The God and the Axe

It is like a broken robot, a humanoid, a shadow of what man once was in the garden of Eden, and you make love to it. It responds with a blow, a swift stab of a cold blue metal of an ancient axe that the woodcutter received from the god of the river, it jabs slowly in, slits your rib-cage skin and goes inwards, clearing jungle of bone and flesh and channels, inwards and upwards, to the heart, which is a lie to it… since it has no heart, it urges to feel the warmth of a fleshy shapeless balloon and tries to understand how the love and lies rest in peace inside it.

The god of the river was Hermes, the Cabeiri, the deity of the ancient world, the pagan of the pagans, who took the flight of wind from the deserted terrains of Asia Minor and passed over Macedonia, like a gentle evening breeze of late spring which brings the smell of tired wet women, tired of waiting to be deflowered, and then their quaggy flowers gradually faints and dries and petals fall off like unconscious eyelashes, and they keep on waiting for blooming again with a new lover, like trees in tundra wait for a summer bee, and Hermes, hurrying to reach the woodcutter, crosses Greece and comes down to your story, where the man who lost his axe is earnestly waiting to be armed again. There is a Kill left.

Hermes, did he not know that all the riches a river can offer would not be sufficient for a man who just lost his axe? The woodcutter, was he honest? Undemanding? Did he not want anything for his life? Or did he direly want that Kill? Did Hermes not know, that the Kill was hiding itself behind virtues? Did he not know that behind all values and moral excellence and acts of true selflessness, behind every perfect moment of human salvation, a Kill is hiding somewhere, patiently, for its new owner? Did he not talk to the sea in favour of lost sailors who wanted to return home; and the sea, a cursed nymph, who wasted years of love to a lost woodcutter, just let that man go; did he not know that a Kill, carried by her forefathers, was lurking behind her helpless melancholia? Why did Hermes return the woodcutter the only thing that was lost from his life? Hermes, the god of yellow crops and pulp abdomens, the messenger of the Gods, who eventually ended up being the mediator of death, guiding dead souls to Hades, like walking a blind man in dreams, holding his trembling hands and watching his uncertain steps, came to aid the Woodcutter without even expending a tiny bit of his own godly wealth, and completed the task by simply returning the Woodcutter what was lost: his desire to kill.

It’s like walking a blind man in dreams, watching his unsure steps and half broken faith on you, a blind man who is already imagining himself dead in his head, and this crossing of the street seems too much perquisite for him, thereafter any heartfelt expression of gratitude seems languid. Life can’t thank death enough for not coming yet, and for death, it is like that cold blue axe thrusting through his bones and voids of flesh, someone is searching for love and lies in his gray dusty heart, groping his old rotten flesh with the tip of an axe, and he feels that the Kill is falling upon him like an evening by the river, the river who tried to hide the axe in her treacherous waters, but somebody gave the trick away, death’s own messenger… and before fainting, he saw the Woodcutter coming back to the river from the shadow silhouette behind, with a bloodied axe in his hand, to throw it into the river.                      

Photo: https://images.app.goo.gl/ytkcPr3eoJ1xXfjJ6