she sat and stared out the window watching the people on the street

her finger idly stirred the ice in her drink as she bit her lip

schopenhauer described her best

at first i refused to admit she existed, when i found her i was petrified to approach, now i calmly accept her as fact

he said it better and made it about truth

but that is what she is to me

truth

nietzche understood her meaning in my life

to live is to suffer, to survive is to find her and have meaning for the suffering, he who has a why to live can bear almost any how

she makes the suffering minimal

the why to the nagging how

every now and then she tugs at my arm and points out someone

we create intricate stories about their why and how and this is my why and how sitting and laughing

this guy is the disgraced ringmaster, fired from his job for his unrequited love of the bearded woman

that one is a spy for a pharmaceutical company on a mission to buy every healing crystal in town

we giggle and she grows quiet again, back to playing with ice cubes slowly making her drink sweat onto the table beneath

she is impossible to define

heidegger understood this and calms my mind when i try

making itself intelligible is suicide to philosophy

trying to boil her down into the particulates that make up her perfection is to lose sight of wonder that is her

so i sip my drink and watch the people with her

content in just being near her

the dime store philosophy has a way of nickel and dimeing an ideal to death

and i’m fine with her just as she is

let the stodgy old dead men try and figure out how to explain magic as science

i’m happy to live without that knowledge and bask in the wonder of her