My nice man was seen everywhere by everyone, especially at the end of terrible events like wars. And he looked deep into their eyes and said, “You must be contrite because your war was unjust. You were wicked. On the last day of the war, you executed three men who were against the war. They were good men. Now you must go in sackcloth and ashes. Let us bow our heads in honor of those three resistance fighters.”
Then my tiny elderly man appeared and said, “You, sir, are a very nice person, but you yourself were present as a judge and as a public prosecutor and helped condemn those three men to death. You are guilty too.”
And my nice man replied, “What’s that?
And my tiny elderly man thought for a moment and said, “I don’t remember.”
My yearning for these men was something I hid from. Unsuccessfully, for I followed them everywhere, trying to hide from my yearning while they talked of systematic guilt and cruelty and forgetting. I tried to give others what I didn’t get from them, but it didn’t work out. I tried so hard to conform to the situations into which I was forced through my love for these men. Now I know that something is missing. It could be love. It could be connection. It could be meaning. Why? It could be that I too am taking part in the dirty work.
No more love triangles from now on. . . . so help me. . . . ah well.