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September 13, 2005
The Persians
I had just written the poem -The hour of ascent. It was more than a poem, it was a pleading. It was the cry's of a man who knew he would fall, and all his grace would be claimed by his urges. Urges so human, so fitting within the arrogance of his young life. I was standing at the tip of the cliff and beneath me was the air, the ocean and my fall, and I was at this knowingly. I had come for my fall. I had sinned before but not of this magnitude, never with such fervor. I had always wanted more, but never this much.
The boy grows to be a man, but he is not a man till he becomes aware of his limitations. I had not known my limitations, and I had always needed so much. To push further. Though conservative in all my elements, I enjoyed the lure of sin, and the depth it held. Now I had come to claim it. The opportunity was at hand, and I was eager. I knew, another step, and I would not know how to return, another step, and I fall. I had enough of living within the parameters of reason, I had enough of my middle class sensibilities. Not knowing who was my father, was it Cane or Able. One more step, and I would know. One more step and my life would be defined within the heritage of my tribe.
I had come to this of my own will, or at least I presumed so. I had always been my own man, even at the tender age of Four and five, carrying my big head on my puny shoulders, walking straight and stern. A friend told me later on," You never used to smile, you were so serious,". That was my sanctuary, where I crawled and stayed. It was my def fence, my armor, my solitude, and salvation. They would not have reached there and I was safe. The damage was done much earlier. Healthy as I might have looked, if you could look deeper within my eyes. only if I allowed you to tread closer, you would have seen the decay of a soul in pain. The helpless mutant that had crawled and stayed in me for years. Deformed and raw, with such thirst , such appetite. And yet I had concealed him within me, dancing on surfaces of every day living of a child. There is no pity here for me, I was blessed for my damage and even then I knew the extent of distances and differences.
The man prays to his God for allowance of sight, of knowing what he is not designed to know, and seeing what he should not. His God asks him if he could bear, if he could stand the severity of knowing , and the horror of unseen. To which he replies with such greed, such fever, not knowing the limits within him. So he is allowed, and he gets to see, and know more than he should, and the illusions bleed within the reality he adheres to and he loses both, what he knows and what he dares to know. I saw too much, and heard too much and wanted so much, and needed much more, and this all became a tender wound within my soul, and no healing in sight. No giving arms to hold, no bosoms to feed of, and the wretched quietness of days that dripped so slowly within my patience.
There was the dreams of rooftops, the two white toy accordions, for me and my brother, and my father who walked with his hands inside his pockets and his empty eyes filled with dread. Happiness was a game of hide and seek, a game we played. drinking the cold water after a long run, or hitting the ball to cross the lines. Happiness was easy, at reach. My mother, the most beautiful woman I've ever known, playing her own game of house. She walked around the house in her black ceremonial dress, and as she passed, I could hear how her heart was sinking within her chest and her pride was fading. And the displacement of our days, and the new beds we never cared to sleep in. as the security of the every day rituals were gone, and we were settled in unknown territories. Too young to know, maybe. But my eyes could see and my heart would ache. She was not there and I wondered, if The world would ever be safe again.
Posted by Idinraha at September 13, 2005 05:59 PM