“Έτσι πρέπει να ράβονται οι σχέσεις κι οι εξαρτήσεις, με αραιές, χαλαρές βελονιές, για να μπορούν να ξηλώνονται εύκολα.” – Σκόνη, Κική Δημουλά
*****
I know of too many ropes that were once tied together on both ends, I know of too many double knots that have come undone only on one side of what once seemed a mutual bond. I saw people ride cars together, fast as the speed of life, gliding down and climbing up that scale of feelings that has too many shades for the sun to capture from dusk to dawn, too many shades for the sky to dye itself into from sun to storm.
But in the end, there’s always one person crashing into themselves. There’s always one victim when the lights go off. There’s always two people, in the shared darkness of two separate rooms, wondering whether they are victims in stories that could have been woven together, yet have disgracefully snapped apart.
Stranger, there are no heroes in forgotten stories. There are only the tired heroes of fading memories, only the tired heroes in the shared darkness of two separate rooms.
*****
I knew you were falling too fast when I saw you tie that knot. I told you to fasten your seatbelt, to hold on to your constants like your life depends on those immovable stars that are pinned to the sky just like our photo is still pinned to my wall. I told you to hold on to yourself like you hold on to those illusory yet deep-rooted dreams.
Sometimes there’s cinematic light projected onto life and I warned you it’s distorting, I told you to resist suspending disbelief. You resisted my precautionary tales instead, and I liked you for that. I liked the way you would not lose faith in madmen, how you would not lose faith in all those useless things that nobody broke, but which got broken anyway. I liked the broken side of you – the strongest side of you – which did not mind risking repetitive breaking. I liked the way you patiently, delicately treated those wounds after words were fired like knives, how you polished conversations in your diary after tears had washed away the bitterness. I liked the sea raging in your eyes as you recalled stories of knots pulling apart, laughing, always laughing it off.
I liked the soothing tone of your voice, with all its waves and shakes and breaks, with its occasional laughter and occasional cough.
As I listened to the waves of your voice, I felt myself reaching out to tie a knot. I pulled myself back on that very night and still don’t know if I was right or wrong.
*****
The day after that night I went on a long, solitary walk. I walked across the river, I imagined the water washing away the knots, I imagined all the pieces of loose rope scattered in different ends of the shore. I dreamed of the sea tangling different pieces together after a wild storm.
*****
There are waves in your eyes. I know because I have seen mine in the mirror, so I can confirm. And I know you are detached, but at some point you must have tied a couple of knots. Stranger, if I never see you again or if our next encounter is simply a cold ‘hello’, I want you to remember one thing. There is always loss in whatever’s breaking, there’s always loosening knees. But there’s also the soft power of water, the strength of more neatly tied knots as we learn to pull sometimes together and sometimes apart.
*****
“May whatever breaks
be reconstructed by the sea
with the long labor of its tides.
So many useless things
which nobody broke
but which got broken anyway.” – Ode to broken things, Pablo Neruda
Rational Artist 