Faraway. So Close.
An artist chases intimacy through a lens of solitude- he is disarmed and surrendered. He faces scenes so sacred he is afraid to touch them, to disturb their slumber. Up close, he finds himself looking at his reflection in the elusive texture of strangers’ skin.
And we soaked ourselves in the tacit spirits of remembrance, and all that was shaken from our hands, uplifted from our roots- And we danced like mad children under the nakedness of the sun, distilled in shadows of past, in harmonies of remembrance.
And we ate from the forbidden fruit, passing tastes like bees, like birds feeding their young- burdened by an effort to remain chaste we fell out of love and succumbed to the torrents of spring, the exhausted passions of the exalted- mercenaries of the night.
And we traded day for night, hiding behind the currency of chance and intoxicated we swallowed the valleys before us- gorging at the offering and leaving nothing behind-
And when we stepped into the morning light- we found that the world had fallen into dream, that we left a generation behind, rendering them obsolete. And in our exchange we were made into a mold- sutured into a collection of bodies held aloft by strings, determined to raise the vanity of our ancient songs- When we rebelled, we were pushed back, hunted and buried- gathered into corridors and primordial halls where we were instructed to recite the scriptures of a fallen generation, venerated by the early gods, who looked upon us as soldiers are watched over by their generals on the eve of war- though few shall return home, none remain unchanged- untainted- unscarred.
And we were baffled but we had no excuse- and so in the sustenance of our hasty breaths we crept into a wilderness without shame and scorn- bodies rampaging to follow the breath of a rotating orb, and we fucked because we had one last chance- and we fucked like never before.
And I saw your face, clear as day in the madness of it all, drawing frames from every breath, you painted our bodies without fear, out of depth and without the elusive memory of death trailing behind as we forged forward- you caught us in rapture and you made us into gods.
Cold Cuts Magazine (Issue #2) Submission Piece, accompaniment to
Walid Nehme’s ‘Faraway. So Close’ series, by Dani Arbid.
︎Home