I helped a man get over his contradictions the other day. I was on my way to philately after buying secondhand adjectives and heard the man call for help. He didn’t ask for help. There are people who just ask for help, as if asking for help is dishonorable. Or difficult to pronounce.
“I fell stupid,” he told me. I helped him, extended my hand, and looked into the hole when the man was out safely. Indeed, it was full of contradictions. White, black, fat, lion, old and new. By the way, I was there too. The man looked relieved. He thanked me. He also wanted to give me a fifty-euro note, but I respectfully declined, though it might have helped to treat myself to a good lunch, perhaps a white wine, some mussels, and a filet with casserole.
I said goodbye to the man and the fifty euro bill and left not with a fresh breeze, but with my contradictions. One of them was to be worthy but sorry for not accepting that tip or payment. I lost sight of the man and calculated how long this happiness from his contradictions would last. Contradictions don’t stay in spaces, they run fast and reach us. They even multiply and get into your pocket and soul. In the closet and in the portal. Or they congregate in trap holes. I was suddenly a little dizzy. Maybe not eating lunch. Or an effort to get that man out of the pit of contradictions. Contradictions are heavy, but in this case they stayed in the background, as I said earlier it was the heavier man, something full of pounds. But the truth is, his face ate little. A contradiction.
I quickened my steps as I could and came home. I put the adjectives on a shelf, drank a glass of reality juice and tried to sit on the sofa but was occupied by one of my contradictions. He was once one of those who only appeared after dawn. He even insists on making dinner for her now and helping me choose the show on Netflix. My wife showed up. And I told him everything that happened that day. You came too late and your story is so contradictory, he told me.