Somewhere inside me it is raining tears. Three months after his passing, I had found out about a friend’s death. What kind of friend that makes me is debatable. I spend my days mostly alone; he knew at least a thousand people any minute of any given day. We were as different as people could be, but when together we conjured magic. He was gentle and clever, soft, thoughtful and with a mind so open it could swallow the Universe. An albino and legally blind since birth he practised his Messiah earnestly. He was perhaps a tad too human – greedy, weak and hopeless for love. The experiment was dangerous: crammed with people to bursting point, could life squeeze some love out of them? Not enough. It was a dysfunction, the emotion, and he knew it. He craved riches and women. Women more. There hardly was a man who knew more women. They were free around him as if he were a statue; milling about aimlessly or trembling lost in their battered fantasies. If he touched them, they smiled at his sexless and inoffensive curtesy – how welcome, how different, and spiritual was he; a beautiful person. He wanted to be a man.
I never understood his schemes but loved spending time with him alone, just us. The peace reigned between us and around; he teased my intelligence as I did his. We spoke without a need for anything from the other, our barricades at their lowest ebb. Respect and kindness – that is what I will remember him by. And his sparkling mind, the loneliest place in the universe. I had seen little of him lately. I don’t see anyone much, that is indiscriminate. He will be remembered by many, I by very few, but for as long as I walk the streets of this city, many of which I have walked with him on Friday nights – he will walk with me. The night is dark and so is life; we keep punching holes through for some light. You were among the brightest of them, and I wish that voltage had lit up a better path for you. Or just powered the whole damn world as you wished it.
Somewhere inside me it is raining tears. Oh, you dear fool.