From the diary of a contemporary

At wit’s end, I went to the doctor.

He pushed a pince-nez down on his nose:

“Nerves. Anxiety. Too soon to tell...

“So, I’ll prescribe

Guniyadi Janos.”

The blood pounded in my temples:

Guniyadi?! For questions,

For disbelief, for boredom?!

“Well, I’m not a philosopher.

Good day.”

So I went to a philosopher:

“Is there a purpose? A book or a plan?

A true school, a definite path?

Like an ox, I live in the dark.

Clarify!”

Pacing in a colorful dressing gown,

Its hem dragging the floor, he said:

“Even Socrates himself is helpless here.

You, idiot! Look around you!”

“Thanks a lot....”

In the street, I saw

A woman with a contented look.

I quietly approached her:

“Hello, neighbor…” – “You insolent beggar!”

“Pardon me….”

I went home in a daze,

My mind full of thoughts –

Each playing leap frog with the next:

First mockery, then insanity.

Lost!

A nurse quietly entered the room.

There is still another philosopher:

“Why do you sit here like a wild animal?

Forget it, brother, just believe – without questions.”

“In Guniyadi?”

“Gu-ni-ya-di? Who’s that?

A German saint?

To save your soul,

One saint is as good as the next...”

She left.