What I Know
Je est un autre. —Rimbaud
Tears creep down the upturned face.
My face, although it seems I see it from across the room. It seems that I approach the bed and gaze at the weeping man lying there. I am sorry about his loneliness and fear, but I know they will diminish toward morning when sleep comes at last. The pillow will be damp and cold, but sleep will come.
Why, I wonder, can’t my knowledge comfort him? After all, he is me and suffers only because he refuses to see me standing in the dark with what I know.