by Christos Polydorou
Imagine, being born in a field of gold and you spend your life being unable to see the gold, looking for something, not knowing it is gold you are gold, and also not seeing it there, at your spinning palms.
Wisdom is the father. We lost our wisdom teeth but we have honey-tongues, and when we speak, they call us ‘whimsically anachronistic with language’, but when we write, it is as if an angel has collided with the room.
Father is wise. He opens my heart, like a tiger-lily whose petals are touched stubbornly, by the sun. He opens my mind, to the world, and not what I expect to see. He shows me I am something, and then obliterates me against the very dynamite of myself, so that I remain, at best, a figment of imagination, to myself, to the world, to the fictitious and the non-fictitious in one.
In this way, I am not a lie to myself, or anybody else, and when my words are spoken, they are brutally sincere, so brutal in fact, that it pains me to write them.
But every artist has a high threshold for pain or else he would not be an artist.