Hotel Bratislava

It seems there are two psychic connotations in the life of a poet. However, you could say there are two souls to his being. One, the consciousness fighting the daily banalities, and second, an antenna that works like a seismograph receiving the finer inner vibrations of human beings around him, besides all the happenings and the facial expressions behind the mask, all human beings are wearing.

The poet wakes and is still conscious about his tete-a-tete with his Muse, who loves him, wishes him to be a happy poet, one, filled with the joys of love. Having become a poet through the acceptance of another poet, he thrived as a poet of love. His Muse hasn’t stopped showering him with love from the start, when they met one January morning at Kapnikareas Street in Athens. From a moment of a timid approach of two sympathetic virtual lovers, a couple of star struck lovers evolved naturally. The poet compared it to a dimmer switch turned up progressively by a force beyond human powers.

That love flaming up to hell-fire, became all too consuming and burned itself to cinder and ashes in a few years’ time. Yet it might have just happened at the wrong time for the lovers, as A. said that had it happened earlier in our lives, we would have been keen making children. Indeed, the feelings were genuine and strong, the fires of passion inextinguishable. Amazing to say the least. A., the full-bloodied woman brought out in Z. the full-bloodied man. There were no half measures. The lovers devoured each other with a ravenous appetite that couldn’t be stilled.

Tragedy, like a Greek tragedy, lead from a height and peaking of happiness in an Icarian fall from a high atmosphere to the hardness of Attika’s ground, which blew the body to smithereens.

This Monday morn’ in Hotel Bratislava, the poet and his friend, Mr T. had once in a dozen visits managed to get to the breakfast table in good time, drink tea and coffee and enjoy some of the healthy food on offer, as a traditional gesture to celebrate their friendship of many years. The friends were allowed to take some of the green tea bags for later use in their room. Once a matter of survival, now a ritual for remembrance.

The poet listened to Mr.T’s questions about war and peace, the human condition and the origins of their feud, and the good and the bad, starting probably with Cain and Abel depicted in the scriptures. Discussions followed on the Universe and the comparative dust-corn-planet, called Earth.

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