I, God, and the Creature

Updated: 6 days ago

A reflective Essay

1. God

At a train station, I looked up, and thought of the elongated metal structures, embroidered like spider webs, especially the forcefully contrived ones that could not reach their flying prey, but on the contrary, were embellished together only for the sake of symmetry. A faint sigh to the dome of the sky towards the unreachable pursuit of God; like Gothic churches, whose skeletons were carved for high reach, with the laughable ambition of touching the holy trinity - the magnificence of metallic riddles.

While holding my head high, I began to shrink, and shrinking under this noble dome of thought, the following dawned upon my eyelids: How small is the man, and how heavy his ambition? Or perhaps there is no greater testimony of our despair than this? The solidification of our uncertainty around the ever-existing question:

  1. Are we merely a divine hiccup? A whim of the Almighty? Or part of a sick tetrad drama, entitled "The Genocide of the Apple, adorned with the Woman's mouth"? Are we a lukewarm call that dissolves like thieving centuries in the belly of a brazen bronze bull (1), in the fist of an unyielding Caesar?

Adam and Eve Ca. 1550. Oil on canvas. TITIAN (TIZIANO VECELLIO) - a faithful visualisation of Genesis 30, 9-19 in which Eve is blamed for accepting the forbidden fruit

Why? Why me? Who am I and why have you brought me here, now?

We demand the Lord because He bears our answers. With His silence, we continue to sew our delicate lives like spider webs. There is, however, a limit to this floundering, or at least there was; because now we keep our hands busy creating deities that respond to us. Is there any greater testimony of our despair than this? This gallop for a purpose, this insistence on the silence of God. 'Who am I?' - The Man asked and God gave him a garden. 'What is my reason?' - Man asked again, and the Devil offered him an apple.

Why? Why me? Who am I and why have you brought me here, now?

  1. Or are we an ugly Darwinian brood, without fur and without possession, that multiply like cockroaches and infect parts of the earth that do not belong to us? Are we small and simple, and built metropolises to prove it? Perhaps there was no divine providence (however coincidental that may have been). Perhaps it was as bewitchingly idle as Botticelli's conveyance of Spring (2), as entangled in emptiness as his pursuit for beauty in order to get closer to God. This emptiness engulfs me, and I cannot stop thinking: "How magnificent it is how much Divinity I see in you, Humanity."

Why? Why me? Who am I and why have you brought me here, now?

I have a hard time accepting the latter, or the previous. From being and not being we run a faith-spinning gallop, and every time we stop to rest, our breath is poisoned with faith-ripping air. Is there a trigger (precipitate)? Yes, there is, the red apple on her lips is the trigger. And a reason, is there? Reason, words, silence and thought - sea foam?

Why? Why me? Who am I and why have you brought me here, now?

How small the man, how heavy life on his shoulders, how indistinguishable this weight; like iron bars that surround the gaze of an imprisoned beast who sees the world with and through bars, with little awareness of the cell (and so remains the world, barred). Maybe we silenced the Almighty, maybe silence was the right answer. Maybe there was no God, just a collection of divine coincidences.

  1. Reference: The brazen bull, also known as the bronze bull, Sicilian bull, or Phalarian bull, was allegedly an instrument of torture and execution designed in ancient Greece. (The bull was said to be hollow and made entirely of bronze with a door on one side. According to legends, the brazen bull was designed in the shape and size of a real bull and had an acoustic apparatus that turned its screams into the sounds of a bull. Convicts were locked inside the device and a fire was lit underneath, heating the metal until the person inside was roasted to death. Some modern scholars question whether the brazen bull ever existed, attributing reports of the invention to early propaganda.)

  2. Reference: Sandro Botticelli | Painting: Primavera (1482). In this painting, Botticelli tried to show the full spectrum of love from earthly to divine love and the function of the former in leading people to the latter.


2. The Creature

video source: @ThePhilosphyQuote

At a train station, I gazed directly at the platforms and the iron moles that crawled over the rails, transporting us from one moment to another, from one human endeavour to another; a multitude of destinations and roads that were built to embark on journeys and lead us somewhere, somehow. At a train station, I thought about displacement, strain and the incompetence to remain still, in one place; the impossibility and inability in being part of the tapestry of God's great garden. The impossibility (3) and the inability (4).

Impossibility bends with the greatness of an old oak, for an old man. Impossibility moulders in the elaboration of the answer that begins with "I used to be..." to the question "How are you?". Impossibility is the prince who was stripped of his robe, because he found a mud stain, and the servants never gave his attire back. In the absence of the robe, the royal court mistook him for a servant and sent him to exile. His throne turned into a cave, and within it he crouched, begging Prometheus for a spark, while his former servants chased him with torches under the pretext: "The imposter twin of the late king who dared to remove the iron mask" (5). Impossibility is a victim, and his sons are victims of his victimisation and self-victimisation. Impossibility wallows in the royal nameless cave and its sweats, from the choir of truth, return to the fountain, and from that fountain, unfortunate children drink and grow.

Inability curls up like an anxious embryo in the womb of a barren slave; one more link is forged on her heavy chains each time she painfully pushes her bastard offspring out. Conceived by the slave's potent hatred of her master, and the throbbing pressure on her spine, to the point of breaking, Inability yowls his arrival in our noisy world. This dim-eyed mother, with thin feeble hands and cut-off tongue, endlessly raised Inability. Inability grows hungry, with his name wiped and crossed on all dining tables; no one shares food with him. Inability grows by devouring the demons of his friends, those which one carelessly expels from oneself as superfluous shadows, trodden underfoot like ignored breadcrumbs. Inability grows a hunchback, and a pit in his chest, one from hunger and the other from greed (for the bloody fluid of his friends' bones, which he swallows like a servile hyena). Inability is not an accident, inability is the slave's conscious decision to submit, and the decision is what seals this deformity. It swallows and dies, drools as inability never grows, forever a hunchbacked child, with blackened eyes and a wrinkled forehead, looking for breadcrumbs.

Holding my straight gaze at the station, this is what I can see from the human, impossibility and inability. How little these impress me.

Why? What is happening to me?


(3) Chosen meaning by author: Impossibility: Britannica Dictionary definition of IMPOSSIBILITY. 1. [count]: something that is impossible: something that cannot be done or that cannot happen.

(4) Chosen meaning by author: Inability: Incompetence, impotence - being incapable to (and in this case, unwilling to change it

(5) Reference : The Man in the Iron Mask (French: L'Homme au Masque de Fer; c. 1640? – 19 November 1703) was an unidentified prisoner who was arrested in 1669 or 1670 and subsequently held in several French prisons, including the Bastille and the Castle of Pignerol (modern Pinerolo, Italy). Among the leading theories is one proposed by the writer and philosopher Voltaire, who asserted in the second edition of Questions sur l'Encyclopédie (1771) that the prisoner wore a mask of iron rather than cloth, and that he was the elder brother of illegitimate of Louis XIV.


3. I

At a train station, I put my head down and lowered my gaze; I saw the tracks of the bypassers, some ignored breadcrumbs and the respected symmetry of the tiles. As much as we are non-symmetrical creatures, our obsession with symmetry strikes me as utterly ridiculous. The station already operates on a one-way system; I want to count how many steps are made in the opposite direction of the usual path, to calculate how much regret there is on the chosen destinations. I am sitting in half-repentance, half-settled on this stool, resting the limbs of my unsteady thought.

I am tired, I am very tired.

What is happening to me? Even my words are eroded, like a broken hourglass. Like a scorpion imprisoned in time-shrinking dunes within the hourglass, I stretch my claws, lest my venom let my home go, and my cage disintegrate. Because I know, out of my imprisonment, I will be crushed for sure.

I am tired, I am very tired.

What is happening to me? I am like an eagle that has lost its patience, and my hunger for the liver of a demigod drives me crazy (6). I sink into my silence as into the twisted thoughts of an Odyssean head; Ithaca, Penelope and the world; home, remaining, and life - softly interchangeable.

Inside Llewyn Davis (2013) - Directors: Ethan Coen, Joel Coen

I am tired, I am very tired.

What is happening to me? The call of she-wolves fills the moon and warps me. I become mythologically sick and turn into a dog without a master, (better than a master without a slave). I call you and you don't understand me, I scream and you tighten my chain. I am consumed by the animalistic hunger of being human, and my cries come back to me because you are my Lord, you are my God, and God has been deaf. I look for you, my Lord, as befits a 4-legged creature like me, and I drool from jealousy of the steps you have taken without me. I bow before you, my Lord and the shadows of my whip wounds burn me, and its sharp hiss calls me home. I follow you, like a lover, who runs after the red thread in this ever-devouring labyrinth (7); in the hope that promises are not broken like the backs of slaves from the whips of the Gods.

What is happening to me? My thoughts fade under the candlelight you gave me to remind me of the light, after you locked me in the dark. My memories fade, like biblical paintings in a noisy shrine. There is no place for a pagan like me; my discoloured soul would emerge, even in this heart-burnt crowd that has no fear of the sun; but they fear me, the clouded nomad that rests under the shade of the tree of knowledge.

But I am tired, I am very tired.


(6) Reference: The mythological legend of Prometheus. Prometheus' punishment for stealing fire and giving it to humans is a popular theme in ancient and modern culture. Zeus, king of the Olympian gods, sentenced Prometheus to eternal torment for his transgression. Prometheus was tied to a rock and an eagle - the emblem of Zeus - was sent to eat his liver

(7) Reference: Ariadne, in Greek mythology, is the daughter of Pasiphae and the Cretan king Minos. She fell in love with the Athenian hero Theseus and, with a red thread/string, helped him escape the Labyrinth after killing the Minotaur, a half-bull, half-man beast that Minos kept in the Labyrinth.


4. Conclusion

At a train station, I wish I was somewhere else: In an open field with paths entwined like green braids, I would spring with the renewed spirit of Venus, newly reborn from the devourment of Hiems (8), I wish I was a timid doe with golden threads embroidered in my fur, in a forest as silent as the sleeping body of a nymph, with pure water streams pumping life in me, like in the veins of the earth.

At a train station, I wish I was somewhere else, but, I am here; thinking of the Gods of the various human spheres and lost in the many questions with not-so-many answers. I am here; surveying with delight, the gallop of man measured in impossibility and inability, revelling in half-repentance.

I am here now, and I still do not know why you brought me here, most importantly I don't know why I came. I don't know if I had any other choice (because maybe it was all orchestrated by you) - and if not, I am ashamed of myself.

I am here now, and I do not know how I stayed this long - I want to think I am part of something, for which I must be somebody; but to be someone you have to stay in one place, even if this position is within the conditions of 'someone' - and I can't stay in one place.

I am here now because I am tired, I am very tired. I don't like such poetic attempts, you don't need to be a theologian to understand that poetry is a failed attempt towards prophetic immortality (9). At the end of this marathon of thoughts, I am so tired and with the modesty of an idiot I understand when I am being lied to, but keep quiet. I am tired and I am silent; because these lies of yours, free me from poetry, and convince me that poetry is just that; the poet's moral duty to be immoral.

I am here now, and I still do not know the answer to this anecdote: "I, God and the Creature - what is the difference?"

I am here now and I understand that only you have the answer. Who are you? A creature of God. Who are you? You are me, and I see God in you.


(8) Reference: Hiems, Roman personification of winter. Equivalent of Boreas (Βορέας, Boréas; also Βορρᾶς, Borrhás) who (like Hiemsi) was the Greek god of the cold north wind and bringer of winter. His name meant "North Wind" or "One who devours"/The Devourer.

(9) Definition: (in Neoplatonism, Platonism, and Gnosticism) a power existing from eternity; an emanation or phase of the supreme deity.


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