The grit of dust on my tongue now feels like the taste of the air itself, heavy with rain that hasn't fallen and the low sound of voices that are not my own.
Thinking back now, from this mixed-up place where sense argues with feeling for control of my spirit, those early years feel like a totally different life. A life lived in a world that felt simple and open, not full inside my own head with things I couldn't see.
I remember it was when I was ten years old. Before the quiet sounds became a big noise, before the orders fought to be in charge, before the steady noise inside, there was just… outside. And my place in it felt clear, like a simple line drawn in the dry earth heated by the sun, easy to see and follow.
I wasn't quiet then. Not like Euboa Leukē, my younger sister, who even back then liked the corners of rooms more and being with her own thoughts. I saw her, small and pale, watching from doors, her eyes fixed on movements she didn't join, a still shape next to the world that was moving. But I was bright and made loud sounds, pulled to groups of children like a moth to a lamp light when it gets dark. Moving towards others felt natural, like a stream flowing to the sea. Making friends came easy, like picking ripe figs from a low branch. Talking came easier still; the words came out without trying hard. I shared my thoughts, told about my games using many words, made sounds I knew were laughter, high and fast. The world felt open, big and blue, a place meant for finding things and shared secrets whispered close to an ear, warm against the skin.
"Using up energy in many places is not helpful. Being with people you don't need to be with has no clear reason why. Loud sounds use up breath for nothing, giving no useful result," the deep voice said inside me now, looking at the memory like facts only, without feeling, thinking about saving energy.
"But the warmth! The feeling of being together felt good to the heart! The sounds we shared were… happy! It made the spirit feel bright, like the sun on skin!" the softer voice answered back, her bell sound strong, speaking for the memory because of the strong feeling it brought out, a basic happy feeling. "That feeling is the reason why! The spirit needs warmth to grow!"
My closest friend in that open world was Philistos Chlōros. Philistos, whose smile meant showing teeth quickly, a flash of white against his face made brown by the sun, and whose knees always showed scrapes from something exciting he did right away. His hair was the pale green-yellow of young leaves after rain, always falling across his forehead, catching the light.
We were always together. Where I went, he followed, a shadow looking like me, or maybe I followed him just as often, walking just as fast. Being near Philistos felt like sunshine on my skin and a comfortable stone in my hand; it was a simple, good feeling of comfort and ease, a strong link between us. We shared everything – dried figs we snuck from bowls Mother had left cooling ("These taste like sweetness and danger, Himerios!" he'd whisper, his pale green eyes wide, showing the light), quiet ideas about the old man who lived by the olive tree (Geron Polios, who sat like a stone and watched with grey eyes that seemed to know everything but said nothing), secret ideas made from looking at the shapes of the clouds drifting across a sky that then felt only big and blue, not heavy with weight I couldn't name.
One day, near the place where the boats are, on the old stones that smelled of salt and fish, a group of us were playing a simple game of chase among the boats pulled onto the land. There was Kindeinos Glaukos, small but brave, whose face would get red when he ran fast and whose grey-blue eyes didn't miss a thing. And Phobos Achloos, who stayed back near the wall, looking at the ground, his hair dark like night, his movements slow and seemed shy. Axios Psammos, his hair the colour of dry sand, was already running, shouting sounds as he moved fast between the boats. "Catch me if you can!" Axios yelled, his voice high.
"Running after things that move fast has no smart way to win unless catching is the goal. Think about getting food or building a place to stay. Running gives you nothing useful if you don't have a clear reason why," the deep voice said, looking at the memory like a cold fact-finder, thinking about the rules of the game.
"But the feeling! The wind on the face! The fast beating of the heart! It feels like just moving! Like the spirit is running free!" the softer voice argued, speaking for the game because of the body and spirit feeling it brought out. "The spirit needs to move to feel alive!"
Philistos and I shared a look that didn't need words, a quick look of eyes that was faster than any sound Axios made. It was a simple, clear message that felt like a bridge between us, strong and silent. We liked a different game more, one that took hours and days and didn't need balls or races or running after things that flew away. It needed only air to breathe and ground to stand upon. It needed us to make new worlds inside our own heads, worlds that felt more real than the one outside.
We would find a clear patch of ground – the dry yard behind my house, where the sun made the earth hot and the air looked wavy with heat, smelling of heated earth; a place with sun and shadows near the stream, where the air was cooler and smelled of wet stone and green growing things, quiet and closed in; even just a corner of the market after the stands were put away, leaving straight shapes on the swept ground under the light that was going away, smelling of spilled wine and old spices. That patch of ground became our world, a space separate from the usual, empty to others, but to us, full of big chances, a special stage. And we were the ones who lived there.
We weren't Himerios Galázios and Philistos Chlōros there. We were… others. And one 'other' became my favourite more than any others, a shape I went back to again and again in the dust, pushed by a feeling I couldn't name then, a deep pull towards becoming.
"Using time for things that don't make anything useful is not helpful. Pretending to be someone else gives you nothing helpful for living or for how people see you. It does not make sense compared to learning skills like catching fish or tying ropes," the deep voice judged from the distance of my mind now, looking at the past through its strict view of reason and what is helpful.
"It was the start of a fire! A strong feeling in the spirit! It felt like flying, even standing still! It felt like becoming something more than just a body walking or running!" the softer voice answered back, her voice getting stronger, being in charge of the space inside, speaking for the memory because of the strong feeling it brought out, a sound of deep wanting in its bell sound. "The spirit needs strong feeling to live well! It is something useful! It is the truth of the self that people can see!"
This ground we chose was our stage. The air here felt like it looked wavy with chances, thicker with what could be than the air anywhere else. It was where the simple stick in my hand was more than wood, but a weapon or a tool, and Philistos's quick movements were more than just a boy running, but a creature or a force. It was where the world outside went away, its sounds softer, and the world we made together became the only one that was important. It felt like walking into a secret place that only we knew, a place made of air and sound and wanting. It was here that I learned the feeling of being someone else. It was here that I first felt the power of becoming.
"You be the creature from the deep today!" Philistos would say, his pale green eyes bright shapes in his face.
"Alright! And I am the one who faces the creature! I am the strongest!" I would say right away, the word fast and loud, pushed by a very strong feeling of rightness and power that filled my chest.
"Then roar, creature! And I will make sounds like the sea itself turning over!" he would say, bending down low and making a deep sound in his chest, his voice changing, living out the part.
The sunlight felt hotter on our skin then, brighter, showing the strong feeling of the world we built with sounds and movements. It was here, in this simple game played out on dusty ground, that my favourite other, the shape of a hero, truly took shape, not yet named, but felt. This becoming felt like leaving my body behind and stepping into something bigger, made of air and sound and wanting. It felt like finding my true self, hidden beneath the normal skin, waiting to be called out onto an empty stage.