Stalker

The world we live in is just a paradox of hope. The zone is a prison. But why does faith lie there? That’s what I ask them all the time. So I said, "Nothing evil was lost, Nothing good was in vain, All ablaze with clear light But there has to be more. Life gathered me up, Safe under its wing, My luck always held— But there has to be more. Not a leaf was burnt up, Not a twig ever snapped … Clean as glass is the day, But there has to be more." Why is it so difficult for them to understand? Am I just a twig? A stalker? God's fool? Perhaps people think I am their psychopomp, their spiritual guardian on their so-called spiritual journey, where they seek healing. So I look into their eyes, full of disbelief, and I tell them, "In the room, there will be no problems. Have faith. You will be full of diamonds—follow it." I told them, "May everything come true. May they believe. And may they laugh at their passions. For what they call passion is not really the energy of the soul, but merely friction between the soul and the outside world. But, above all, may they believe in themselves and become as helpless as children. For softness is great, and strength is worthless. When a man is born, he is soft and pliable. When he dies, he is strong and hard. When a tree grows, it is soft and pliable. But when it is dry and hard, it dies. Hardness and strength are death's companions. Flexibility and softness are the embodiment of life. That which has become hard shall not triumph." But no—the lack of metaphysical abstraction turns this professor into cold stone. The writer—yes, I believed in him. In the beginning, he acted like a fool, but I believed. I had the heart; he would have faith. But he, too, turned me down, just like the others. Everyone is the same. Nobody has faith. "I will follow you. We will be together," said my wife. But I know, deep inside, she lacks faith too. In my pain, exhausted, I lay in bed and said, "No."I shook my head vigorously. "You can’t." "What if you, too, lose faith?" I asked her. She said she knows all this already, all this. She meant it, when she said, She probably already guessed, that he's one of God's fools. Everyone around here used to laugh at him. He was such a wretched muddler. Mama used to say: "he's a stalker, a marked man, an eternal jailbird. Remember the kind of children stalkers have." I didn't even argue. I knew all about it, that he was a marked man, a jailbird. I knew about the kids. Only what could I do? I was sure I'd be happy with him. I knew there'd be a lot of sorrow, but I'd rather know bitter-sweet happiness, than a grey, uneventful life. Perhaps I invented all this later. But when he come up to me and said: "Come with me", I went. And I've never regretted it. Never. There was a lot of grief, and fear, and pain, but I've never regretted it, nor envied anyone. It's just fate. It's life, it's us. And if there were no sorrow in our lives, it wouldn't be better, it would be worse. Because then there'd be no happiness, either. And there'd be no hope.