'The Stir' by Kyriakos Chalkopoulos

When I was little, I used to lie in bed at night looking at images of monstrous fish which live at the bottom of the oceans, in my encyclopedia. I was oblivious of the underlying meaning of this persistent habit, for in reality my childish interest was not about the actual sea, but what it symbolized: I was concerned by my inner sea and the deep abysses within myself.

I’ve had the sense of being below sea level for many years now... Everything in my thoughts is in flux, swimming about on its own in the deep, while I, almost incapable of autonomous movement, am swept by powerful currents and lulled by passing, magnificent sea creatures.

It is as if I dwell below the surface, in secret caverns in the sea. I feel no intimacy with anything sensual, those things almost repel me. To me the sensual forms become diminished and distorted and my connection to the world of the senses is almost severed: only a few worries, vague hopes and indistinct ends remain.

In stark contrast to that, to the deep, where my thoughts perpetually wander, I am bound by a very sturdy rope which stretches out the full distance, with its other end firmly tied around my waist.

Sometimes I think that I am only expected to touch that rope, and pull it even a little bit towards me: Whatever lies at the other end will thus be signaled and begin its journey to reach me. Then, regardless of the massive distance originally separating us, the gravest of stirs will be instantly felt in the waters around me...