My Writings

The Hidden One

Artwork: Teah Velizarova

Translation: Georgi Krastev

There is a place where ecstasy pours out onto itself, into rivers of gold into the throat of the Seer. I carry this place within, as I do my memories. I went through Hell, unmet by enemies, whom I could name, instead I encountered a quiet weathering.

The lips of my soul cracked, dehydrated, I found in myself a stretched posture, with dry eyes and a weak gaze. MY hands bore no fruit, but only woes instead. Among the embers and the charred shell, I felt a new demon arise. The seething fire drove his heart, I saw him rise alone – a giant in the darkness.

I received him in my kingdom of white marble where we sat drowned by sunshine. His unmasked ugly face – maybe my face. The staff he reclines on – maybe that is me. Maybe the Unseen One breathes and awakens in the pink veins in the marble, whose warmth is all-pervasive.

When I awake in the flower gardens, having come back from the uncognised fall I can almost sese Him – a barely detectable charge in the matter. This God whom I cannot name, who is beyond my perception, who hides in the desolation of the desert, whom I likened to no man, – it is He who weighs, light as a feather as He may be – on my soul, filling my existence with answerless questions.

When I fall asleep I leave my body to chance – unprotected. I see Him in the blotted language of dreams. There is no dew to flower their buds. Instead,, there is a dry suffocation. Illuions of the demon, who still dwells inside me. My eyes are plucked, he twists a towel round my neck and suffocates me into wakedness, and when I wake – I give thanks for being wake and having sight. I eek him in the signs He sends me, I seek the signs, I seek their causes.

The days grow cold, I forget the dreams and effortlessly slide into normal existence. With every dream passed, with every death – unreal, with every meeting with te demon I turn ever more into a child, who distinguishes good from evil with ease. The complex mind spills into the stupid mould and in the need for me to believe, and the more stupid I become the happier I grow.

Then the damned fear returns back inside me – unfounded, a chemical reaction in the brain. It makes me look for Him ever more zealously , to see Him as an algorithm, robed in the language of maths, as a hormone, spurring ecstasy, as a time traveler – I who contemplates with awe at my own humble inception.

When I wake in my baldaquin and gaze the world around me I discover I am drugged and faith is keeping me in His grasp- which I have no desire to leave. He will throw me once again in the time-space, unknowing. Does oblivion await me triumph?

People with crescent faces surround me, they reflect His light. In their deeds I see or look to see Him. Maybe I have my place somewhere among them. His paths are mysterious and even when I talk of them I do not know what I am speaking of and I wonder how would anyone who has not touched It understand?

There is a place where ecstasy pours out onto itself and then submerges me in sweet eath,, inhaled and exhaled with empty eyes, with muscles taught and relaxed, with wailing. My gaze – forever wanting, in this world and in my dreams, and post mortem, soars somewhere in the dome above, in the white-hot ray of light, in the centre of the golden flower and I ask myself: “Where is He?”.

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