• _creatingworldsthatdonotexist_ 8w

    / Achilles' Heel /

    To you, the begetter of my words, the colour of my palette, the annunciator of my obsessions.
    To you, and to the blurred outline of the flowers we grew and almost let die that summer.


    i) Jāy-e shoma khālīst. Jāy-e shoma khālīst. Jāy-e shoma khālīst
    Persian, I have come to learn is a language of unrefined desire, of crude childlike yearning
    Pardon me, I am no linguist, no academic, no seasoned scholar
    And yet the only coherent words I know of this foreign tongue propel my fragmented belief.
    In my relentless pursuit of the right words to document my unroofed feelings of "wish you were here" yesterday,
    I encountered this vaporous, unfeigning phrase. Jāy-e shoma khālīst
    I fear I twist these fragile words in the direction opposite to meaning in my attempt at translation.
    Not everything feels like something else but the closest English gets is "your place is empty"
    This is the desperation of love, its unpretentiousness.
    And your place is empty still, but there is light. There is light.

    ii) As someone addicted to the emancipation in writing, I often find myself at a crossroads
    On these lifeless stretches of white, I may write my best or worst verse but I must tell a story -
    Often, it is my own. But as a poet I must disguise it. So I do. I do.
    I transmute it into a story writhing in a glass bottle, thrown into the vast blueness,
    having come rolling onto my sands, under my stiff toes
    I must tell the story without belonging to it, without acknowledging my attachment to it, without confessing a word, without embracing my shame.
    But tonight, I do not call myself a poet. I do not affiliate myself to anything but you.
    So, let me bare. Oh ! Let me bare this heart that beats in excess, spilling, overflowing, outpouring its insides everywhere
    For I can go days on my own, tending to my emotional wounds, becoming molten within - without so much as a sigh
    And yet the moment I am offered tenderness, the moment a faint probability of your presence looms over, I break down. I crumble. I disintegrate. I am ruined
    There is no sufficient metaphor for it.

    iii)  I was nine, uncivil and starved when I realized what my biggest fear was
    I feared that my intrinsic existence, my natural being was immutably predisposed to forgetting
    I found it to be a wretched, wretched universal conspiracy
    It haunted me that I couldn't remember how it felt opening my eyes for the first time
    Or how it felt pronouncing my first coherent syllables
    So, I educated my senses, I recast them ~
    To see the world in a  kind of slow motion - embalming, preserving every moment in transit,
    To assign extraordinary significance to mundane acts and thoughtless gestures, to enhance every silhouette, every unnecessary detail
    To romanticise every ending, create poetry where it does not exist
    And whether or not we admit, that is what writers do.
    Today I am sixteen - uncivil and starved yet. But, I no longer fear forgetting.
    I fear being the only one who remembers.
    I fear if I was reborn, I would cry for the first time because I would still remember your name and you wouldn't be there. You wouldn't be there.

    iv) Sometimes in my juvenile itch, I just wish to sit with you in utter, devastating silence for a few moments -
    Feet hung over a creek, swinging in unintended synchronicity,
    Moments where, bearing no allegiance to gravity,
    In our little minds we're flying, we're free
    But since we cannot, let me tell you my favourite story
    The tale of love of Patroclus and Achilles  -
    A love that stirred the Heavens, shook the Gods, a love that rings for eternity -
    "They loved. They died."
    What then , was Achilles' true heel ?
    Aut shouldn't I say ~ the tale of love of You and Me ?
    The tale of love of You and Me.

    A poem of crime - a testament to the parts of me I have killed, so we can live || 25.11.2021

    ©_creatingworldsthatdonotexist_