The skeins of silk



We are frightened of our hearts...the are mysterious beings...and harass us so much, that we don't know ourselves anymore


When I had said I’d give it up, when I had said I’d give anything up, for you, you had not believed me. But you had not said so either. That was a comfort, anyhow. Maybe, I just couldn’t stop myself, though I tried, for your sake. Maybe, we were entangled together like skeins of silk and you simply had to tolerate it. But I never wanted you to stay against your will. Oh, you would never understand. I tried. Hard too. Did you notice? Then why? I remember, the first day. For the first time, when the worn out threads of my frayed glove had intertwined with the two elegant threads hung loose near the hem of your skirt. And I had looked at your liquid eyes for the first time…they were so intoxicating…they had driven me to take the first drop of your divinely sweet soul.                                

I’m not giving an excuse though.                                                                                                         

…and then, the first pinch of ash from my cigarette had dropped on your shoulders. And I ever since engulf myself in that smoky cloud of my cigars…lost somewhere in some fantasy…but dear, in my close intoxicated circle, it’s only your face I see, your voice I hear, your aroma I smell, your touch I feel.                                                                     

Did he drink? Did he smoke? You only shook your head slowly, not wanting to talk about him. He was like you, right? Pious and guiltless. You were made for him, dear. 

Do these things need to be put to words at all?                                                                                                                                

But from all that has happened to us, I dare say that yes,                                                                          

there is no god in heaven. If there had been, he wouldn’t have made me for you.                           
He would have known better.                                                                                                                  

 I am right, about this one thing, and you are wrong.



The yarns of silk are like your tarnished hair; they are feathery, and they are minute, plenty; and they are glittering, like some silvery gold. And they are like me, handsome and vicious, impenetrable and baffling. The times I spent in clubs and discos, away from you, away from home, did I hurt you then? I wish you’d let me know. The things I did, understand me, were only a vain attempt to draw myself away from your munificent circle. I never liked your misery, which was not your own. I never liked your shedding tears for them. The strangers out there. If this was love, I doubt if it is healthy.                                                                                                                                                 

He would have stayed beside you, correct? His pale hands on your shoulders, his heart immersed in that same benevolence. How could he be so like you? How could anybody? It is very good for you to say all good people are taken away by god sooner than the rest, and it was well said for all I know, for you have experienced it all yourself. 

But you couldn’t have possibly known my envy for that angelic man.                                                                                                                                           
And by the way, there is no god in heaven. If there had been, he wouldn’t have made me for you.   

Oh, and you know that.



Strands of silk… strands of silk… were they knotted by us, or by the calamities of nature?                    

What is love anyway?

often felt that unerring gap between us…when during mornings you would hum softly, and I’d stand tongue-tied, fearful of offending you with my speech as much as speechlessness…when often I would feel separated, unable to understand you, and distant, not wanting to reduce our discomfort… bewildered by you…afraid I might do worse… and afraid you liked it as it is…when between strong moments of intimacy, I would get confused as to what I should say next, not learning your philosophy at all…can I still say I do…do love you?                                                  

You knew my reluctance, you knew my hesitation, and yet you remained unperturbed.  Perhaps the very thought of love was enough to medicate you in your lifelong penance. I sometimes wished, you know, that you weren’t so much onto god.                                                                                 

You wanted the three tenderest words to remain unsaid, and I wanted so desperately to tell you I loved you.                                                                                                                                    
You left me there as always, ill at ease, and still more in love with you.                                               

 He wouldn’t have felt this uncomfortable, would he? He would have always known what to say. Everything original in you would have been natural and praise worthy for him, yeah? But I am not him. You really should have thought once before throwing your lot in with me. I don’t know.

But this is god’s fault, if there ever was any. He should have exerted more of his virtues for me. Maybe he got bored. 

Just like that.                                                                                                

Do you really think there is a god at all? Is it not all by chance? He wouldn’t have, if he had been, created me for you.                                                                                                                

It all must have just happened.                                                                                                       

And you can’t argue with that, can you?



 I knew this would be our end. Everybody knew. From the first day, when because of the hazards of nature, the shimmering silks had interlocked with each other; we both had been trying secretly to pull them free. And can skeins of silk win against two young souls striving for the same end? They have been undone now, and you are happy, and that’s all the consolation I am ever destined to get.                                                                                                                                          
You now say god is the only goal worth attaining. I don’t reply. I always knew it was something like that. You now confess we had never really loved each other. I do not disagree. You decide to break free. I do not stop you. You walk out on me. I do not go after you. Not that I did not want to. Still, I sat mute, wondering distractedly if I couldn’t perceive our futures well.                                                       

To tell you the truth, I am okay with it.                                                                                                        

It was pretense. Awkwardness. Eyewash.                                                                                            

What does your god mean by all this? Is there a god in this universe? Are you sure?                             

Then ask him, what life is. And why.



I don’t know in whose hands my little romance will pass on when I and you would fade into the realms of mortality. That soul, too, would have known, he who reads me that day, from the very first, that this was the only end possible to my tale. And so did you.                                                             

But before you reject my voice as overreaction, listen to a word more.                                              

Yes, I agree. You were right. Like with every other thing you say.                                                

And I was wrong.                                                                                                                                         

Like in every other way.                                                                                                                           

I know. There is a god. A person like you couldn’t have been born by chance. You had to be made delicately. Deliberately. 

With lots of brain work.                                                                   

There is a god, who would not let me stop, who pushes me down the dungeon of sins, because ignorance is important to distinguish wisdom to deserving eyes. 

There is a god, who using my hateful deeds purifies you.                                                                                                            
(Do you think I do not know how much you hated my high volume music and upturned collars?)       

Yes dear, there is a god.                                                                                                                               

And I think I love that god                                                                                                                      

There is a god, who wants to keep me in myself, music and dance and wine, 
and all the dreadful things I do, to show you you could leave, and that I would still survive.                                                 
So, I love that god.                                                                                                                                    

There is a god, who weaved us together, like sweet skeins of silk, to show you how hatred is unsubstantial, and how you can love even the intolerable.                                                                       

So I love that god.                                                                                                                                       

There is a god, who let me love you a little, learn from you a little, know how wrong I was in everything. There is a god, a kind, kind god, who let me see you happy at last, who let me see the peaceful fruit of your penance, who let me see you bliss.                                                                                  

There is this kind, kind god, who let me remain hidden in your memory.

So, I love that god.                                                                                                                                 

Yes, there is a god in heaven, and he didn’t make me for you,                                                                   

and so I love that god.                  

Global Scriggler.DomainModel.Publication.Visibility
There's more where that came from!