KHÔRA

      Lately, I have been turning over the concept of hypocrisy—a thorny and, it must be said, rather unfashionable subject. In particular, I’ve been pondering whether there might be space for what one might term a kind of “healthy hypocrisy.” Admittedly, this is an unlikely notion, and one that seems to teeter perilously close to oxymoron. Yet, in its more redeeming guise, could such a paradoxical posture allow for a certain moral pliancy, a flexibility that might avoid the brittle rigours of absolute consistency? It’s an unsettling thought, but perhaps worth exploring.      Who holds the moral authority to issue reproach? Let him who is without sin cast the first stone. My musings have been prompted, in part, by a return to Luigi Pirandello, particularly his exploration of masks and faces in the phenomenology of theatre. Of all his works, Uno, Nessuno e Centomila strikes me as especially apposite. “You will learn at your own expense,” Pirandello writes...

          Europe's borders are currently experiencing an unprecedented influx of migrants—individuals compelled by necessity to seek new opportunities. It is difficult not to feel sympathy for these men and women, to marvel at their extraordinary courage as they endure the relentless dust and scorching heat of the desert, only to face the unyielding hostility of the sea—a sea that rises against them with the fury of Poseidon himself. Their journey is one of unrelenting peril. The desert does not rest; the sea does not relent. For those who endure and arrive, integration often begins as a triumph. Yet there lingers an undercurrent of unease.      Recently, a growing chorus of anxious voices in the United Kingdom has lamented that their culture is slipping away. It is easy to understand the apprehension fuelling these anxieties. After all, the story of immigration has long been one of adaptation, of cultures fusing, blending, and at times, clas...

  I hear you in faint whispers Trapped in a space of noise, yet, I hear you in faint whispers. Too many seductive voices, none of which are real— still, I find myself in your call. Should I go deaf to these piercing cries? Should I surrender to their summons? My ear’s filters grow weak, I pray you don't chastise me for yielding to their loudness. I will remain attentive, but I will not respond just yet, until I find the one true voice, the one that calls in whispers. Let me hear it once more, for I am made whole in your call.   In the Grip of a Sublime Smile She has a shy appearance, A calmness veils her, yet a fragile mirth lingers near. To hear her speak is to strain one's ear, Her beauty is a secret, softly whispered. Visible only in shadows, she moves with grace, Her aura, a gift divine, unmatched by mortal hands. The goddess of Olympus finds no place for her, For she surpasses their glory with effortless grace. The Theoi Agoraioi whispe...

                                            The Sigh that Beckons The clock plots its haste, as morning wanes into night, Like a child surrendering to the gentle pull of sleep. I sighed softly, fading into absence. As nocturnal birds whispered secrets to the dark, The sleeping soul bid its farewell to the waking, And in the quiet repose of my body, I drifted into dreams. Let me wake once more, to hold my dreams in memory, Lest I yearn only for sleep's tender embrace. In the quiet dawn's first light, the waking soul bade farewell to the sleeping, And in that fleeting instant, I sighed into presence.   Love is promised In your presence, I veil myself from your sight, Yet i linger, just beyond your reach. In your nearness, I find my distance, And wonder: how far must I journey to reach you? This path to you weighs heavy upon my feet, Yet in my distance...