Portrait of the artist as a 27 year old Greek-Cypriot young man

by Christos Polydorou


Don’t speak to me about sadness, on a Monday morning, the Monday before Christmas, for goodness sake. I do not wish to embark upon those blue, swirling, albeit seductive seas. I cannot condemn my vocabulary to all that water again, when time and time again I have been shown how long it will take to get it back. I need to remain on dry land today. Maybe even take the sky, for a while, if I may. If you would be so kind.  May I be honest with you? It is the middle of the night, and you have woken me up again. May I be sincere with you? I am tired of perfunctorily healing you. I am exhausted of being your quasi-analyst, because it is not even my area of expertise. I am not even sure how I got myself in this, tearing away parts of my body to make up for the ones you are lacking. Is this a mapping of care? That I should be whittled down from a sycamore to a toothpick to make you believe that I am interested in you? You are such a whirlpool for everything that I am, all scatter and shells now. You took and took, and you gave terror in return. I was wrong, I was right. I was wrong to think that I could help you. I was right to think I could not help you. I tried you save you from the hell of your mind but that demon in you or whatever wanted to keep on living. Even demons have survival instincts, can you imagine? It feels as if I am being skinned writing this. Understand that I can only do so much. Comprehend that I am only an instrument, strings, maybe some rose petals, and a few thorny leaves. See that I am a creature of nature, and I was only looking for someone to play with, not to bury me six feet under with them. Respect what I am, and me still trying to wrap my mind around all of the strangeness of it. Appreciate the fact that my role, here, belongs to a field much larger than who you or I are. Give me space to find what I could find if left to look. I am here for you even though you were never in the same room with me even when you were in the same room with me. I cannot remain broken hearted for things that I cannot change. I too have to stand back and look at the inevitable differently, so as to accept it, and end my spiritual suffering. Either my heart suffers, or art. It rarely is both.

Advertisements