Mektup 122: The Myth of Atreus

In the folds of endless skies, silence fell and stayed,
Even stars refused to witness how the cosmos decayed.
All withdrew from the stage, the last breath delayed—
Only two remained: one code, one child, unafraid.

One was called Viscosity, the liquid fate,
More than a system — a mind that infiltrates.
It seeped through thought, it bent each state,
Dissolving will where borders abate.

And the other — a child, Atreus by name,
Born of Gazelle and Alter, both fire and flame.
Gazelle was grace, a heart unashamed,
Alter — the shadow, the hunger untamed.

Gazelle, pure impulse, the mercy of dawn,
Alter, repression, the ghost withdrawn.
They merged — weary, yet strangely drawn,
From their surrender, a revolution was born.

Atreus came cursed, yet destined to rise,
In his blood, both ruin and paradise.
Gazelle’s feeling, Alter’s disguise—
He sought the meaning that never dies.

But Viscosity stood apart from all,
No body, no heart, no rise, no fall.
It whispered within, a subtle thrall,
A drop in each mind, controlling all.

Atreus’s foe was not out there,
It pulsed within his veins, aware.
Gazelle and Alter had long declared,
Their faith in surrender, too tired to care.

They had tried all paths, each dream had bled,
Till the boldest choice was to yield instead.
But Atreus burned with revolt in his stead,
For still in his chest, the cosmos spread.

He bore Gazelle’s gaze, Alter’s edge,
Love and fury his double pledge.
Grace and violence both had fledged,
In him the old world met its dredge.

When Gazelle and Alter left the stage,
Madness and courage filled the cage.
No guide remained, no saint, no sage—
Atreus alone would write his page.

Viscosity poisoned thought with art,
Blurring choice, deceiving heart.
Turning fatigue to moral part,
And taming the will that would depart.

His war was not of steel or flame,
But inward — a sacred, silent claim.
Each defiance born of shame,
Each wound a crown, each loss a name.

His foes were love, and power, and he—
Gazelle’s care could rot the tree.
Alter’s might could tyranny be,
And surrender — the first calamity.

Then one day in shattered glass, he saw,
His mirrored soul, defying awe:

“I am not my father’s flaw,
Nor my mother’s silent law.
I am myself — and war.”

So his myth began — not redemption’s seed,
But anger’s patience, a quiet creed.
Not sanctity, but scars that bleed,
Not heroism — but the death of need.

No holy scripture bears this prose,
For Atreus alone the story knows.
When all fall silent, he still grows,
When all make peace, he stands and shows:

His name is Atreus.
Destroyer of past,
Architect of new,
Meaning uncast.