Giuliana Parente's Literary Piece on Lust

Lust became a secret for many. A red coat of sugar stains the lips, the scent of something

forgotten lingers, and a promise is sworn with a gun pressed to the temple. One forgets they

have the power to decide what to pursue, what to become in this life. Thus, everything

learned in the past becomes meaningless; what was once known simply vanishes. This often

happens when pain strikes the heart.

Some days, the memory of sirens’ voices echoes in the brain. The self remembers—it always

will. Pain is piercing, igniting a fire within the body. Nothing will ever feel the way the

body’s memory does; what is stored inside us remains forever. Fingertips that will never be

forgotten lead one to search for them again and again.

Lust is a shelter for many—it always has been. Yet it is a dangerous line, a dangerous drug.

Many ancient Greek philosophers saw it as something to fear, something to run from. Yet, in

traditional mythology, as well as in most Greek tragedies, lust—considered an ecstasy, an

overcoming of the rational self—was a crucial element. A good example is Euripides’

tragedy The Bacchae. This reveals how deeply lust is woven into human nature, an

inseparable part of us. Lust is a defense mechanism, a lie that makes the truth subtly sweeter.

Many sink in lust, drifting away from themself completely. It is a subtle line, a subtle lie: the

sin Anna Karenina’s complexity was reduced to, church’s biggest enemy. Lust is not a body:

it is ecstasies – for those that long for it, it looks like Eden, feeling like a spark, a light –

unpredictability, propitious yearn. Compulsion. The tension of a writer and his pen, a

musician and the notes. John Fosse’s Nobel prize winner book, Septology, explores this

tension during the whole narration through the eyes of a tormented artist whose soul is

haunted by images he was forced to paint, otherwise they would have suffocated him. Kafka

wrote about his attempt, in writing, of “Describing the indescribable”: for the artist’s course

is to be apart of those who give feelings names, definitions, shapes, a meaning into the human

life. An artist’s lust is the need of braking the cages that chain him to a reality his soul, eyes,

flush cannot perceive as own. In a world of lies the artist can’t see his own mistake.

Misconceptions, misappropriation. Denying what’s real spiraling in fever. Fire. Lust’s the

need of breaking free. The rage of a teenager, the scream of a child.

Lust became a secret of many, yet for some’s a torture. Addiction. The shelter of those whose

soul was so tormented that the refuge itself became a new

Dark

Distorted cage.