Part two of the papers of Ishmael Gradsdovic is the following manuscript:
Tears and sobs wracked the face existing lonely in the space where once before another shared the space and for him had cared The curtains dimmed as the sun condemned the man to day is done who still sat there one alone and heavy, by the silent phone. Was there nothing that he could do to stop the wicked shame he knew? Shame caused from feeling oh so bad because their end had made her glad. "When my love is happy, so should I be even if she is happy without me." And thus cruelly his conscience teased and he with himself was more displeased. "Dear God, if there must be such sorrow," he cried, "must I stay to see tomorrow? I should ignore her new love but they roll together in my gut and punch the holes through which bleed the sorrow sap of neglected need. Oh what a kindness it would be if I should never live to see her walking with him hand in hand. Oh god," he cried, "please understand!" So razor in hand, his life to end the toilet bowl his life's last friend, he gave the world a final plea: "Oh, what can life still mean to me?" He addressed to God, shameful of sin, but his answer had to come from within. "No sorrow can, however deep, make worthless the secrets life would keep. The joy which may today be dim is quite alive in her and him and though I am drenched in hate and strife that too is what makes up a life. Someday," he said to her, "I too will feel the joy that now fills you. No more shall wicked envy chime within my head. It's only time which keeps me away from joy and makes me tempted to destroy this gift, this life, this wondrous dream and tear apart the fragile seam which binds me to this life. I see! All that it would mean to be. To think my wants got in the way of living life for each new day." So up he sprang and crushed his frown contemptuously threw his razor down, to the toilet he said, "Goodbye my friend you won't drink blood when we meet again!" Now free to concentrate on being in the life he now was seeing, he chose to believe in the worth given every thing just by its birth. A worth which no god can give but is the birthright of all who live. A new man rose that hadn't sobbed, the razor of his blood was robbed, and happy that he wasn't dead he stretched out upon his bed and drempt of life with no needs, no sorrow and thought little of the blessed morrow.
email Ishmael