This is a poem about why fiction matters. It’s about Camus’ existential question.
He was a good kid. He liked to explore alleyways. He tried to make it home before dark. He loved to see people smile more than anything in the world.
One day, someone told him that they loved him and his alleyways. It felt like an alien abduction: standing on a clean white ship just off Jupiter, he wondered what to do. It was nice, but felt like a weight he could not give back. For years, he talked to many sages and fools looking for a way to return it.
He decided one morning, when the pink trees were beginning to blossom, to drive his car off a cliff. It didn’t work, of course. The gift soared with him, past the guardrail and into the sun.