The things I love doing and how love is only half of the reason why
by Christos Polydorou
So much rage in me, sometimes.
So much grief.
The rage and the grief are interchangeable.
I know what I am sad about, but what am I so angry about?
Is the anger personal,
or is it based on something that we share?
What is the zenith of the human condition,
dragging itself to its death?
I don’t want to die.
And then I remember everybody has to.
I want this to last forever.
And then I remember when everything – weather, family, the fact that I can’t land a publisher, my best friend – becomes a thing that wishes to hurt me, in a very cruel way. As if anyone deserves that from anyone, no matter what it is they did.
My work, that I could never find unbearable.
The taking photographs.
Those things could never be unbearable to me because I love doing them.
I should be grateful I have an imagination and creativity and energy and consistency.
I do. I am. Sometimes I burst into tears with gratitude. I don’t mind crying. I always could do it, even though I am a guy, as a little boy, and as anguished, now that I am a man.
But sometimes something so small would get me so angry.
I would lose my shit, entirely.
I’d catch myself in the act of shouting and think,
this is not who I am.
This is not even me reacting to a situation.
This is me literally embodying the very person I am arguing with, by becoming fire, to fight fire.
But I am not fire.
I am water.