Absurd wakes me before dawn.
It puts its hand over my mouth so I won’t scream,
and whispers: “See? Nothing makes sense — and you’re still breathing.”

We sit at the same table: absurd, meaning, and I.
We drink from the same glass, but not the same drink.
One gets drunk on light, another on darkness,
the third on thoughts that don’t know where to rest.

I laugh — because what else is there to do?
Beneath my skin, there’s a feeling that everything
is too serious to be real,
yet too funny to hurt the way it should.

Absurd taps me on the lungs,
as if checking whether I’m still here,
or if I’ve gone to that place
where truth and lies stop arguing.

On the street, the wind whistles at people,
and they don’t answer —
but it still plays its finest symphonies for them.
I understand it.
I too often speak to things that stay silent.

I stand up,
tie my shoelaces
as if I’m going somewhere —
but there is no road.
Not even ground beneath my feet.
Only time flows — but does not exist.

Yet he exists —
in every smile, in every sentence that begins seriously
and ends as a joke without a punchline,
in every birthday, every new year,
every battle,
every victory

— Absurd, my funniest friend.