I have such a friend They both hate their dead parents (just a few days ago) because they didn’t let him be unhappy. And he was not looking for unhappiness on a whim; Because he wants to be a cursed poet, he adds, it is a project that cannot be realized with prosperity. His parents, then, suppressed his lyrical ambitions at an early stage. As a child, he was carefully washed. When she was a teenager, they provided psychologists to help her through this difficult phase of her life. As a young man, he was getting paid from the best schools. and then the best university for him to make it a reality and get a good job with an above average education. Later they bought him an apartment so he could start his adult life without a mortgage all kinds.
With parents like this—he complained bitterly to me at the funeral home, while his father’s body was still warm—you can’t be unhappy without feeling guilty.
“Of course,” I said, secretly jealous of him.
“For me,” he continued, “I wish I was a bit of an alcoholic or a bit of a drug addict, I don’t know, even a little suicidal, like any self-respecting poet. But even the thought of destroying them after all the effort they had put into my education filled me with regret.
I said “yes” because it just didn’t seem like the right time to argue.
I couldn’t make myself look unfortunate either because that would make them unhappy.
“Well,” I dared to suggest, “maybe you could be a goddamn secret poet and sign under a pseudonym.”
My friend hesitated. Then he said:
So why did I have to hide my profession?
-You just said: so that they don’t get miserable.
We were silent for a few minutes. I then suggested, out of malice, that perhaps being happy made him so unhappy and now that his parents were dead, perhaps he could continue his career as a cursed poet. without hurting anyone.
-Anyone? -replied-. What about my wife and children who gave me a fulfilling life?
In total, I hugged him and went somewhere else with the music.