«21»

Τα παιδιά της γειτονιάς παίζουν στο προαύλιο. Ήταν μία από αυτές τις πολύ ζεστές μέρες του Αυγούστου, όπου όλα λειτουργούσαν σε βασανιστικά αργούς ρυθμούς. Ένα λεπτό φαντάζει σαν μία ώρα και νιώθω όλο και πιο ανήσυχη.

Προσπαθώντας να ξεγελάσω τις σκέψεις μου, συγκεντρώνομαι στις φωνές των παιδιών. Καιρό τώρα προσπαθώ... Προσπαθώ να ξεχάσω τι συνέβη γιατί όσο τριγυρνούν οι αναμνήσεις στο μυαλό μου, βρίσκομαι σε σύγχυση και νιώθω εγκλωβισμένη, και μέσα μου φουντώνει μια ανάγκη να γυρίσω τον χρόνο πίσω, και να βρίσκομαι εκεί, τότε, πριν συμβούν όλα αυτά, πριν την κατάρρευση, πριν την λεγόμενη «Αναγέννηση», πριν χαθούν οι αξίες, πριν βρομίσουν οι ψυχές των ανθρώπων από απληστία, πριν ποτισθούν τα μυαλά τους από εξουσία. Με πλημμυρίζει νοσταλγία για την εποχή όταν η ζωές μας ήταν πλούσιες μέσα από την απλότητα τους.

Τα παιδιά της γειτονιάς παίζουν στο προαύλιο. Οι κραυγές τους τώρα, πιο κοντά από πριν, καλύπτουν τον χτύπο του ρολογιού που είναι κρεμασμένο στον τοίχο. Οι φωνές τους εισχωρούν στο δωμάτιο σαν μία πολύχρωμη συρροή από νότες που σχηματίζουν μια εκστατική μελωδία, οδηγούμενη από έναν επίμονο ρυθμό. Έναν ρυθμό που τον έμαθα καλά, και πού ακόμα και τώρα, μετά από τόσο καιρό, μου προκαλούσε ρίγος.

Έκλεισα τα μάτια μου.

Έναν ρυθμό σχεδόν αγχωτικό, γνώριμο, που με ταξίδευε νοερά σε σκοτεινά μέρη, υγρά και κρύα, όπου ο συνεχής ήχος της σταγόνας που έπεφτε από το μουχλιασμένο ταβάνι σχεδόν με όδεψε στην τρέλα.

Τα παιδιά της γειτονιάς παίζουν στις αυλές των σπιτιών. Πολλές φορές μου συμβαίνει οι καθημερινοί θόρυβοι της πόλης αυτής να με μεταφέρουν εκεί. Πώς θα μπορούσα να ξεχάσω; Δεν μπορώ, απλά το αποδέχομαι σαν παρελθόν. Ανοίγοντας τα μάτια μου το αποβάλλω, ξέροντας ότι αυτή η εφιαλτική περίοδος τελείωσε, και ότι τώρα βρίσκομαι εδώ.

Κοιτάζοντας γύρω μου, παρατηρώ το δωμάτιο για πολλοστή φορά. Παραμένει το ίδιο φθηνό, ταλαιπωρημένο δωμάτιο που μου έχει υποδείξει η κα. Λαγκάρντ ως την πλέον «εστία» μου με τα παλιά έπιπλα, τις πυκνές κόκκινες κουρτίνες, το ξύλινο ρολόι τοίχου, και το δάπεδο από φθαρμένο παρκέ. Δεν θέλω να είμαι εδώ. Ο αέρας στο δωμάτιο είναι βαρύς και καταθλιπτικός. Ανασαίνω λες και βρίσκομαι σε αυξημένο υψόμετρο. Από την στιγμή που τελείωσαν όλα ένα χρόνο πριν, και μου δόθηκε στέγη σε αυτή την γειτονιά στον Ανατολικό τμήμα της πόλης, είμαι κ’εγώ ένα ακόμα κομμάτι του συστήματος, ένα ακόμα γρανάζι, ένας ακόμα «καθαρός» φάκελος στα αρχεία της «Παράταξης» μετά τον ανασχηματισμό και το καινούργιο status quo της σχεδόν οξύμωρα φερόμενης «Αναγέννησης» που έχει επιβληθεί στο λαό. Η «Αναγέννηση» που επιδίωξε και κατάφερε να σπάσει τις ψυχές των ανθρώπων και να τους στερήσει την σκέψη και την συμπόνια.

Τα παιδιά της γειτονιάς που παίζουν στο προαύλιο παίζουν σε δύο αντίπαλες ομάδες, και η μία φωνάζει ταπεινωτικά συνθήματα στην άλλη, χρησιμοποιώντας γλώσσα σκληρή και προσβλητική. Είναι κουβέντες ενηλίκων με παιδικές φωνές.

Τα παιδιά της γειτονιάς όμως δεν παίζουν στο προαύλιο. Και αυτά τα παιδιά δεν έχουν παίξει ποτέ. Θυμάμαι πόσο διαφορετικά ήταν τα πράγματα όταν ήμουν στην ηλικία τους και θλίβομαι κάνοντας την σύγκριση. Έπαιζα με τα παιδιά της γειτονιάς στις αυλές των σπιτιών. Αυτή είναι ίσως και η πιο ουσιαστική πλέον διαφορά των γενεών, υποκινούμενη βεβαίως από την Παράταξη. Παρατηρώντας τα, η συμπεριφορά τους δείχνει άγαρμπη, άγρια και σχεδόν φυλετική, επιθετική και ανταγωνιστική. Οι κανόνες έχουν ως βάσει την επιβίωση του ισχυρότερου, σωματικά αλλά και λεκτικά. Η πιο αδύναμη ομάδα αποχωρεί με κατεβασμένο το κεφάλι και πεσμένο ηθικό, η οποία θα πρέπει να υποστεί μία εβδομάδα χλευασμού από τα υπόλοιπα μέλη του οικοτροφείου. Από την πρώτη κιόλας μέρα τους στο ίδρυμα, τα παιδιά αυτά είναι εκτεθειμένα στην ανέχεια αγάπης και στοργής, ανέχεια ζεστασιάς και αλληλεγγύης μέχρι τα εικοσιένα τους χρόνια. Απλόχερα δε μοιράζονται η αυστηρή πειθαρχία, η ρουφιανιά και ο ατομικισμός. Εκεί λοιπόν, στο «21» της Δυτικής γειτονιάς, ζουν και φοιτούν όλα τα παιδία μεγαλώνοντας με τις νεόφερτες αξίες της Παράταξης.

Και έτσι επιτυγχάνετε ο σκοπός. Ότι στην δικιά μου γενιά κατάφεραν να καταστρέψουν και να ισοπεδώσουν, στην γενιά αυτών των παιδιών δεν υπάρχει καν για να μπορέσει να καταστραφεί.

Ζήτω η «Αναγέννηση».

Και τώρα η κα. Λανγκάρντ μου χτυπάει την πόρτα.

"Ναι Κα. Λαγκάρντ, ξέρω. Θα κατέβω σε λίγο να σας τα φέρω".

Θέλει την εβδομαδιαία δόση της εστίασης μου, που αυξάνετε κάθε μήνα όλο και περισσότερο καθώς η Παράταξη την 'χρειάζεται'. Είναι σαν να την ακούω για άλλη μια φορά:

"Ακούστε δις. Χελλάς. Η αυξήσεις είναι με βάση του συμβολαίου σας. Σας βοηθήσαμε όταν μας είχατε ανάγκη για στέγη, αφού η κατάστασή σας δεν σας επέτρεψε να μείνετε στο Δυτικό τμήμα της πόλης, εσείς μας ζητήσατε να σας παρέχουμε το πακέτο στήριξης, και σας γνωστοποιήσαμε και τις συνέπειες και τις υποχρεώσεις σας στην συνέχεια. Και μην μπαίνετε στον κόπο πάλι να ρωτήσετε προς τι οι συνεχείς αυξήσεις. Η Παράταξη τις χρειάζεται. Με ακούσατε;"

Ναι, την άκουσα. Εγώ όμως, τι χρειάζομαι; Δεν ακούει κανείς.

The Forest of Forever

So she walked a whisper like walk, weightless and wistful, as her white gown trailed behind her frail footsteps. Her head hung low and the usual sea of thoughts filled her mind. It was no wonder she could not hear the sound of her feet or the rustling of leaves; voices muffled and reverberant, a multitude of shrieks and woes, of secrets and confessions. For the all of eternity this would be her price to pay, in the conscious awake part of her being, in penitence, in restlessness, in the prison of her mind for the crime she had been condemned of. According to her impious fate, now, as it was written in the Scrolls of the Stars, she roamed the Forest of Forever, searching for questions she only knew the answers to. ‘Balance’. She sought the equilibrium of Balance.

The voices were never discernible. The voices were always there. Day in, day out. Her dreams were her only haven. She solaced in the revelry of her subconscious escapades where she would be free from fear, free from frustration. ‘In Somnii, Veritas. Per Somnii, Libertas.’ She had no other place to go than to retreat to her core at nightfall, in the midst of the Forest and seek redemption for her scarred soul. 

On a typical day she would hear four, all caught up in argument and in contradiction and debate on a variety of issues and amongst each other. On good days she would hear conversations of three and their vehement ramblings on intense sentiment, on hopeless romantic antics, and on the power of unrequited love. This had an acute comic element which she found endearing and actually barely dared to admit that she enjoyed. She would always smile on those days. On the worst days however, there would be only two voices, one of a victim and one of a tormentor. The victim would often change, but the tormentor was the same. The tormentor’s voice was the only one that occasionally haunted her subconscious being. The high-pitched shrill voice that made her eyes stream with tears and her hands feel as cold as ice, was always the same. On the bad days and on the bad nights.

After the bad days, the bad nights ensued taking the form of nightmares beyond precedent, images of torture and suffering, sounds of shrieking metal and scorched skin in Winter's baneful time. Cries of lament and fear and grief, yells of yearning and screams begging for forgiveness and mercy that never came. Why was there such wickedness in this world? Was it necessary to experience the pain and anguish as a way of identifying the good and virtuous and happy? She felt tired and exhausted.  She wanted all of this to go away. She wanted everything to be pure and pristine and primeval for a change. However, she had long ago ceased to question the reasons behind this faltering fate of hers. In Limbo, each suffered their own anguish for their sins of Yore.

Yet, there was a way. 

In the days that followed the bad nights a reassuring calm prevailed in her mind; absolute silence. These were the days she treasured, when she could hear the rattling of the leaves by the gentle gust of the wind, the ripples of the water at the riverbank as she ran her fingers on its glassy surface while gazing at her reflection. These were the few days when she remembered what it was like for her pale face to be graced by the warm rays of sun light, when she could hear not internal sounds, but the sounds of the Forest of Forever. Home to others apart from herself, on these days she longed for contact with sparrows and robins, with deer and fox, but most of all, with the Gray Wolf. There was something familiar about him which she yet could not place as he kept his distance and observed her from afar, from the other side of the river. She had not crossed the river. Not once.  Not yet. Could it be that there lay the questions, to which she knew the answers? 

She had not dared because the North side of the river was a most unwelcoming land. A land of great wilderness and dense woodland, where the trees were the tallest she had ever laid eyes on and the rough landscape was barren and at the peak of the mountains above the trees' canopy, almost lunar. She feared that was the place the voices in her head emanated from as she felt a jolt of alarm each time she approached the silver waters that separated the two banks. But perhaps, perhaps, she should make an attempt to cross. There is nothing left for her on this side, no questions to answer or codes to decipher, no balance to be restored.  

The key to the equilibrium lay over there, she was now convinced. 

And yes, for the first time on the next full moon, she would cross. 

From the Skulls to the Stars, and all the in between.

Title:  From the Skulls to the Stars, and all the in between.
(From Death to Eternity, and all the in between is Life. The Life we choose. )

Claim: Let us make the hypothesis that Dracula was in the know: “The blood is the Life.”

Assumption? I assume that: The Bones is Death, and the Spirit is Eternity.

Conclusion: Do not fear death, for it is the stimulant of our vitality and fuels an ardent desire for the Life. Do not ignore Life, for it is what will enrich our soul and galvanize our Spirit for Eternity.

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Abstract:

I fear Death because I don’t understand what happens after it pays you the morbid visit. It is not so much the act of it, but the aftermath of it. I fervently resist accepting that our time in this universe, our Life, is but a speck of dust in the wind, or a drop of water in the ocean. It seems too short to make good use of it. How can I possibly make the most of it? How can I even aspire to attain “the good life“ in the Socratic context? Unfortunately, I am not convinced this is possible for all people.

So you have once shot, one chance, to use the tools and opportunities wisely and to your advantage and there is no operating manual. You make choices and take decisions which have consequences that often snowball and show you how life is never without a sense of irony.

Keywords:  Karma. Nemesis. Divine Justice. Fate. Destiny. Luck. Religion.

Notions that indicate powers exist beyond the grasp of man.  Some refuse to believe in such 'rubbish'. The argument is that these concepts exist to comfort the weaklings, the frail, the little people who cannot bear the burden of their own actions weighing down like lead on their shoulders, or to act as doctrine and to deter them from harmful actions, through the fear of retaliation. These disbelievers are assured that Man can make his own destiny if he seizes the day and conquers his fears, and thus engraving a bright journey in the sands of time.
Yet I find it selfish and utterly egotistic for any man to make such claims with an air of vanity and the tone of affectation dripping from his lips.

'Stick it to the Man.'

I am not religious because I neither believe nor disbelieve in God; I neither believe nor disbelieve in Aliens as Man would depict them either. I would like to keep an open mind about both convictions and not take sides, just yet. I have not seen nor felt any proof of either's existence in the 28 years that I have been breathing. Besides, I am fond of the thought that I am way too young too delve into Cosmological discussions. Such matters are more fitting to be discussed by wise, elderly men with spectacles and long Gray beards over glasses of aged and glistening Cognac. Hmm...the portrait of the wise old man reminds me of something... Keyword: God?

Overriding Keyword: Proof.

I like proof; it makes things easier for me and I find comfort in it’s simplicity. It renders the hard cold evidence or facts that compel the mind to accept an assertion as being true. Belief is not part of any scientific equation; belief is not knowledge or truth, and truth is never a belief. This is one fundamental element in the branch of philosophy that is Epistemology but I am neither a scientist nor a philosopher. All I know in my heart is that fact and evidence is cold and servile to proving a theory.

Belief, now, that is warm and passionate and full of energy. Whether it be belief in some things that cannot be evidenced like reincarnation, like the fields of Elysium, like metaphysics in general or whether it be in some things that are frequently all around us but we sometimes cannot see or grasp them such as love, hope and dreams, belief in others and belief in yourself.

Epilogue:
Because you cannot prove something does not necessarily make it less real, less true. To believe in something that is dear and close to your being, that helps you become a better person and makes your actions have a higher less selfish purpose then it is enough for it to be real and true to you and that is what enriches your soul and spirit. It is all those things that will help you attain a worthy ‘in between’ from the skulls, to the stars.

Bibliography:

"Nothing as mundane as mere evidence can be allowed to threaten a vision so deeply satisfying." Thomas Sowell.

No Time

'No time.' For something as perpetual as time, it's so contradictory to never have enough.

Time is one of the few perpetual notions that humans have identified as part of our own need to comprehend life. The universe, the world, our world, our existence is shaped around time. Antiphon the Sophist has said that "…time is not a reality (hypostasis), but a concept (noêma) or a measure (metron)"; a concept to help us bring a metric order to Chaos, with the general consensus relating to its introduction being after the Big Bang.
It is intangible, it is relentless, it only moves forward. The glory of the present moment only lasts for a fragment of time, and each moment is experienced for its brief existence, then it belongs in the past and a new present one takes it place. A continuous sequence of present moments, that creates its relative sequence of moments-of-gone, leaving a trail of events called ‘Past’ behind for the little Hansels and Grettels to find in the ‘Woods of Forever’.

The brevity of the life of the present moment is harsh; or convenient; I cannot decide. Or maybe I do not have to decide if I agree to accept that time is relative. Funny how time flies by when you’re in a state of elation, where one hour can seem like a minute; awful how it can also run slowly, when each tick is laden with torment when you’re experiencing a personal disaster, or when you feel you are dancing with the devil.

We are told that time heals; it acts as morphine, numbing your inside, emptying the mind, easing bad present moments that are now past ones, the past-er they become, the further away you hear the echo of the door being slammed in your face, the shattering of your broken heart, the wailing of your voice at that accident, or the regret in taking the wrong decision. Got to have the morphine. Gimme it.

But let’s suppose no one gives you the drug. Let’s suppose you have no choice but to surrender to the despair of a bad present moment instead of trying to tip toe over it, or brushing it under the carpet. Have you ever thought of the possible positive future outcome that can emanate from a presently obliterating miserable moment? Probably not often. Because it is common practice to want to be done with the bad moments that occur in your life span, instead of deliberately choosing to be immersed in a sea of woe that you cannot avoid anyway. If you view it as a way to find out your limitations, test your breaking points, to see your reactions and how you can better yourself, then perhaps it is worth choosing to explore. Deal with it, head on head. Face the fear in all its dark glory, and you can only be victorious as you will have learned something about yourself.
And time of course will not let you revel in misery for long. As soon as you start to enjoy a different more resilient side of you, the status quo will change and you are called to adapt to new circumstances again, paving the way of a healing process of vanquishing demons and spiritual deliverance as a cathartic rain begins to pour.

We will always have enough time if we know how to use it to our advantage. The universe will conspire to aid people who do not fear themselves, and who are willing to find out how deep the rabbit hole goes and if in fact they want to find the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, or if it will just suffice for them to ride it and experience the magic of its colours.

I Cried Wolf

Last night it was cold. It was freezing. The snow kept falling and falling, and as it continued to fall for hours, it weaved a thick white blanket that covered the landscape. In the wooden cottage, it was warm; warm and safe and lonely. The cries of the pack outside haunted my mind, painted disturbing pictures, images of pain and longing and yearning. My body begged me to stay indoors, by the fire, to fetch more wood, to cuddle up in front of the flames and relish in the feeling of safety. Yet my mind traveled fast, beyond the cottage, over the white blanket and into the woods, following the howls. But I stayed; I stayed until I could no longer hear the calling, the beckoning. And then I slept.

I woke. The rug I lay on was damp and the fire had gone out. I had no idea what time of night it was. I looked outside, and it was day. The sun shone against clouds that filled the sky. It was glorious and cleansing. The snow fall had stopped and already the blanket had been unraveled and the greenery emerged from under it in abundance.

I ran out to fence off my demons, to show myself to the day, to be liberated of my hauntings. Yet I could still hear the cry. It was a different one this time. One that did not torment me, one that made my mind and body want to run and greet it.

And it's source came to me, endearing and full of hope and with yellow eyes that promised me the world. I kneeled. Contact. Thick grey coat, and a soft undercoat gave him bulk, although he was only a pup, playful and energetic. He licked my ear as I hugged his head in my chest. I laughed. It was a moment worth last nights' torment.

And then a haunting howl again, summoning him away from me. I saw the sadness and fear in his golden eyes. They widened, he blinked and then looked down. He let me hold him for one more moment, then retreated. He ran, leaving me there in devastation. He ran paced and with rhythm, as if to the beating of a drum. A drum roll.

I followed, I pursued him in the woods, trying to track his fresh prints in the left-over snow. They say that the chase is often better than the catch, and I wish I could have kept chasing, searching, wondering instead of having found my 'catch'. Blood, violently scarlet against the purity of the white ground it covered. He lay there still twitching, sobbing a low pitch growl, in pain, in agony, but not in doubt. He knew why, although I didn't.

Tears streaming down my face, heaving and sobbing, I could taste their savor in my mouth. I caressed his soon to be lifeless body and repeated a chanted whisper "I won't forget you, I won't forget you.." He looked at me one last time, and through his auric eyes I could see his soul, bared..."I know" he replied, "I know".

I did not cry Wolf, instead I cried for my Wolf.

A triumphant light, in everyone

...The time has nearly come for the eternal moment, the triumphant light, the divine birth, and the shining star, to shower us with all their luminous force.
But on the night of the Eve of Christmas, it is said that winter spirits and creeping creatures ascend from rocks and caves, to feed on fears on mankind, the fears of men with darkness and greed in their hearts.
The chance to transcend time was one of the wonderful, yet ambiguous offerings of solstice darkness; at that pivotal moment, men might see into the past and glimpse the days to come. A man might see the shades of those who die in the new year, but among them, he may also see himself.

It is this greed, this human curiosity that often overrode folklore intimidating legends and led to men secretly seeking out an encounter with the ghouls and ghosts of Christmas.
The ghosts entered the houses of their descendents to feast on the offerings left for them and make merry in the night; they gathered in deserted churches at midnight on the Eve. To see them was dangerous, because they were so eager for mortals to join their tattered company; yet there were those who braved the churchyards for the sake of a taste of forbidden knowledge...

Don't go searching for answers of questions that are not yours to ask. Be thirsty, but in the right places. Be less greedy, less selfish.

Embrace the darkness inside you, only to realize that you have a light that glows stronger still.

Merry Christmas, xox Ra-Ra

The two hemispheres

I take my coffee black, no sugar, no milk, with a splash of cold water at the rim, so I can taste the invigorating aroma that already fills my nostrils without further delay. This is a predictable, self-inflicted habit circa 7.30am on weekdays that exhilarates the mind and triggers the conqueror in me to 'Carpe Diem'.  

I applaud simplicity when I see it, I relish it, I revel in it. Nothing simpler than a black cup of coffee. Check.

In a day that could hold many intricate patterns of behaviour, of events, of sequences, of randomness, these will remind you; will jolt your gut, will make you realise that when you strive to control your trepidation to be able to predict situations before they develop, is in fact a justified one. Control, what control? Control of a routine? No, that would be utterly boring, to the point of a predetermined mental death.

However, even in routine, I find consolation in the fact that things can just happen or not, and do or don't so totally beyond my sphere of influence. Although this frequently frustrates the rational, commonsensical hemisphere of my brain, the rash, rebellious, restless hemisphere is in subconscious debauchery.


The battle between these two parts is constant. In conflict, in contrast, what you feel compels you to act, but what you think compels you to hold back.

Driven by a need to feel protected, safe and secure, your choices may lead you to have a comfortable life, with a house overlooking a calm and tranquil lake. Where the water is crystal clear, as glassy as a mirror, and there isn't a ripple in sight. Breathe in, breathe out....yes, how lovely. How long til you suffocate in the want of air, the lack of a wind gust to tickle the water's surface? A throw of a pebble to add to the timid lake-bed below?


How long til you crave the turbulent sea, with its violent crashing waves, its storms, its force, its hidden mystical depths?

Not long...look out for the signals 'you' send up in smoke for 'you' to see.


Ra-Ra

"Under water where thoughts can breathe easily
Far away you were made in the sea
Just like me"

"Psychic changes are born in your heart entertain
A nervous breakthrough that makes us the same"


 - Red Hot Chilli Peppers