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ملعونةٌ أرواحُنا

إلينا أناتولييڤا، عازفة بيانو ومدرِّسة موسيقى 🩶

“How can I accept a limited definable self when I feel, in me, all possibilities?”

Fixed for the rest of his days on why, the question that asks itself of everything: the empty hemisphere of bed, the dreams in which she doesn’t yet know of her death, the odes he composes that still use the present tense. There must be some reason. If he stares long enough at his last image of her, already disintegrating at her edges, he will glimpse a material truth. For example: did some complicated equation describe her dance behind him, inaudible music dictating each step and rest? At the end of the song, was it written in the score that she must disappear? He strains to remember, over and over, to pick out a pattern from the chaos, and always, when he thinks he might finally have it, just as he turns toward it, it slips like a hand from his grasp.

إمّا أن تُعذِّبَ شيطانَك،