Not You

“I take you for what you are, an honest woman, rather than Rogozhin’s mistress,” the Prince said.

“I, an honest woman?”

“Yes, you.”

“Well... that’s the stuff of novels...”

The Prince rose to his feet, and in a quivering, humble tone, but for all that with great conviction, said, “I know nothing, Nastasya Filippovna, I’ve seen nothing of the world, you’re right, but... the honor would be mine, not yours. I am a nobody, but you have suffered in hell and have emerged unscathed, and that is no mean thing...”

“The Idiot” by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, 1869

**********

Dear Alex,

At your death bed, how many shall come to weep for you... with joy?

Bill Gates recalls the most critical lesson gleaned from his friend, Warren Buffet, who has just turned 90 years young:

“You will move in the direction of the people that you associate with. So it’s important to associate with people that are better than yourself. The friends you have will form you as you go through life. Make some good friends, keep them for the rest of your life, but have them be people that you admire as well as like.”

But what if no such “better” friend has ever intersected your rush of routines in these past rolling decades? And the ones deserving of your admiration know you not. A finger in the ocean are you.

Now we do not need another line intimating our sense of isolation in the modern world. When I first started blogging here, in earnest tenderness my sister asked: “Are you depressed? Is this why you are writing?” For leisure I had not written anything other than sporadic captions and comments on Facebook.

The fictional intrigue, Nastasya leaps from the pages of imagined melodrama to our mellow saga inked in vanity. I see her in my peripheral peep taut enough to convert her into a cautionary hashtag. Her affected extravagance in breed and indiscretion will discolor your reputation. Faithless, loveless. Surely our children cannot befriend the bewitched.

The likes of Nastasya, poor in spirit and poorer in our illusion, are the likely ones creeping towards the beloved in fading hours, spilling tears and perfume on his feet. In your feeble breaths, for you she crawls to chant a lullaby.

Yours, Kate