Immortal Dreams/Love Letters

The poet sat down at his tiny kitchen table in a quaint, modest apartment, leaning forward on his right elbow over the several notebooks in front of him. This much, it can be said, was part of his life’s work.

His agent and longtime friend of ten years sat down across from him with briefcase in hand, smiling and shaking his head as he looked around the room.

“What?” asked the poet.

“Nothing in particular,” replied the agent. “But we both know you can afford far better accommodations than this.”

“Please, Julian,” the poet scoffed, lighting a cigarette, “I like to think I keep it modest. These digs do just fine.”

“Oh yes, they’re quite becoming of a single 35 year-old man such as yourself who also happens to be a Nobel Prize-winning poet whom the people look up to for guidance in their dark lives.”

“Guidance?” asked the poet, a bit surprised as he took another drag from his cigarette, “I don’t know shit about guidance, obviously. I just felt it best to lend my mind it’s own voice that cannot be properly expressed as a mere mortal. What is important is not me…it’s my work. That’s what this is about. That’s where you come in. You’re my intermediary to the world out there, Julian,” said the poet, pointing out the window. “I was never quite a part of it you see.”

“Yes, well…as you’ve told me before, you’ve always tried your best to fit in.”

“Quite. Amidst the pain of many failures.” Another cigarette puff from the eccentric man across the table made Julian cough slightly.

“You really should quit those things, you know,” said Julian, waving his hand to dissipate the smoke.

“No, because then what sort of artist would I be? My line of work is quite taxing on the affairs of individualism. Where one gives his muse a voice, a part of his physical being must yield and wane. It is the nature of things. You call it self-destruction. I call it commitment to my craft.”

“Call it what you will,” said Julian, “but must you make others wane their poor lungs when in their presence?”

The poet let out a short chuckle and looked down for a moment before putting his cigarette out. “No. I suppose that wouldn’t be fair, now would it?”

“I did not intend to be rude, you see…but you know I’m in a state of remission. I wouldn’t want the little visitors popping up in my own chest again.”

“I see you’re quite the family man. How is it, running and playing with your children?” asked the poet as he went to the fridge and took out some scotch and two glasses, pouring a bit for Julian and himself.

“Nice…very nice indeed. I feel cleaner, more energetic, refreshed. I can feel the sun and it’s loving rays upon my face…you ought to try it sometime, rather than keeping your curtains drawn…mmm thank you,” said Julian, taking a sip of scotch.

“No,” said the poet, taking a swig from his own glass. “I rather like it this way at times. As you see, the curtains aren’t drawn today.”

“No, they’re not…because it is raining outside and you once told me how much you prefer cloudy whether to open sunlight. I must say you are quite the vampire.”

The poet laughed. “I simply see it as a reflection of who I am inside. Cloudy, okay. Sometimes mindless, yes. But not a coward. I lack the focus and drive it takes to make it out there in the daylight working a normal job. I always get asked what I’m doing while my mind is leading me on some meandering course. And you think it’s easy to maintain focus? Try being a slave to your own inspiration. You’ll find out how hard it can be soon enough,” said the poet, lighting up another cigarette. “They call it their world. I could never survive out there, Julian. Not really.”

“I understand. It is a cruel place indeed.”

“Very…anyways…you came here to talk business?”

“Ah yes. It seems your last two books aren’t selling as many as previous volumes. I dare say you’ve hit a rough patch…eh, through no fault of your own, of course.”

The poet sunk in his chair.

“I knew it. I fucking knew it.”

“Now wait wait!” exclaimed Julian, “there IS a way to boost sales and keep people interested…”

“Don’t. Don’t fucking say it!” whined the poet.

“Too bad, sir. You should really consider doing a-” The poet cut him off.

“Book signing? One of those awful, detestable meet-and-greets where I write ‘best wishes’ a thousand fucking times to the customers and their children and their nephews or grandchildren or dogs and cats and fish and parakeets until my pages turn into cage lining and my words to chew toys? Forget it, Julian,” said the poet, taking a long sip of his scotch. “I’d rather take my chances of letting the old spark die out. It’s about my time, anyways. I’ve made my millions and wish to retire quite soon,” he continued, taking a drag off his cigarette.

“I swear you do this to kill me,” said Julian, waving his hand once again to dissipate the smoke. “Is this really what you want? You would be throwing away a great opportunity…and if nothing else, consider your fans. Consider the children, those whose lives you have changed forever, and those you constanly inspire.”

The poet sighed as he put out his cigarette again. “Is this about your cut?” he asked. Julian swallowed.

“N-no, not at all…” Julian stammered, almost choking.

“You’re a terrible liar,” said the poet. “I can see the scotch hasn’t taken the edge off you yet.”

“Forgive me,” said the agent. “I don’t say this just for myself you know. I just think it would be a great opportunity for you, have your re-emergence into the real world, as if being born again…they would be so thrilled to meet you, really they would!”

“I know they would…but I stopped, Julian…I stopped trying long ago, you know that. Ain’t no one in this world who really understands me, ain’t no one serious enough, no one, and I guarantee you, NO ONE can possibly understand my work and the effect it has had on my life. It has changed me, made me into who I am! They don’t understand, they don’t know me, and if they did they might very well be frightened away. And I can’t paint them that picture of myself, I can’t…and I won’t.” By now the poet was pacing around the kitchen.

“Listen, Peter…if it’s any consolation…my family loves you, very much so. My son has started writing his own poetry…he is very inspired by you and wants to be just like you someday…my daughter, she dreams of falling in love with a man like you someday and met a boy who sends her love letters which end in a poem or two by you and she cherishes them forever…and my wife wants to meet you as well, she is so moved by your writing….Peter…won’t you spend awhile with us, maybe come away for vacation? Take your mind off this pain of your lost loves, the people you’ve never had the chance to be with or see again, the people who were too afraid to be with you, old friends long gone, the estrangement from your family, and all the people who-”

“SHUT UP!” said the poet, hurling his glass of scotch across the room, hearing it shatter to pieces against the wall. “My art is MY business, you got that?! MINE and mine alone! You stay out of my work! You don’t understand it! You all like to fucking pretend like you do, but you don’t! And you never will! Because you have the audacity to come into my home and ask for your share of the profits because my words fall a bit short of the normal mark?! I’ve had my fucking fame and tasted it enough!”

The poet screamed and grabbed his chair, hurling it against the window and smashing the glass, then hurling the chair back across the room to dent the wall.

The agent sat in his chair, shaking. The poet took a few deep breaths, calming down and grabbing his chair to sit back down at the table. The sound of the rain outside seemed ever more audible as the silence took over and the window now broken, the two men staring at each other for what seemed like forever.

“Please,” said the poet as his eyes began to flood with tears, “please tell me I can turn it off…please tell me ‘cut, end scene’…please tell me we’ll be back…please…please…p