Modern Heroes

Theseus of the modern world, holding his gun up straight, aiming at the drugged Minotaur, whom he tied to the wall with unbreakable chains. The walls of the Labyrinth he tore down with dynamite, he raped and strangled poor Ariadne. Theseus of the modern world, he shot the king, left him to bleed and then watched the glory of Minos pour out from the open wound on his forehead. He flew up high and dropped the bomb on Minos’ palace, leaving the pure white stone engrained with blood, creating the dust rising up in the air, covering the white innocent clouds. The roar of the explosion spread like the plague, mixed with Theseus’ laugh; demonic cry sounded through the world of dusty smoke. He left the marvellous palace in pieces, destroyed, burned, bathing in blood, with Minos dead, Ariadne dead, Minotaur dead; he flew away in his machine of doom. The flowers never bloomed again, culture never thrived; only weed grew over the destroyed remains of the Labyrinth. As you pass it by, you can hear the helpless cries of demolished shrines and lore that is forever lost.

Prometheus of the modern world, launched the rockets towards the great palace of the gods. He stood on his destined rock where he caught, killed, cooked and ate the great eagle, making towers of death with its bones. Prometheus unbound, stood and laughed at the falling stones of the house of gods; their palace on fire, fire they wanted to keep so much. But Prometheus tore the rock and its chains, jumped down among men and summoned the fire he gave them. Fire woke up and flew to its master, leaving the world in darkness. And from the fire he gathered, he created a bomb; a bomb which he dropped onto the world, laughing with demons that began to cry upon seeing a shock wave that wiped out everything, until there was only desert left. Even death started to cry while Prometheus of the modern world flew up high in his fire-spitting machine and left us in pieces.

Modern heroes live with guns, bombs and destruction. They think they can solve all problems with their desired weapons, they are shooting everything, they drop their bombs on children and flowers, they eat our animals raw and alive, like some old primordial shamans of death, hoping to gain powers that we’ve lost to machines.

Modern heroes are not here to save us. They are here to shoot us and eat us.

The Age of Earth

There is certain silence; silence about the future. The earth trembles slowly, in silence, still unnoticed, still too calm. We can catch the movements if we listen with our souls; the earth shake, foretelling about the change.

Listen. See. Feel.

The Age of Water

What are all the wonders that the tiny water drops can do? They create seas and rivers, rain and endless ice. But they also create life, as life is forever connected with water and all of its blessings, and also with its rage. We always followed the water; if you wanted to find life, you only needed to follow the tiny water drops and they inevitably led to thriving cultures and beautiful sceneries of healthy crops, colourful flowers and rich wildlife. Water was also known by its primal, wild forces and the agony it created; but we admired it nonetheless. We learned that the way the water can destroy is unique.

Water was always renewing itself, somehow, magically. It always had the goods we needed, it was always on our disposal and we only wanted more with time. But, oh troublesome water, how magnificently could it trick us! We wanted to travel and it raged; we wanted it to fall and it hid itself far away; we wanted it to stay and it ran across the land; we wanted it to leave and it flew through us. Impossible to control, enjoying the hiding, the running and the raging. But our dependence on it grew and the water remained the same, so we got annoyed, mad at the youthful water, we cursed it, hit it, spat blood on it. Eventually, it fearfully retreated, sad and disappointed, thinking about what have we done. We didn’t care; after it was gone, we didn’t long for it for a while, but we soon realized what have we done.

The skies began to cry and darken; the water rippled and whirled, letting out screams and roars like war cries. It gathered all of its might and, over the night, it turned from a youthful player into a giant monster, a fierce warrior. The massive watery abyss ran towards us and the great skies opened up and poured on us. There was nothing we could do, only to watch as our temples sank, as our crops disappeared in the mourning waters, as our lives suddenly lost the breath under the crushing waves of death that could tear down mountains, flood the canyons and touch the skies.

It rained forever and the waves kept coming until there was nothing left, nothing but a small sanctuary at the highest peak. A sanctuary of life, it sent the news of the retreating waters and let the survivors flee where the land was still untouched by the primal rage of the water. We left our home, as it sank beneath us, as if it never existed, as if it never flourished, as if we never angered the playful water. We left it all and decided to start again, from the beginning, once more. Foolishly, we agreed to forget what has struck us, but we also understood that the water can be a powerful ally and also a fearsome enemy, thus deciding that we will never again make it our enemy, never again make it angry and never again make it sad.

The Age of Fire

Fire, man’s true best friend; a friend that gave us life during difficult times, helped us prosper, gave us warmth, delicious food and strength. We were also warned to use it carefully because, as it lights our way, it can also hurt and destroy whatever lies ahead. But, fire’s dangerous side was always beaten by its helpful one and so we kept the fire close to ourselves and it made us rise above other forms of life; the ones that did not made friends with the dancing flames.

As we realized the true power of fire, we had to learn how to keep it tamed, controlled; otherwise it could hurt all those who had not made friends with it, but also the ones who did. So we kept the fire secured, locked and guarded. It couldn’t hurt anyone and we used it when we had the need for it. But little did we know that fire, just like anything else, doesn’t like to be locked and tamed. Our ignorance didn’t let us realize that the fire we keep is becoming more and more sad, less and less content, more and more angry, less and less friendly. People that were guarding it tried to make it happy again, fed it daily, praised it, talked to it; but they didn’t realize that fire didn’t lack attention, it lacked freedom. Freedom was something that we got used to so much that we didn’t know something, like fire, misses it.  And although we fed the flames, their fury was soon out of control. We tried to calm the fire, but it only seemed to have made it angrier.

The day that the fire finally chose to act upon was indeed out of control. Fire broke out of our prisons, containers, shrines and houses and it started to spread, everywhere, like a giant invincible monster hungrily eating everything in its path. It started to fall from the sky like rain, it flew through the air like a flock of great eagles, it drained the land with its flow as a huge red river. The commotion and fear it created, caught us by surprise and we were not able to do anything; the furious flames raged on, devouring everything in their path, attacking other living beings and us, from all sides, coming out of all possible places, pouring out of every, even the smallest of holes. In desperation, we started to cry, as there was nothing else we could do. The flames raged next to us until they heard our crying and they paused to look at us. In one moment, the flames stopped and looked back, at everything they’ve destroyed and they felt pity and regret; they decided to stop with their raging destruction and let us put the fires out with our tears. And so we cried more, now with joy, and the fires were yet again under control, the land prospered once more and we got to a conclusion; we realized that we cannot close something as wild as fire and tame it to be our servant. We knew that fire will help us if we help it; if we let it roam and be free from time to time, let it pour out of the prison and be carried away by the wild, perpetual winds.

The Age of the Winds

The movements of the pleasant winds have always told us stories; stories of places that are far away, stories of times that are long gone. The wind can cross any mountain, sail across all the seas, bring the distant smells, the water, the earth, the fire. Along with their gifts, they can, however, bring the pain and awful stories of death. We listened to them whispering and upon hearing the stories of pain, we ran to save and help. The winds and their stories were our guides, telling us of the ones who need our help, giving us a chance to save them or at least try.

But one day, we decided not to listen. The winds cried out a story of suffering, but we were tired of saving, tired of listening to the winds. They cried a few more times, not being able to accept our decision, but then, they left. Finally alone in silence, we celebrated; we were free, able to do what we want, when we want it and all that just because we decided that we no longer want to know who needs our help. The winds were sad; they alone could not help, but only watch and cry for the poor and look at us as we danced with our backs turned to those that died. It made the winds more than just sad; it made them angry. They were here to carry the messages, the stories, the cries and the joys. So, first, they stopped carrying the joys. We didn’t notice there was something wrong, not immediately, but soon, we had no wind playing and dancing for us; the air was stiff, the water like oil, the crops withering like old men, bent over our fields. The warmth made us tired, the hunger made us desperate. Now, we were the ones that cried for help. But the winds ignored us, enjoying the view of us pleading for salvation, until they felt the sadness once more. Still angry, but sad, they decided to act.

It was the little breeze that woke up one of the last surviving men; a little chilly wind that started playing with our hair, surface of the sea, the wheat. And as the survivors looked up at the hills, they saw the glorious winds, coming along with the people that were once left to die by our ignorance; they were now coming towards us, with the winds, to help us stand once more. Wonderful storytellers and great speakers, the winds, once mad at our decision, destroying us with pure silence, now coming back to save our lives. They told us never to forget the mistakes of the past, but bring only the best of us into the future.

The Age of the Giants

Giants are always the first ones; running, across our lands, stomping, roaring, devouring. The unstoppable giants, always the first to come, first to live, first to destroy and first to go. But they never truly fade; their greatness is always here.

It is always at the time of giants that the story starts. They walk the Earth and their rulership, amazing and stronger than anything else is what fills the world with awe. They make the rules of the strength, rules of fierce power. Moving with the mountains, they move the Earth itself, along with life and pure existence. The land trembles at the mere mentoin of their name because it remembers how it once trembled while they walked.

Once before, when they walked, they were in all shapes and all of the gigantic sizes. They whispered to the Earth, they fed of it and lived of it. Their pleasant, long and mysterious lives were not questioned or seen by the eyes of the mortals. But there was more to life than that. The giants did not want anyone else to live beside them, so they stomped throughout the world in search of those that bothered them, the ones who tried to live next to them. And as they searched, so they found; they decided to destroy and devour, not caring about the consequences. It was against the path of time, but they destroyed and devoured everything that stood in their way, until there was finally nothing left but them. And the felt lonely for the first time in their existence. They experienced the loneliness in all of its power and they felt regret for destroying and devouring everything in their path. The giants were sad and angry with each other.

And so they set out for one more search; a search for redemption. They searched for other life, hoping there will be something they missed, another lonely soul, hiding beneath a rock or high in the trees, but there was none. And they sat and cried, asking for some way to make things right again. After they cried out all the tears, it was told to them that they cannot live with others. If they want anything else ever to live on this Earth, they must go. And they cried again. But, one day, they got tired of crying and they knew what is the thing they must do. Picking up the things they left, scattered around the world, they began a journey and left, leaving this Earth to others.

And in that lies their greatness.

Ages increased

Oh the time and the stones, forever entwined together, crying, living, dying together, while we are just passing by, neglecting their silent calls to tame them. But they will forever be around even after we fade.

The time will roll over the hills and mountains, pass the endless seas and engulf the world, over and over again, unstoppable and infinite. Circling, it gently flies among us, watches over us and never leaves us. The ticking clocks are its sound, even though time itself leaves no trace behind while it travels swiftly, passing us by.

The stones stand still, growing, decaying, falling as we stroll among them and their soft everlasting stillness. Proud and strong they will still stand, even after we are long gone. Slowly fading behind, they will survive and leave a trace, a mark, a scar in the Earth’s face, constant and silent. And we will pass them by, wave at them, use them, but their endless wisdom will survive.

Time and stones, unstoppable and still, swift and fading; although they are different, their connection is deep and endless. The time leaves the scars in the stone, the stone tells us stories about a long lost time. Forever together, like twins, they will live until the end of time and the end of stone.

And none bore a name, and no destinies were ordained

Do we think about the palaces? Do we remember the glory of the peaceful palaces that flourished, surrounded by the waves and surviving because of their mercy? Why did our souls fly so far away from the palaces? We long not for the peace; we seek to struggle. And as much as we struggle, the more the palaces sink deeper down towards the filthy mud, crying for the days of glorious banquets. 

Sometimes, if you listen to the silence, you can actually hear the voices of the ancients, when they shout, laugh, sing and dance during the glorious banquets; you can hear the clash of kylixes instead of swords and instead of blood, the wine pours down on the marble floors. Sometimes, if you look with your eyes closed, you can see the games of the ancients, their steps, their glory, happiness, achievement and the divine battle that does not involve swords; in their games, they worship the man as he is, they stop the war and they play together. Sometimes, if you read between the lines, you can read the lost lore of poems, still carved to our memories, somewhere deep down in our minds. But do we ever listen, look od read without using our five sense?

Our memories cannot be reached through the five senses. You can only feel them, somewhere, somehow, far away, out of this world.

When of the gods none had been called into being

The rising smoke and suffocating fires were the sign. But we somehow missed it. Would you worship the blazing flames? They cried for us just as we cried because of them. But we knew they are sacred. The light during the dark, death during apocalypse; the fires marked us as nothing else

We always knew that the gray smoke was never a good sign; after the smoke, we were overwhelmed by burning rivers of red fury that consumed everything in its path. Shall we cry? No, we should praise the stopped time and ponder about the burning crops, disappearing houses, asphyxiated men and learn the lesson; admire the flames from the distance. We tried to understand, to touch the very fire that kills, we wanted to be so close, to use it and everything that it offered. But once it got tired, weary from service, it exploded with rage, many times and stopped the time with its power. 

For so long we have been using it that we forgot all about its sacred lore; we don’t worship the flames, we use them as slaves. But all slaves get tired one day. So shall the fire.

And no field was formed, no marsh was to be seen

Forever in my dreams is the sand. Sand everywhere, like the ocean, burnt from the ever-heating Sun and with eternity carved deeply to its roots. The glimpse of it that I remember is so very strong that it blinds all other memories of mine. That endless sand built one of the finest achievements and left one of the finest examples of memories and monuments surviving together. Tears block my vision when I remember the sand and its history. The stones were so very bright and so sharp, new and shiny, waiting to be looked upon until the end of time. And still, they stand, old and dusty, but more glorious than ever; now they speak of the past that we have forgotten. They scream, but we can’t hear their voices. We are deaf and blind because of our greed and ignorance, and we don’t look with our eyes closed, we don’t read between the lines and we don’t listen to the silence. 

Their height penetrates the stars; and the stars tremble when they look at the sand. The shine of the stars barely reflects the real shine of the monuments; the shine of proud mysteries and the glow of immortality. And although they are far greater than the stars, they shyly point at them telling us countless stories of inexplicable legends and ages so remotely known, but so old that even the stars weep for them. Sometimes I wonder what was that great inspiration that led them, and me, to show respect to the stars through such remarkable deeds, far ahead of the time itself; to settle in that dry land of the sand; was it only the river, only the hunger, only the need to survive? Or was it something far greater, something unknown even to us, back then, something that can still be found, only if we look with our eyes closed, listen to the silence and read between the lines. 

Come to the sand and weep for us and our river and our stars. For they will once more know the pride that they once had. And the stars will twinkle stronger.