East and West

'In my dreams I'm dying all the time'

East and West have never met before, past the twilight of the sun West never dares come to see me, it is all clouded in an opaque bliss of smile through long letters without any words, there's only a monologue between West and me - his disappointment is one that often shatters the window-panes of my going-through's and on the Holy Shabbat our words often never cross, weren't it for a certain day after the West failed to present his countenance in the earthly city of God, nowadays without God or owner - but then it was no bliss of happiness, rather the dreadful apologetic character of ignorance, ignorance of one's very self. The contempt that the West stores in my earthly home resembles that of a tree, whose beauty is so appalling that it can never grow, lest the sickly roses will devour him. But it is also the contempt of unfinishedness, and for as long as one cannot finish a work of art, he must constantly crave for the sight of the completed canvas but not altogether faithful, or even trusting. The West and me cannot trust one another, we've kept our minds in hell for long enough as not to despair anymore but this is no dialectical trick, rather a point whence one can never return but in the screeching noises of death. The West is poetry and reflection, the inner life of the mind and small details that furnish the atmosphere with enough beauty as to navigate through the Stygia without coming out smelly of sulfur. The West has too much sincerity, and I for one believe that lying in public is an assurance of your emotional freedom - that of betraying without having confessed anything. And those betrayals are necessary to live, so that one doesn't find himself as a 'cover-boy' in the newspapers without much of interest to say.

The East only knocks on the door at distimes, even before the West collided on my window, crashed one day and poured out such infame familiarity. One could never love the East, in spite of the nicest entreaties and jocous remarks. He is taller than an oak, yet part of it as though there were not enough smells in the world to be shared by all peoples.... The conversations run familiarly without much acquaintance at all, other than the passion that needs no death to find an uncanny end when a door locks, a door locks and opens no more. I hear myself laughing without ironies and rather out of embarrassment at my own situation all across the galaxy, from one point of the laundry thread to the other - cutting the earth in two hemispheres. My laughter is heard all over the place, so that no oaks take pleasure on it from behind their screens, it even reaches the Semite Europe, not taking much interest on the European one. This laughter is heard through the most conspicuous and childish anger of the West, and can only worsen the matters at hand, as though the laughter under the present conditions were a violation of the rules, a breach of a covenant made at the highest mountain. I can hear the West as he hears my laughter and I embrace myself with the East in the hipocrisy of a Kasandra, but with a predominantly ambitious and insecure male voice. The West remains in silence and so though his islands, they empty themselves out from lyrical ages and turn to the waters for oblivion's sake. The West then chases me into my dreams when the East can longer glimpse into me and deliver me from the murderous axe, but as yet the East and me conflagrate without singing songs and smoke, jabble quite humorously about linguistic problems and walk in invisible meadows all covered with the stained books that furnish my room with life, other than death.

The West doesn't answer to my laughter but rather collapses in sadness, proceeding into chasing me in my dreams and when we both meet at this dream where I die, no one laughs no more. The East cannot deliver me. I return to the West again, looking for Phoenix and sleeping away in the passivity of laughter - But I shall not knock on the Western gate no more, lest it be the gate of Hell or else that he will crash again into my window-pane and flatter fictiously without confessing anything. Odds are that it will unfold, but when not... There're so many stars out there in the West, yet none as badly plown. Morning has broken, no Eastern or Western star can be vantaged from here, but I'm afraid of my dreams; he might see me die again there. It seems our only leit-motif is not compassion from the community of believers but rather our own salvation as individuals and from the community of believers.