder how many photos he stares at now.

One day he spots you in a park. He’s cheerful that day. He sits you down, and inquires about your life. You tell him how the rat race keeps you occupied. He tells you a poem he wrote on that subject. It’s not a bad poem.

He holds your hand and tells you that he died. He had an epiphany, a nightmare. It was actually a thought — a singular thought that almost killed him.

It had actually killed him, he corrects himself. He was reborn, you see. This new him is born of the ashes of the old him. And this new him is inside the mind of the old him.

He says he understands poetry better now. This new self has seen the Truth. He understands why art requires sacrifice.

He tells you he’s been afraid ever since the epiphany. Death is suddenly real now. Youth gives you a false sense of invincibility, he shakes you by your shoulders. Wake up!

He’s dying. He’s 34. You nod.
Maybe you’re dying as well.

You think I’m going crazy don’t you — he asks.

You do.
You tell him you don’t. He nods.

He tells you about his nightmare that was his epiphany. He was dying of some disease. In his nightmare-epiphany, he saw that he’d died. He died alone and no one found the brown diary that held his poems.

He says he wrote a poem that night. He broke his pen after he wrote that poem. He swears he’ll never write again.

When you ask, he shows you the poem. He stares at your face as you read it. His lips mirror yours as you read it.

It’s the best poem you’ve ever read.

More than a year passes. He finds you this time. He shows up with a pre-order copy of this book. He tells you he’s finally getting published. This is what he always wanted: to witness the birth of his collection of poems.

Months later, he’s left with a trickle of reviews and a tsunami of marketing bills. He doesn’t give in. He writes more.

He lives 3 more decades. He witnesses the birth of his poetry collections.

He also witnesses them age… and die.

*****