a greek tragedy.

What is freedom? Are we really free or have we been dolls from the very beginning in the gallantry of the much stronger Gods who created this almost perfect appearance for us? In fact, what is the price of freedom? Is it the exchange of an eye or a hand, a hair or a tooth? Maybe it's so expensive that we have to deprive ourselves of the feelings and thoughts that make us human, just to achieve a little bit of freedom. Maybe this is just the false freedom we get drunk with every day.

It is important to know who you are in this world. An ant, a leaf, a traitor, a coward. For the thousandth time, with my hands resting on the cold broken stone steps, whole body trembling, I rebel against my own mind with the help of my thoughts. Knees weakened, infiltrated by the cracks created by time, discoloured and pinched, that seemed to extinguish the fire in my veins. My fingers extend painfully, touching the black marble throne, turning into skeletal creatures. Among the golden pillars that support the thoughts of mortals to the dying stars and to the table of the most important gods, there is a warm wind that seems to bring with it a new season of drought. It caresses my sweaty temples lightly as a mother's touch and focuses in the form of white beams of light on the statue that sits a few inches from me. It rises imposingly with its embers black face and gazes to the sky, intoxicated by an exaltation of soul that any mortal or god desires. The gold plate that hardly covers the slender body of the statue and the sword, sculpted with the blood of a thousand rusty souls, is directed to the south and follows the sun's rays, and when it camouflages itself behind the hills in the form of stars and constellations, the sword rests on the edge of the throne covered with olive. The only action that anchors me in reality and makes me not lose all the breath of my life at this moment is the marble eyes of the statue that focus on me. It seems to be trying to open my body with a single frown and blood redness of its eyes to strip me of any endowment of my own conscience, the only way I would remain the same. I feel like it is trying to instil great trust in me, along with contempt for other Gods and human traditions. Melinoe, the one born from death and at the same time from life, a deity both endogenous and aerophyte, has her sanctuary on the border between light and darkness. It is the place where these two meet, where reasoning is chained to absurdity, where the pious meet the pagan. It is one of the few spaces where the fantastic becomes the reality of the viewer. Where I found myself to be. Suddenly, I felt that I could create a storm among the gods. Roses began to bloom in every part of the temple, but also on my feet, their thorns eager to make their way inside my boy, under my skin. I tried to move my hands to cover my eyes again –I didn't want to see anything– but my body was suddenly powerless. Dizziness set in, the world a blur of colour, sound and my tears. Waves of voices began to pour over me, and my screams were not enough to stop them. I knew it was true, but I didn't want to accept it.

My anger unleashed at the ground, fists with a mind of their own, pulverising the ground as if that would cleanse them of the sins they committed. Skin met dirt and stones and rubble as if the ground could bring him back. As if I made my wish known to the earth, it would come true. I knew then I was going mad, falling prey to the old gods' tactics, a senile man who just lost his lover, his family. And yet, I couldn't even blame the gods, for I was the one to be condemned. My cowardice, my stupidity, my ego is why he didn't come home. Why my Patroclus didn't come home.

I look up, eyes watering, threatening to spill, a leaf in a storm. And yet, with my body trembling and at the end of my powers, I give reality this chance. It's like an agglomeration of celestial bodies bathing me in their agonizing coldness, spinning my mind in a whirlwind of screams and cries - of his screams and cries. My eyes close painfully, while my nails cut the skin of my eyelids. I quickly recognize the predictability of the actions of one of the most powerful gods, that of madness. And then I realize, that it does not matter at all if they decide to kill me once and for all. The river Styx, the constant worry of mortality, was worth nothing anymore.

"Achilles, no."

Ready to be submerged by the pull of mourn, my mind stops. It is disconcerting how a fanciful voice from the beyond, even after having left your life, is such an influence in your bearing. I look up, seeking closure, trying to convince myself that what I heard wasn't a product of my mind, that he was here to save me. And yet, reality continued to mock me, to break me. The madness now ebbing away only to be replaced by crushing sadness and grief. It was as if my soul had departed to the underworld, leaving my mind and body behind. Dragging bones around, the only strength left in me was to see him one last time.

My friend, my family, my love. Lying in peaceful sleep, my armour around him, with a blood-stained face and chest. Guilt found its way through me and settled into the large gaping hole in my chest, left behind by the soul I didn't have nor care for anymore. είναι νεκρός. e mort. et mortuus est. He's dead. He's dead. He's dead. It was all my doing. My fault. A fresh wave of anger and grief took its hold of me. Whoever did this, would suffer. The murderous rage clouded my mind and eyes. It was as if the devil took refuge in me. And for once, I welcomed him with open arms. Henceforth, no tears will be shed. All that's of import is to avenge.

[Written from the Point of View of Achilles after he found out that Patroclus was dead.]