A Man Talking to His Window (unfinished)

The white curtains revealing the five before midday luminescence slowly crawling into my room, giving me an early glimpse of heaven. I can see the angels that once carried the poor and the faithful beggar Lazarus – I can sense them trying to carry me but the weight of my sins are too much for the famished and frail angels sent by God. And all of this coming from my broken antique window fixed by the wood of an old willow tree and the plain linen white curtains that have been through so much distress since the day I moved into this leaden townhouse in the middle of nowhere. The glare is either searing to tell me that there is more to life than my unforgiving raucousness of all things divine or is bringing me to perish as I will never believe in the devout unless I do. Either way; the glare of a heavenly ghost tells me that my lord, my god, is with me. When I am walking through the darkest of all the valleys, I shall fear no evil as he is with me. His rod and his staff should comfort me. 

I stand up from my bed, in my worn out nightwear from post meridiem. Walking up to the window that was galling at me as soon as I woke up, and I got on my knees like a disappointing courtesan… at the First Presbyterian church trying for the washing of her sins before it. 

I implore to the fenestrae of my chamber. 

‘Oh, but why must I pass on to see the facticity to see the world in all of its glory? I do my deeds and go on with my day. Yes, I do not believe in all things reverent – the only thing in my life that showed me a sign of God was the cherubic Aglaia. I so hated the world that I was given the one and only grace, Aglaia, and believing in her should let me not perish but have an eternal life. But back then, I did not believe in love, so I did not know Aglaia. Oh, I wish I knew back then. Again: Why must I leave this realm in order to know in all entirety the good and the plentiful? Do I not deserve to live and know Aglaia? Is she just a fragment of my imagination only to become real as soon as my body and mind are gone?’

I start to weep. Embarrassing myself in front of the gracious window to the other realm. At this point, I am worshipping the window and its plain linen white curtains. To worship is to ask questions – and I have many. I feel lost in my ways. I have wandered so far from sainted truths like a lost sheep.

‘Oh, come and find me, Aglaia, and my life will be yours.’ I yell out to the window which is now my God. 

At this point, my aching wailing of melancholy is just abashing for a grown man like me; but if you knew Aglaia, you would know. But if you knew, you have already gone to the other realm and I beg of you, please take me with you as I am ashore in a sepulchral chasm. In a herd of saints – people better than me – and you do not know, or you must not know the burden I carry, all the sins I have sinned through this journey of life just to watch others carry themselves with ease as they are saints inside and out. But I pray that they are saints only outwardly so that I feel better about the baggage I have been forced to carry. 

This constant embarrassment kills me one by one every day. Did Aglaia believe in love? If she is, and if you saw her you would know that she is a deist of love, then she must’ve known me. Unless believers cannot see non-believers because we do not see what they see. If she couldn’t have seen me, then she mustn’t have known me. And if she hadn’t known me, then my life would have been a lie. All a lie. As to missate the journey I have been going on. 

The fenestrae speaks to me again. It says (gleans; gleans at me through bolted willow and cloth):

‘You may only feel bliss once you are promised an end to confusion and mockery. If I tell you now that you will never live in shame again – you will not believe me only because you choose not to, or, because you already know that I am lying to you through peripheral trumpets. You are a faithful witness who cannot lie and I am the delusive.’

As these beams of light are speaking to me, the glow dims and the veils haze in as if it is about to rain. The willow and the gossamer is just wood and curtains – it does not tell me lies, but that does not mean it tells me the truth. It does not tell me anything because it is wood and curtains. The willow and the gossamer that reflected what was showing outside the mundane, but now the inside is mundane.

I rise back up from the knees of a tart. Still in the clothes of sundown, I sit down on my bed drenched of solitude. I replay the old days of drear and inaneness. Remembering that I had swallowed then accepted the cherub with a fictitious puerile and the holy sheens that came forth from the sky and into my chamber. Around me are memorabilia that do nothing of substance except bringing me reminiscences of excruciation: 

The desk lamp (now coated with a great layer of dust) that used to light up my niche and my papers used for reflecting on the times now outdated. The desk they sit on old and creaky from constant tapping and degradation. A ship in a bottle also sits on the desk – and I feel sorry for the ship as it cannot go on any more voyages; its reason for creation and continuation now obsolete. I can take it out now and salvage it but I fear now it's too late for the sorry ship. On my shelves (shelves that lean like the leaning Tower of Pisa) are great books that I bought in a shop back in Athens. I wish to not remember Athens – I will remember the Alamo but not the city of Athens – but I must. The books I took out to the streets drenched from a sudden uproar of rain from the clouds of Zeus and my tears as change is a hard essence for me. My suitcase from that dire trip still left unpacked as I do not want the articles I took to that city cling onto me; it might be better to just burn it but part of me doesn’t want to let them go. On top of the suitcases is a fan from a lady of Aglaia. I remember that night, I don’t want to think about the meager details of this night with Aglaia but I will say this: 

It was late out and there was a lady with a fan in her hands. I take a quick look at her; she has this Western look about her, but more as a European trying to get the look as one. She looks at me and I look away out of embarrassment; but in the corner of my eye I see her still staring so I turn my head back to at least give a wave or a wink in an attempt to engage in casual outings. But before I could do anything, she rose up her hand and closed her fan to rest it on her chin. These fan signs were not common around here as they are more of a Western tradition, which makes sense for someone with such a mix of character like her to be influenced by our modes. I am not entirely an expert on these signs but I remember this one that the lady was doing meant that she had already fancied me at our first sight. She then touches the tip of the closed fan to her lips; trying to say that she wants me to talk to her. I won’t indulge in our conversations as I just wanted to remember the importance of the fan again since I must.

I stare at my telephone that never rings – I like to pretend that it just doesn’t work, but I mustn’t lie to myself now, I am too old for that. The clock also (not also, enough foolery I tell my mind) does not work. I tell the time by sun as I have nowhere important to go to at a time of specifics. 

I decide to stand up and stretch because if I am drowning my mind with sorrow I might as well let it flow through the rest of my body. I go to my mirror marked with scratches and missing shards. Let us just say that I got frustrated with my reflection and took my anger out on the sinless mirror that was forced to show an ugly sinner to my sight; it was forced to show myself what I look like and I feel sorry for it. I feel sorry for everything that has been forced to be in my presence. Rested upon the mirror are my glasses that broke from when I was thinking too hard. I cannot see the full picture but that may never happen as long as I live. 

Something from my desk fell onto the floor from my sudden and somber steps; it was my parents heart locket that was given to me by my father so that one merry day I could replace the photo of them when they got married to a photo of me and the one I would grow old with.