the woman who talked to fear

“blooming on the rocks” phot@rt by Aeglie

«A vagrant, that’s what it is; a beggar,» the woman who talked to fear said calmly.

I have met her that very morning at the school gate. “Keep your mind free from fear,” she said to her kids and she smiled at my surprised look. She introduced herself to me and she invited me to her place on the afternoon.

«It comes on the threshold of the mind and it begs for its coin: our subjugation.
«It comes covered into advising recipes. “Watch it!” is the phrase consisting in its fundamental, misleading ingredient.
«It comes, a small and faint thing, just a little shadow; it’s fed on agony, worry, exertion, pain, travail. It weights, day by day, it thickens, expands and spreads; it conquers.»

She poured out fresh lemonade to glasses.

«I have had it in for a long time. It had settled into my rooms. My loved place had been withered under its darkness.
«And then, there came a morning, when I resolved on quitting trouble. It went hungry that day long. Next morning, my mind was clear. I had still had it in, though. Before it goes back to nothingness from where it came, it tried to move me to pity. But, as I had resolutely quit misery, it couldn’t persuade me to feel sorry for it. Instead, it moved me to curiosity. Or, maybe, what I only wished was to listen to a good story – just for fun.»

She brought a bowl from the kitchen and she filled it with apricots from a tree of her garden laden with golden, thick, and juicy fruit.

«It does not exist. This is the truth of it: it doesn’t exist. It admitted this to me. It’s a delusion. A delusion made by an ancient error, grown into some ancient dark gap, back in the very beginning of the world; and it sips life. This life it sips is of no use of it; it doesn’t belong to it. It couldn’t have its own life, either; since it isn’t created. In order to keep itself busy and feel somehow useful, these are its own words, it disuses creatures’ life. Humanity lives a life of imperfection and malady because people feed the delusion of fear.»

She reached up to the blossomed apple tree, it have had us under its cool shade, and said, “you, my dear, do know what I’d love to have right now.” After a few fractions of a second a red, plump apple was in her handful.

«It only takes to let it go hungry,» she winded up; and she bit the crisp fruit.

greek version

imperfect agony

Countryside keeps quieting, covered in morning’s peace, hidden under a thin blanket of rime
But a robin’s sounded around and a small swarm of bees gathering earlier blooming flowers cheated by warm winter
Butterflies also sing, and the motionless leaves of small orange trees as well; human hearing, though, appears to be imperfect
Small trees heavy laden with orange fruit patiently await to meet me
I escape into the city, hoping to waste my agony; I waste myself instead
At the edge of the road, on the afternoon, I recall I have left behind small orange trees to grow up all alone

greek version