Artheism: Literary perspective
Her smile heralded the dawn and whispered light in the heart of the sun. For a seer, magic was already at her fingertips while her eyes….. She blew sighs in the air and hoped to see her despair fade away.
Instead the Artheist drew near: “I’ll feed you hunger and thrust thirst into your throat. My words will deface you and my silence will erase you. Choose your sin then so I can end your turmoil.”
“Who are you and what are you?” asked she. “The ‘I’ I should see or the eye that I see with?”
“Both. I am the voice of your past, that you wish to hear but dare not listen to”
“My life or my grave?” asked the seer again.
“Both,” answered the Artheist. “I am the pain that cures but that no doctor will prescribe.” He rose to no height and called out his name. He could not tell how far he was from himself?
He saw some of his words nearing utterance, so he lifted himself up to get closer to his breath. He trusted that his words would embrace him; they dreaded him instead.
To the seer he confessed, “I opened your eyes and you taught me to walk. I opened your mouth and you taught me talk. I opened your mind and you taught me to live. And I opened your heart and you taught me to love.”
“Please, stop loving me,” asked the seer, holding a tear and a rosary between her eyes. “Can’t you see that for a seer I can no longer see?”
“Forgive me! I can’t.”
He peeled off his skin, the color of his despair, and muttered:
“I have no name; the one I called out overlooked me and the one you gave me unnamed me. Tell me, can you call nameless? Tell me please so I can cease to hear my loss.”
“How can I?” asked the seer. “My voice is but your name. Done me please so I can wear you out.”
The Artheist withdrew noisily to his silence and counted his steps. “My first should be to you, my second to myself and then….”
“The third is gone astray,” interrupted the seer. “Look around you; we are nearing the end of this path. Now look at me, for I can’t see the path anymore. Can you?”
“You are the path,” answered the Artheist. “I will hand you words and you will print footsteps for us on the ground.”
“And where to?”
“Back to us again. Seer,” called the Artheist, “honed as you are to perfection I cannot happen upon a better path. Let me take it with you. I will breathe your sighs while you call my name. I will draw the past while you color the future. Forgive me,” remembered the Artheist, “I forgot that the future no longer exists.”
The seer drew near herself, then tamed her turmoil with a smile. “How many birds did you kill before coming here?”
“Half a dozen,” answered the Artheist. “My path was always adorned with death. Why?”
“I grant you that we can reinvent the future, but I dare not believe that you can resurrect the birds?”
“Why should I? The future is but creation.” © Karim Chaibi 2005
Design by Karim Chaibi