Prelude—The Life Coach Who Faced the Folly
The summer sun showed no mercy to a city gripped by heat,
And the weary life coach moved slowly through the crowded, stifling street.
His careful daily plan got spoiled quick; the day grew harsh and wild,
Each step became a snare, his hopes left unreconciled.
Frustration carved upon his brow, his thoughts grew weighed with overdone care,
For debts and family quarrels pressed, a burden hard to bear.
Each step dragged heavy as a stone, his strength began to fade,
The very air pressed close and thick, even his work arrival was delayed.
I. The Institute’s Silence
i. The Life Coach and His Burden
He hated to reach his work in wrath, for well he understood,
How swiftly anger can break the trust that seeks another’s good.
His patience deep, his compassion profound, both were the pillars of his noble art,
Yet stress could spoil and break through the walls that shield the most empathetic heart.
The stern administration ruled with uncompromising decree,
A single slip, a careless mistake, and out the door he’d be.
No leniency, no second chance, but sudden, immediate discharge,
His career would end as if he had never been in charge.
ii. The Desk and the Quote
At last, within his office walls, he breathed the quiet air,
Prepared a cup of tea to ease his overwhelming care.
Upon his beloved bulletin board he fixed his gaze, where Einstein’s wisdom shone:
“Only two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity; and I’m not sure about the universe.”
An authentic smile arose, and in his heart deep,
Told himself his sacred charge: to guard, to guide, to keep.
To listen with unjudging ear, to soothe with kindly tone,
To bear the burdens of others as if they were his own,
And never let them feel rejected or forlorn.
The hum of air conditioners merged with paper’s gentle scent,
He closed his eyes, inhaled the calm, and inwardly felt content.
His duty was not solving all the world’s chaotic strife,
But meeting each with patience, calm, and warmth, guiding them to a more steady, prosperous life.
---
II. The Visitation of the Girl
i. The Entrance
The door then swung; she entered, as his schedule had decreed,
A woman in her twenties, torn by recent unhealed deceit.
At once he knew the kind of wound her stereotypical years must keep,
For hearts so young bear often scars of love’s betrayal deep.
ii. The Heart and the Family
The stereotypical issues of this age must be exactly the same:
A boyfriend’s traditional cheating with her close friend, and her close friend so willingly shared the shame.
Or the Valentine gift that was forgotten or delivered elsewhere,
Received by her best friend, who enjoyed stealing boyfriends of others and writing down in her list of honor all their names.
And harsher still, the weight at her home, the tyrant mother’s unceasing scorn,
And the dictator father’s heavy hand that crushed her dreams even before the slightest shade of hope was ever dared to be born.
She longed to flee, to find at last a cute angel with soft embrace,
A gentle love to shield her wounds, to sanctify her from the devilish parents,
Amid their hell on earth, where she was unfortunately misplaced.
iii. The Temptation to Shorten
He oft had wished to cut the hours, to spare them all the long speech,
To say, “No need to open your mouth and speak. I know your suffering beforehand; here is my ready-made advice, which I always in these circumstances teach.”
Yet always he restrained himself from saying that, for duty bound him fast,
To let their words be spoken out, until their timeworn stories had passed.
iv. The Outburst
But she—before even greeting him—struck his desk with sudden might,
A thunderous blow from a sturdy hand that filled the room with unforgettable fright.
The papers scattered, crashing down; the desk itself, overwhelmed by panic attack, could not control its seismic quake.
He reeled within his chair, as if the ground itself would break.
With a voice that roared like thunder, she cried with fiery breath:
“I want him back within my life; if I couldn't see him again, this would mean my premature, agonizing death!”
---
III. The Debate of Madness
i. The Vase and the Question
Accustomed to such storms of youth, he kept his tone serene,
“May I inquire,” he calmly asked, “what causes came between?”
At once she seized a nearby vase, her eyes radiated with fury untamed,
Her hands firmly clutched the vase, cursing him with every unrespectable name.
“Do you not know the reasons, fool? Must I repeat my story to everyone and say exactly the same?
Can you not guess the cruel betrayal, his debasing game?”
“I do not know, alas,” he said, his eyes upon the vase.
“I think we only met today, within this solemn place.”
ii. The Confession
She cried, her voice with furious fury torn, her body wracked with flame:
“He cheated with my dearest friend, he knew no bond nor shame.
And when I dared confront his lies, he spat upon my face,
And mocked me with a sneer that stripped my dignity, my grace.
'Look at yourself in the mirror, please,' he taunted loud, 'a perfect cube is what you are;
Your width equals your height, my dear, your body grotesque, outlandish, bizarre.
To guess the volume of your clothes, we simply multiply your height by three.
A perfect cube, you wretched fool—that is your form, and you still ask defiantly why I cheated on thee?!'
Not only that, when we parted, he sought his laptop fast,
And stormed into my home with rage, as if the world belonged only to his **** ***.
My father spoke with gentleness, imploring peace, no strife,
But he struck him squarely in the eye, and marked his face for life.
And when my mother intervened, with peace upon her tongue,
He seized her by the hair and dragged her, mercilessly, blindly drunk.
He plunged her head into the tank where helpless fishes swam,
Till she relented, gasping out: 'Take your **** laptop, man!'”
iii. The Coach’s Provocation
With quivering voice, yet steady mien, the coach then ventured mild,
“Why would you crave such cruelty, that leaves the heart defiled?”
He knew full well the peril such questions oft awoke,
Yet still his duty bade him ask, though chaos might be stoked.
iv. The Vase Explodes
No sooner had he uttered this than thunder split the air,
The vase flew unbelievably fast; it shattered wide, with fragments everywhere.
But with the seasoned grace of one well-trained in love’s debate,
He ducked the blow, and calmly stood, bravely enduring his typical day of rage and hate.
Her frantic eyes then scanned the room, still considering what to throw,
A storm of madness circling fast, a tempest about to exponentially grow.
v. The Mad Love
She screamed with all the fire of youth: “I love him, don’t you see?
Without his arms, his burning soul, there is no life for me!
He is the one who made me feel so special, pure, divine;
Though cruel, abusive, ****** by all—yet still his heart is mine!
Yes, sentenced twice, four years he served for crimes of dire weight,
He hurled an ex from balcony, consigned her to her fate.
A fractured spine, a broken skull, her body forever marred—
Yet still I see an angel there, a soul by heaven starred.
He even flung a mix of caustic liquid and acrid acid once upon another’s face,
Yet deep within, I swear, he walks in kindness and in grace!"
vi. The Coach’s Irony
The coach replied with quiet scorn, a sharpened irony:
“Did he then make you feel so special with spittle cast at thee?
Or with the blackened eye bestowed upon your father’s head?
Or with your mother’s drowning cries within the tank she pled?”
vii. The Madness of “Tough Love”
“Yes!” she screamed with frenzied breath, her madness nearly whole,
“All this because he loves me so much—this is his special, primitive role!
This is tough love, can you not see? You *******, understand!
This is the way that passion burns, the way his wild heart is planned!”
And calmly, the life coach, with long-suffering eyes, looked upward to the wall,
Where Einstein’s words upon the wall cast judgment over all:
“Only two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity; and I’m not sure about the universe.”
