The story behind "The death of (the) Sun"

Poet’s note: «The death of (the) Sun» by Neni Kappa (26/1/2021)

I treasure all my writings, but some have a special place in my heart. «The death of (the) Sun» is one of the poems I’m most proud of. Allow me to tell you the story behind it.

For the last couple of years my mental state has been declining. Some days are ok, some are great, some are below average and some I don’t have words for. Actually, I do. One word. The word “gray”. On those days I don’t feel. I’m numb. All I do is watch me go through my routine in third person. As if watching a movie in a TV with bad signal.

One of those gray days was the 26^th of January 2021. I was sitting at my desk, trying -and failing, mostly- to pay attention to my online classes. Unsurprisingly, my brain wouldn’t leave me be. It kept projecting these vivid images, kind of like daydreams but not quite. Some of them didn’t even involve me, but all of them had one thing in common. Thrinos. Sorrow.

The one that stood out the most to me was a building. A skyscraper so tall it reached about twenty meters over the clouds. It was built out of black glass, but the rooftop floor was cement. That’s where I came in. I don’t quite remember what I was wearing, but it didn’t really matter so I didn’t give it much attention. I walked to the corner of the building. The rooftop was square, and there was not a single security measure to keep me from falling. There was nothing. Not even a trapdoor leading inside the building. (Don’t ask me how I got on there, because I couldn’t tell you.) I felt the breeze on my face, and it wasn’t like a “gentle caress” as other poets might say. It was like an iron whip.

I was shaking and when I noticed and looked at my hands, for some reason they responded by shaking harder. My knees were shaking too. I was cold, tired, and trembling all over. I knew my legs couldn’t hold me up any longer, so I relieved my bare feet by slowly sitting and then proceeding to lay face-up on the ground. I was right next to the edge, and my entire arm was hanging over it. I closed my eyes for a few seconds to get a feel of the pavement below me. It was cold, hard, unsmooth, and somehow, it felt as if it were crushing my lungs. I reopened my eyes and started swinging my arm, which was dangling over the edge.

Soon the rain started falling. It felt more like hail, but I knew it was only rain. The raindrops felt as if they were about to pierce my skin like icy bullets. I closed my eyes again, and the next image appeared as if my daydream self was daydreaming.

This “scene” happened in a huge ancient arena, which looked suspiciously like the Colosseum from Ancient Rome. Only it was empty of spectators. I was experiencing the whole thing through the eyes of what I presumed to be the emperor or in any case, the person congratulating the winner and rewarding him with his freedom.

The first thing my eyes fell on was the blood dripping off the winner’s sword, and then the red pool of it all around his dead opponent. I had already given him the winners’ laurel wreath but instead of wearing it, he was half-heartedly holding it in his left hand. His head was hanging low, and he was crying silently. I could see the tears dripping from his face and landing around his brown leather sandals. His shoulders were tense and shaking ever-so-slightly. His curly hair damp with sweat. And his face, full of cuts, tears, bruises, was distorted from the grief. He loved the man he had killed. The man that was lying lifeless next to us.

His blonde hair was tainted with blood, most of it fresh. He was spread out on the ground so gracefully that he could have been mimicking one of the angelic figures from one of Michelangelo’s pieces. His intensely blue eyes were void, vacant of all signs of life. The first gladiator kneeled next to him, softly closed his eyelids, and kissed him lovingly on the forehead. Then, with their foreheads together and tears washing the blood off the blond’s face, the “scene” faded away.

I knew, and I still do, that the winner never got to live freely. Why you ask? Because after the death of his beloved, by his own hand no less, he was only surviving.

And, more or less, that’s what I am doing on gray days. Simply surviving. Existing. Without meaning, purpose or feeling.

I wrote this poem to get these images out of my head, as they were playing over and over, like a broken cassette tape. In the end, I didn’t. But on the positive side, I got a good piece of writing out of it. After all, every coin has two sides hm?

-Neni Kappa (29/8/21)