(These are Nameseeks):
Name us, Oh please Name us.
Categorize our bit too; devise a no-man-culture. For periods of 666 years and all their iterations, Our Loneliness is desperately lonely without our identity. Haunting recollections of roasted flesh, and a trace back through the endless connections of mementos, we saw in the future a past that was, perhaps, actually the past: the name of my name on my lips. As if we were our mothers, who disappeared. In these countless years of rumination, we hadn't had our shares of prophecies... Such is the curse of our disposition: 'Eli Eli Lama Sabachthani?’
Thus spake nameseek: Cry! Cry, let’s hear our tears. Each of us is the sad formation of every other. We are also our hip-hop bibliographies. We are the commas in your scriptures, the last imperfect residue of Hexaemeron, and the fallen leaves of Cabbala. We befuddle ourselves by looking in the mirror, looking at ourselves through mirrors in awe; all reflection belongs to us, but none is us.
So name us, please name us.
(These are Namesakes):
We know our names, our last names that resemble others’. But we were born blind, ruptured spine and hunchbacked. Still raw, still flawed, still needing the bearer of our last name—Ceteris paribus, at the receiving end of god’s ire, the god of lost pieces and shared memories. We see the Niles of fate upon our hands that vanish and reappear with the advent of each hour, making us someone else. Someone, with our last name.
What passeth here in this dim-lit stage (This Sanctuary we call The Empire of Mirrors) as infinitude of fiction is our pantophobia? Harlequins and Scaramouch manacled together for only one act, that one act that repeats itself to the degree where rapetition loses its meaning. Each face is a simulacrum of another, each simulacrum imitating its father and so on till the very beginning. We all are Adams. Frightened and a-mazed, and there is no Eve—only sons, fathers, shared memories and lost pieces.
And what screameth here is the echo of each previous act, and acts still to some, our vestiges spread over the fabric of eternity.
At times we yearn for the memory of faded features on our faces. And what a gut-wrenching yearning that is! These times we yearn for the yearning to last. How imperative it is for yearning to last. For with its demise, we cease to exist and become only reflections for those, who bear our name.