the morning star

the morning star
I’m in love with the morning star.  (pt 1)

 

Love and sacrifices are only meant for mortals…

Those were fate’s plans for the prince. His aberrant behavior lead to something more than the insignificance of a dust speckle. Still…

The deep blue void has many laws, unknown to humans. Which all-living things have to follow. Only very few of them referring to earth and the contamination of it. Some of them are about the balance of darkness and light, but most of them are about the void. The nothing, the emptiness, containing everything – black, white, blue, yellow, heat, radiation and vacuum. The world of a star. Everything hostile to a human body and life.

But the prince didn’t know anything about eternal laws, nor about the world of the celestials. The star understood, but couldn’t tell him. Her voice would have made his heart burst and his blood boil. Her kiss would have iced up his lungs. Meeting, being together, loving each other was not possible. Not like humans are used to…

The mortal ways brought nothing but sorrow. The star has seen it so many times, failures repeated in every generation. Pain carvings in human hearts, ended in a blink of an eye.

Crushing down on him and his world would mean nothing but death, regrets and disasters. To keep him safe for now, she kept her distance. Knowing about the fickle nature of mortal love, she hoped the prince would be easily bored.

Days went by weeks passed, months run through his fingers. He waited for his star. Patiently, night for night, praying to be able to meet her, to hold her.

From time to time he dreamed about her. Which he saw as a good sign, that she cared, that his efforts were not in vain. Tough she never talked, but smiled at him, he understood that she cared. Even a tiny bit, she cared for him. Nodding, even reaching out for him, leaving him little gifts. The wing of a butterfly, a spider web, feather, emitting that gemlike glowing light. He was happy.

He wrote her poems, he begged her for a kiss, for a touch. She refused. Constantly. Time was all he had. The most precious thing on earth for a human. That was all he could give her…

Months transformed to years, and the prince only loved his star. Deprived from all human bonds, no one was willing to served the prince. And as his father, the king, died, the throne remained empty, the crown untouched. People suffered. Bit by bit the neighboring kingdoms took the land. The prince, the king, cared only for his star. Obsessed. With his love, his lust, his craving for her, with despair, and sadness… He spent his days in the highest room in the tower of his palace, studying the sky.

What good can any human heart expect, from the light of a distant star? Without returning affection, without nurturing – how long can it survive? Slowly losing warmth, slowing down, losing power. Weakening reality… Dreaming of that, which never could be.

Love and sacrifice are only meant for mortals. This would be second sentence of my life.

I am mortal.

I understand.

the name of the morning star

the name of the morning star
I’m in love with the morning star.

This is not only about me, my stories, or my search.

It’s about the sky and the stars, and everything behind that deep blue void. Behind that distance, the stone cold space, deprived of… meaning?

No.

That’s not right.

It isn’t the lack of meaning.

It is me, always ending up with the question after some sense. I keep missing it. Not the space. The sky above my head lacks a subjective viewer. Which is not a deficiency.

Well, how should I explain? I’ll try to make it simple…

I’m in love with the morning star. This would be my first line, if I were to sum up my life in three sentences.

All began with a poem I once heard, very long time ago. I can’t recite it to you. Different reasons. Firstly I was very young- too young to remember correctly, second – it’s in a foreign language I cannot translate properly.

The poem was about a prince, always looking up into the starlit sky. It was always a bright star, which attracted his attention. A bright star with light, sparkling like silver or precious gems, a fire, which he thought it, was different from all the others. That light touched his heart, and he dreamed, that that star was a beautiful woman with silver hair and a face white, shining like frozen snow in moonlight. Her glowing eyes made his pulse rush. And even before he could utter a word, he woke up.

For him, this was a sign. He knew that feeling inside his chest, the heat in his cheeks. It was called love. But of all things on earth, he fell in love with a star. He was happy, he knew love. But then he knew sorrow too. Day and night, he thought about those burning eyes, the white hair, the sparkling skin of her. The entire day he didn’t leave his new room in the highest tower of the palace, dozing like a cat, barely eating or drinking, spending the nights at the window, admiring the sky.

Oh, how he was jealous of all birds and insects with their ability to fly. He wrote poems, draw what he remembered of her, painted her face – trying to capture that unique fire.

Again he dreamed of her. His star. She had a sad look on her face. This time he spoke to her, recited a few verses from his poem. She smiled at him and nodded. “I love you,” he said, hoping for an answer. Her eyes brightened. He woke up.

 

 


– part 2: Love and sacrifice are only meant for mortals

bad guy good luck

Did you ever ask yourself, why the good ones get the kick in the teeth? And the bad ones get that friendly clap on the shoulder?

It´s what they wish for themselves. Fate is an ancient fairy godmother, with  bad hearing, and bad sight. Sensing only the subconscious wishes – I’m worthless, I’m repulsive, I want to die, I need to be punished, I don’t deserve this…

“Well, if you wish my dear. BAM!”

Your TV explodes. The car dies. You lock yourself out of your apartment. Your  promotion goes to the next best guy. Your boy/girlfriend leaves you with nothing than the bad milk in the fridge. Your cat runs away…  

– It stings. It does.

You don´t have to tell me! That slap on your face,  leaving a burning mark for months. And you feel like a kicked dog, left outside, wet, hungry and freezing. 

And there are others. Yes, others. Cheating, deceiving, blackening, badmouthing, shamelessly – effortlessly- falling up the ladder. Cashing in. Those bastards…

Look at you! You are either smiling or feeling disgusted.

the panther (by Rainer Maria Rilke) – and its claw marks on me

the panther (by Rainer Maria Rilke) – and its claw marks on me

His vision, from the constantly passing bars,

has grown so weary that it cannot hold

anything else. It seems to him there are

a thousand bars; and behind the bars, no world.

.

As he paces in cramped circles, over and over,

the movement of his powerful soft strides

is like a ritual dance around a center

in which a mighty will stands paralyzed.

.

Only at times, the curtain of the pupils

lifts, quietly—. An image enters in,

rushes down through the tensed, arrested muscles,

plunges into the heart and is gone.


 

This is one of the few poems – (the first one ever is “Evening Star” by M. Eminescu) that made a huge impact on my mind.

Enigmatically, it is naming the suffering, to that tiring state of restlessness. “The Panther” was leaving visible paw trails in the muddy unfree state I was forced to live in. The trail led in one direction. Slowly I followed, only to lose it… Watch it get washed away by the sea, the morning mist, or the approaching night…

Funny, how phases of my life perfectly resemble  poems. 

A similarity causing so much resonance within me – my personality/ego/self-image – so strong, so violent, that it endangered my sanity and the undivided-existence-of-everything-I-am. Responding to the point where I got nearly shattered…

 

The cracking sound was clearly audible. Not only for me, but for everybody else. Audible in every word I said, every day I lived, every move I made – if anyone would have paid attention…
If anybody had cared…
They would have heard the breaking, as a remarkably ordinary, high pitching and peculiar tone.
Sometimes a crackling in my nerves and muscles, sometimes a beacon of pure imagination focused to burn a hole into reality… A background noise in my pronunciation and language, mostly resembling to the chime of a distant banshee cry…
Nevertheless…
A broken lil’ me skating the edge of destruction, refusing to stop…