The following article was published in N-SPHERE February 2012 issue.


My eyes hurt. Perverse pain circles around them, waiting with dark magic at its side to render useless the broken retina, distorting an already impoverished vision of everything. Amidst all this, the iris knows me. All my deeds go on record in the windows of my soul. All my punishments are listed and checked as I atone for one sin after another, and as such maybe freeing up space for something else.

The iris is my vengeful guardian. Painted in creepy colours of war, it holds me accountable for the past, guiding my steps to the future, if it feels like. Its pattern changes as the path I tread upon is reinvented day by day, though it is unknown to us why or by whom. It just is.

The iris is my not to be trusted friend. Would crucify me or hang me out to dry the first chance it gets, to the amusement of some modern plebs, not even the inner self tiny escape corner being spared the humiliation and disdain.

And then, it ripped from top to bottom. Without mercy, without warning. Now, my eyes are tainted, almost pleading with me to be put out of their misery. One split second, and their concentric circles are lost to the purity within, feeling the heavier shadow of the iris.

The iris simply is.

text & artwork by Bahak B

Full article here.