soli

Author: irfan

  • Ecce Homo

    Ecce Homo

    They grip my hands tightly. I have only a few minutes left to think. I’m so cold, drenched in my own blood. I notice a hardened piece of blood on my eyelashes. I despise the foolishness born from believing my own lies.

    I feel regret for all that I’ve done. I embrace the faces around me, staring in disgust. Is this what I deserved? I began deceiving myself a long time ago. I believed they deserved me. After everything that happened, I convinced myself they could love me. From a distance, I seemed a normal person.

    But I never wanted to be that. I didn’t want to be anyone, nor be forced to do anything. I made offers. I was rejected countless times—or perhaps I never truly offered anything. They think I’m mad. Or am I really? All I feel now is the pain in my wrists.

    Nobody ever understood me. Perhaps they will, with time. I shouldn’t have played the humble victim bowed before the governor. Now I walk silently towards death. Perhaps this time, God will truly stand by my side. Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.

    I thirst. Perhaps this is finally the end of lies. I open my hands. This might be my only chance to pray. My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Being nailed to a few pieces of wood shouldn’t have been this painful. I wanted to ascend into heaven. I just… didn’t want to die because of my lies.

  • Awake

    Awake

    I awoke in the darkness of night. The world was so quiet. From afar, a baby’s cry reached me—could they be calling me? I run to help. The unfathomable darkness seems endless. Until now, I had never realized how vast my room was. My feet can no longer bear my body; I keep falling.

    I may have been betrayed once again. I try to scream, yet the hoarse sound that erupts after such a long silence claws at my ears, and I find myself repulsed by my own voice. I long to go back. I yearn to see. In that moment, I become painfully aware of how disturbed I am by the sound of my own breathing.

    I feel like a condemned man, willing to sacrifice everything just to be confined within a prison cell. I might be losing my mind. I can’t recall the last time I was so utterly captivated by the allure of a body. I refuse to accept a brightness in which kneeling is the only recourse.

    My eyes burn. I feel as if I were encountering light for the very first time. The sound of crying no longer comes from so far away. I never imagined that darkness could become my paradise…

  • Feel

    Feel

    Someone collapses to the ground. I’m trying to discern who it might be. A curious crowd begins to gather—so many people, so many different faces. The air is filled with a stench reminiscent of a massacre—the reek of corpses assaults my nostrils. My stomach churns—I feel like I’m going to vomit.

    For the first time, I long to open my eyes; I sense that this is the sole moment in which I can truly behold reality. I crave a life that will blossom through my own death. I’ve always known myself to be a dreamer, and now I embrace it entirely.

    Amid the corpses, there is one corpse—amid the tapestry of lived experiences, an ordinary life. I remember the past: how I was once a pure, untainted child, surrounded by others who found no pleasure in my presence.

    I feel a relief in realizing that my abandonment is not confined solely to this final moment. I suspect I have led a failed life, and thus, a failed death. My body sprawled on the ground appears so utterly ineffectual that it would scarcely serve as sustenance even for vultures.

    I no longer see as I once did…

  • God is Dead

    God is Dead

    God has long been dead; haven’t you heard? It was the clergymen who killed God, it was the end of the perpetual flow of prophets that killed Him, it was our own awakening to the sanctity of our flesh that did it. It was God himself who killed God. With His passing, He dragged our long-held traditions over the edge of the abyss. What remains? A profound meaninglessness, an insatiable hunger for discovery. People now find themselves drawn inward rather than outward; humanity seeks Him not above, but below! A lost generation finds its meaning in the void of hormonal pleasures—had they known that God was dead, they wouldn’t even be aware that their pleasure would be discovered not in the lower parts of the body, but in the higher realms.

    If we were to free ourselves from all our taboos, wouldn’t a completely empty world be left—a world filled with an infinite number of flowers waiting to be named? It is precisely at that moment that our virtues will bloom, that our innermost selves will awaken. Then we shall discover a new god in nature, within the grasp of our intellect. Man is made for exploration, and even more so for the exalted contemplation of that which he cannot fully uncover. What is this obstinacy, if not the attempt to normalize the trivialities we fail to understand? First, we must strike down our customs; first, we must trample our traditions underfoot; first, we must ignite the true battle against our entrenched beliefs.

    They do not know what nihilism truly is—that it is the genuine proof of life. It is the righteous and honorable resistance of a people crushed under an iron rule, the ultimate weapon of all those who have been silenced and shackled. The life found in the sun’s dying rays, the path that emerges in the night sky—this is our way. Man must first kill his god so that he may begin to live a new life. Man must embrace new gods… forged from the mineral pigments within the earth, from the legacy of the lights in the sky!

  • Review of a Forgotten Painting

    Review of a Forgotten Painting

    A painting, forgotten in a corner—perhaps even abandoned. No one even glances at it; its frame is rusted over. The painter didn’t even bother to give it a name, as if it wasn’t worth the effort. The painting screams… it cries out… its only wish is to be seen by someone who will truly value it, to belong to someone who can recognize its beauty. Like everyone else, it longs to be understood; like everyone else, it burns silently to be noticed. Its colors are dark, untouched by light, dependent on the beam set up solely to illuminate the painting beside it. Why did no one love it? Why did no one ever deem it worthy?

    The shapes on the canvas are blurry, as if it were a test board used to try out brushes—no one even made an effort to draw upon it deliberately. Just splashes of color, mixed together to find the right tone… Didn’t those who did this feel any shame? Should we begin to doubt the eyes of those who failed to see the light it holds? Perhaps the value we give to objects shifts according to our capacity to romanticize them. Why has no one ever looked at it with romantic eyes? Why has no one surrendered to the thoughts it awakens? Why… when there is but one thing that truly deserves to be romanticized, have people written poems about so many others?