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"I am a student of life", he said;
"the world is my university,
books are my tickets to the lecture halls of wisdom;
paintings portals to to the universe of the senses.
My goal is to gain wisdom,
an insight into life."
He pauses, thinks;
there is silence: not stillness,
just silence;
I watch him,
aware of a great tension.
"Have you been successful?", I ask
He smiles, a soft sad smile.
"How is one to know?", he replies.
"Wisdom is more than a collection
of facts, more
than a recitation of theories".
The evasion is not missed.
The silence hangs, heavy.
There is a nakedness about him,
as if something has been violated.
"Well, have you succeeded?", I demanded:
discomfort transformed into anger.
"I don't know.", he replied.
"There are times when all seems clear;
others when my perception is shrouded
in darkness and a creeping mist of despair;
times when the accumulated wealth
of humanity's wisdom and knowledge
seems bankrupt, futile."
He paused, searching my eyes for a response.
I lit my pipe,
obscuring the interrogating gaze
by a cloud of smoke.
"So, it is the intellect you believe to be of prime importance?"
"Yes", he said;
"what else is there?"
"What of Love?".
"Love?", he enquired,
after a pause.
"Yes, Love!".
"Define it.",
he challenged.
It was my turn to pause.
"Love is an awareness, a perception,
that beyond the intellect there is another dimension
that bestows meaning upon experience.
Love is something one tries to escape,
while at the same time feeling compelled to seek it.
With it one feels apprehension; without it one feels terror."
"Nonsense!", he replied.
"Is it?", I said.
He did not respond.
He stood up. "Do you really believe that?"
"Yes", I said.
"Maybe", was his parting comment.
"Maybe!", the word hung suspended
in the space he had once filled.
"Maybe!", the word hovered in my mind.
"Maybe not", I thought after a while;
but one has to believe in something.
Months later, I saw him again.
He looked at me,
said nothing and quickly walked on.
"Try it", I said softly,
"it could be true".