To a friend


The Drops of the sunlight fell on his night like hair dancing in the air, and his hands, with the gleaming reflection of the golden ball, opened the door. With gentle soft steps, he came forward indifferently, sat beside the window, where the only dark sides of the face, were covered with the light. He looked proudly with wide eyes, shining of pure blackness. Nothing could attract his attention particularly, nothing shone as bright as his face, but there was all blackness in his very person. He smiled egotistically at the girl he was talking to, “how arrogant he is” the girl thought, “what is there in him that has forced him behave in this manner?” she was not the only who suffered from his humiliating look.

He started talking and talking yet with self-regarding, what is he proud of, the girl could not find out but there was something in him, something unique, something gratifying, a thing of sublime a promising happiness that absorbed her in his words. She found the light pleasing and the darkness of his face delightful. She enjoyed his vivid description of his high character, though she felt he is boasting or in better words, admiring himself for what he hasn’t done. She glanced at him from head to toe; he was not a king not a prince and of nowhere a lord, but a simple human being with the good soul. He reminded her of Achilles when he spoke of glories he had made, an Achilles with the same pride. She thought, had he been thousands of years ago, he would have been more brutal than the hero. He was as hard as the gate of troy, but who could find a way to break it down, of course it is flexible, but how? How?

She was thinking of him as the devil himself who were kind enough, not to cease her life yet. His gloomy eyes wrapped her soul in his sharp black arms. She couldn’t move in his firm twine, she couldn’t breath; he was killing her. He fought very well in the battle on behalf of the devil, he could win him a glory, he was winning him the glory, he fought only with the hands of eyes, with no shield to be cheerful of, although he was Achilles he didn’t have the shield, could it be true-- and then how he did fight so bravely? There must have been something that she couldn’t think of. He looked at her once more, more effectively, more proudly and more decisive, grabbed her with his eyes threw her to the window and revolved her bloody body, in the air. When the game was over, he put her down on the corner, and looked at his victim closely, she stood and went out of the room dazzlingly, leave him with the darkness of his own soul.

He sat for some minutes looking at the wall, the white wall has become the mirror of his mind, he found himself in the middle of nowhere, and he was shocked, why she went? To where she went? Didn’t she learn from his words, of his hesitation ? didn’t she saw his bright shining soul? He found himself isolated with his passionate lonely heart, which no one could notice its softness, he was troy itself and destroying the gate himself; there was no need of the wooden horse, there was no need of Achilles, he was the Achilles of his own epic, he invited her with his warm flirting eyes, then what she was afraid of? Why she did that to herself? Something smashed her violently, but he couldn’t stop it. Wasn’t he Achilles? So why he couldn’t save her?

The tides of the melancholy pushed him far away from the beach of happiness, he found himself imprisoned in the hands of the sea. They expect him fight for glory: glory of whom; they want him to remain the hero, the hero of the nation, to bring home the victory. They want him to turn Helen back home, they are proud of his shield, they are proud of his bravery. “What bravery”, thought he? “Which victory”?” “Hero of which kind?” He was hiding behind that evil shining eyes, he found himself too weak to face it all in all, he killed and killed for it was the best veil, behind which, he could hide the weakness of his soul. He showed his very soul to others, but no one could see it through, they wanted him to be theirs not his himself. He was lost in the nation’s identity, couldn’t find his own, he wanted to be Achilles no more, but someone ordinary on the floor. Some one real, some one of his own, his own Achilles, hero of his own non-epic world.