Hephaistion

As with Yukio Mishima's sequel to Spring Snow, I am bitterly disappointed with Mary Renault's sequel to Fire From Heaven. The Persian Boy is written in first person, of the boy Bagoas. Whom Alexander took a liking to. I despise Bagoas for Hephaistion's sake. It's been a while since I care to detest any character in any book. But for Hephaistion, who's mantra for his beloved Alexander "Anything he needs, he must have." Hephaistion whom had been by Alexander's side since boyhood. Hephaistion, the Patroklus to Alexander's Achilles.

All I do as I read The Persian Boy is skim every page for mentions of Hephaistion. I could care less for Alexander now. Bagoas's jealousy give me mirth and indignation. Can't wait for Hephaistion to die, only to see Alexander lose his wits and then to read of Alexander's own death and be done with it all.

The last of the Alexander trilogy as with Mishima's teratology, I will likely put off. For there is no Hephaistion nor Alexander in it. The last book is of what ensued after Alexander's death. The power struggle. For being taken with Bagoas, I have dismissed Alexander from my graces. Golden one, you who continually shape Hephaistion's heart. How dare you. So why should I care for it then, the last book. Instead, I'll re-attempt The Iliad and then after it, The Odyssey. 

*sigh* This is me glorifying loyalty and Homeric love and being way too invested in quasi-fictional works.

Red One

The Red one who now suffocates in dilemmas;

confessional odes and oaths, 

proposals of loyalty and prosperity,

promises of virtue and valiancy; 

To whom will the heart bloom, 

finally plucked and pressed, 

To be cherished by only one?

Red one, your enchantment lies within;

A secret benevolence, 

A selfless forbearance,

You welcome the broken and mishappen,

You listen with eyes wide open,

You water thirst with fire,

You kiss lovers into martyrs;

Red one, we have tasted your mind;

A pool of silken dark,

A conflation of the sensual, the intellectual;

Subdued with secrecy,

Volatile with mystery,

Gentle with honesty,

Defiant with dignity;

But Lovers, we bed our words,

They come to you deflowered;

We Lovers, we steal our songs,

They come to you nary unsung;

The Red one, who now surveys her suppliants, 

turning beating hearts in her hands;

How to contemplate fate,

How to forsee destiny

How to crown victory; 

Red one, one last time,

          To whom will you gravitate?

"...great one, you who delight my heart."

And the rare instances of my actually wishing for something like this visits me. 

You who delight my heart.

What an exquisite expression of fondness.

Phantasm

It can't be wrong to desire a taste of another's mind? And then, having tasted it cannot bear to part with it...oh, folly.

One can have exceptions I presume. A weakness for some inordinate person or the other. A kind of love afterall. Although? Much too fanciful. Illusory and selfish more than it's professed selfless nature. A phantasm of the muse. An apparition adorned with ideals of beauty forged for the beloved by the lover.

I should know. I have been lost & found in such smoky terrain again and again. A trick of the heart played on the intellect. Because even in moments of absolute faithfulness for the said precious, the admirer fails to be coherent in terms of what they are willing to upend.

In the end, only an ideal image remains. The phantasm is then complete. Wholly unattainable in its bewitching, illusory realm. 

It's 3 am. One can get drunk from fatigue. Ignore me. I have not been in love in the traditional sense of the word. I write only what I recognise. Still, I have too much propensity for the fanciful.

Repentance

What gives? Your entire self-image, your very soul. Your trust in yourself. That is what gives when you dwell in the shadows.

Sometimes it takes a visitation of the wrongdoing to come into full realisation of its nature. Or does it?

Would a muderer having repented from his past, now restored to goodness be instructed to murder just one more time in his present state of repentance so that he may come to know the true nature of his past evil? So he breaks in his understanding and will never ever repeat his past?

No. One must learn to accept that one always have a choice when it comes to right & wrong. It is wisdom to recognize this autonomy when circumstance meets you and holds you at an impasse. Then it is strength to choose right over wrong. Finally, it is piety to remember exactly whom you wish to please: yourself or He who is nearer to you than your jugular vein?

I shrivel at my state. I must always know that I am as base as any ignorant soul on this earth. That I, am the bearer of my fate. What I do and do not do is who I am. And who I am will determine the end of my soul.

Wes Anderson

"Director dia style macam ni. Macam buku kan? Full-on narration." I commented as we watched.

"Ah! I know this. Macam bahasa Leana guna." She said, smiling.

I can only laugh. I never expected her to be perceptive of the 'sort' of language I use or do not use.

Acute

I feel singed at the edges. Like I've been burned by something white-hot and now am quite puzzled in the experience of unexpected pain. Well, it isn't a physical ailment per se. It's like being stretched thin, as if my endurance of simply being is taxed to the very last of its reserves.

It's what I always feel in those moments when I think I've talked too much. I become hyper aware of the amount of conversation I do. Usually quite suddenly.

But then again, it is only a very natural human experience isn't it? To feel acute loneliness in the presence of others. Sometimes, in mid conversation even. It is not as if I yearn to be understood by another. It's more of a long-drawn ache of being so separately individual.

A noble sort of suffering anyway. Quiet. Fret not, I am contented. Happy even. I simply recognise what is in my disposition; that is, to be simultaneously aversed & attracted to emotional intimacy.

Fogged up

I was inexplicably angry last night. Angry enough that it robbed me of sleep. So I read instead and it diffuses the uncalled for feelings. 

Anyway, it is cold these days. I peer out my window and it is all fog. An enveloping grey-whiteness that obscures all. The parks look unearthly, I'm sure of it. This kind of weather disturbs me. It'll pass. Noon would come and the sky will be visible for a while.

Caged. That is the feeling that revisits every once in a while. The spirit of the human soul is remarkable. How it endures turmoil and emerges always unscathed. Or seemingly so at any rate. If one could see the condition of the soul as one could the body, how terrifying. I am struggling to be good & give up things I know I should. What words are there for unspeakable turmoil.

I look forward to Ramadhan. I will strive again.