Asghar Abbas's Blog - Posts Tagged "2015-civil-twilight"
Deniz Kutluk
The moon, this waning moon, is sea's now.
But the sea isn't anything or anyone's.
They were both near the sea. Lingering at the water's edge. Hesitant, listening to the ocean, the sea held them both in its grasp. She was staring at the water, but he wasn't. Looking at her reminded him of himself. So he did that instead.
Windblown and coarse, in overlong loose fitting woolen shirt she was like her city. Near the sea but not nearly near enough. She turned to him- the other side of this dream.
He was her
- this is home, she said to him.
He spoke : I don't care if your words contain the sea, your name is fake though you're a fabulist. I'm not, I'm not the one nameless here. Listen, even though I love the way sunlight play off the back of your knees so slyly, just stop lingering. I'm so sick of getting things that are not you.
She spoke : I don't know about the details, as in so much comes to mind but what struck me as obvious and intensely was that this painting reminds me of you and the funny thing is you can be both the sun and the sea ; devastating and strong but ultimately brave. In a way that's real.
He softened, then he spake :
I am glad you live near the sea, so very grateful. But there is not much I can do about the sea that's devouring you right now. I am sorry. I am so sorry about the loss that's the sea inside you. Listen. Listen to those sounds, that's the sea wailing. I am so very sorry, my friend, but that sea is you.
And then she was gone; either the sea ate her, or she wasn't there to begin with. And there was no painting. Only an artist who couldn't paint.
But the sea isn't anything or anyone's.
They were both near the sea. Lingering at the water's edge. Hesitant, listening to the ocean, the sea held them both in its grasp. She was staring at the water, but he wasn't. Looking at her reminded him of himself. So he did that instead.
Windblown and coarse, in overlong loose fitting woolen shirt she was like her city. Near the sea but not nearly near enough. She turned to him- the other side of this dream.
He was her
- this is home, she said to him.
He spoke : I don't care if your words contain the sea, your name is fake though you're a fabulist. I'm not, I'm not the one nameless here. Listen, even though I love the way sunlight play off the back of your knees so slyly, just stop lingering. I'm so sick of getting things that are not you.
She spoke : I don't know about the details, as in so much comes to mind but what struck me as obvious and intensely was that this painting reminds me of you and the funny thing is you can be both the sun and the sea ; devastating and strong but ultimately brave. In a way that's real.
He softened, then he spake :
I am glad you live near the sea, so very grateful. But there is not much I can do about the sea that's devouring you right now. I am sorry. I am so sorry about the loss that's the sea inside you. Listen. Listen to those sounds, that's the sea wailing. I am so very sorry, my friend, but that sea is you.
And then she was gone; either the sea ate her, or she wasn't there to begin with. And there was no painting. Only an artist who couldn't paint.
