The sun's rays ran their golden fingers through the lush canopy of the trees. Each leaf shone and trembled slightly in the fresh breeze. The stream roared noisily and on its way caressed the whitish pebbles that could be seen from the clear bottom. Fragrant flowers hovered over him and mirrored their heads in the water mirror. The sweet chirping of birds mingled with the noise of the stream and with its song celebrated nature in its majestic beauty. In the distance, the snowy Olympus was white.
"Those screaming birds again!" My head is shooting. The gods must have been in a trance when they gave them that "gift" of singing. What a gift, it's a pure apparatus of coercion over those who would like to cool off after a hot good night. I don't tear them to that "chanting", but, uh, my head tears me off. My horns seem to hurt, too.
Awakened from a midday nap, so to speak violently torn from sleep, the satyr scratched his horns indignantly and stroked his disheveled beard. The party at Dionysus was good tonight, the wine - never better. The thing is that he is "doing" it even now, his brain is as if ground and he wants to explode in a heavy, cloudy skull, he can barely look into his eyes bloodshot from red nectar. But he doesn't regret it for a moment. And only orgies… Those nymphs did not spare him. And neither did he, heh, heh. Well, two at a time. And he wanted to try it, why not, a little hard, but it paid off. Great trip. And that Dionysus, he's a talker. He knows how to live. Divine, of course. We who are not that elite must use every moment. No stopping, no looking back, standing still and wasting time. Life is one and should be spent to the maximum. At full speed. You should not forgive anything that comes your way. That is, none. Like any satyr, he was weak on beautiful nymphs. To spot them as they rested in the shady shade, braided their long hair, splashed on the water of lakes and streams, his eyes would glaze over and he knew one of them must soon be his. He didn't always get what he wanted at first, but in the end they would give in. Yes, he lied to them, made them up, told them what they wanted to hear, but the goal does not choose the means. What is the life of satire if not the boundless indulgence of lust and all bodily pleasures. His immense libido was what guided him, guided him, determined his actions and gave them meaning. He sowed children, he certainly knew at least one thing, but they were only collateral by-products of his sensual pleasures. It didn't bother him in the least. Wine, nymphs and that fragrant grass that would burn to the glory of the gods and that would enlighten all his senses, so that he would be even crazier and more ornate for a party, were all that was worth existing in this world. And a little poetry. The satyr learned from one traveling aed the power of verse, the ability to pour some of his being into his mold, to glorify himself. Eventually, he would turn some dark moment into verses, because there were such and such people here and there, and that's how he got rid of it. Sometimes he would get entangled in his lies, so it would leave a nasty taste in his mouth, and somewhere in the depths, but he would quickly deal with that little bit of inner hell and heal on the go. And what lies, it was more his eternally inflamed imagination, what he would like to be, so it happened, for him. At least he was always honest with himself. Others saw and interpreted it a little differently, but he did not care much for others, neither for their praise nor criticism.
- What's up, my brother, I see, you haven't recovered since last night. And we killed ourselves.
He was approached by another satyr, an old acquaintance and last night's comrade in bahanali. He was not so bothered by the hangover and it seems that he was plowed to recount the details of the joint enjoyment. But our satire was not interested in it, it was behind him now, and had it not been for this headache, he would have been ready for a new hunt for quick pleasures. And it seemed to him that she, too, was waning, slowing down, so he encouraged his friend to suggest a walk, hoping that it would make him even clearer. He turned out to be right. As the day approached, they calmed down, he felt like new, reborn. He endured the thumping of the other, who did not close his mouth until they approached a rocky bay, from where the well-known pearly laughter came. Something like a warm tickle flowed through both of them. Sheltered by the bushes, they came closer and saw the always enchanting sight: nymphs were sitting on the scattered rocks, chatting, singing and splashing on the water with their bare snow-white legs. The satyrs struggled to overcome the excitement that gripped them. They did not want to reveal their presence to them, they knew that this was the moment when, as a sign that someone was watching them, the nymphs would disperse and deprive them of the opportunity to at least see them in such a relaxed edition. There were some rules of the game of seduction and conquest, one on one. Except on those special nights of "mania." They knew most of the girls. As they watched them from the sidelines, our satire was drawn to a nymph that stood at a distance from the others, lonely, bent over the water and all as if committed to the expectation of something only known to her. She wasn't particularly pretty like the others, she had some huge eyes like two tears that almost rolled away. Her long blond hair gently framed the face on which the set had left its shadow. Usually something like that did not attract him, he ran away from the sorrow of his own and others as far as possible, but somehow, this unusual phenomenon intrigued the satire.
- Who is she over the water, I don't remember seeing her before?
- Ah, that's Echo. She is a mountain nymph, and she sometimes goes down to the water. Strange, on her own, is one of those that they don’t give to anyone. I would say mentally disturbed sunshine, if you get me. They say that she fell in love with a character named Narcissus, so this one freaked her out, and she's been even crazier ever since. And he has a speech disorder, he doesn't say anything alone, he just repeats what others say. Creepy. That must be why that Narcissus kicked her, and she's not a fish, realistically. Although, I only heard about him that he was twisted, as if he fell in love with himself, that is. in his reflection on the water and withered from longing for himself. Watch what kind of patient you have to be to be so exhausted! Severe masturbation. She must be suffering for him even now, waiting for him to call her out of the water, whatever. Sadness, brother.
Our satire did not "burn" much on such sad life stories, but he thought that he had a wire for something different, which deviates from the usual, typical. And he loved to try everything. That's how the worm of some kind of challenge worked in him even now. He was with so many nymphs, challenging, cheerful, debauched, smiling… What would it be like to "try" this one with, as they say, "sadness in his eyes". He has no intention of banishing that grief from them, he did not plant it there, and even if he did, let everyone solve their problems. Nor would he linger there for long. But why not try, there is nothing to lose. And if he might get it, who knows how much he would give in to his accumulated and unlived passions, what would she allow him to do once he is in his power… The thought made his already hot blood stir. He decided to approach her.
He started with the usual tactics, flattery. That goes with all women, and I guess this is just a woman. He approached her carelessly, one evening, while, as usual, she was sitting hunched over the water.
- Hey, I like your demeanor. Are you sure you're a nymph, not a goddess?
- Goddess, repeated the confused Echo.
- What, they never told you that? But they certainly told you that you were extremely beautiful.
"Beautiful," Echo said again.
"Oh, brother, this is a very difficult case," the satyr thought. "How do you even talk about this?" Although, it's not that talking to her is what interests me. It doesn't matter, I will say everything that comes to my mind, so maybe something will happen. " And he told her, without expecting an answer, about himself, about what sometimes bothers him, about "intoxication with her beauty", he even recited his verses to her. And he liked that someone listened to him so silently and carefully, looking at him with those big eyes, it would be said with understanding and approval. Although still distrustful and scared. This made him somewhat angry, he did not have the patience or time to work on her affection and trust, they were only necessary for one-time use anyway. Still, he hoped to relax soon.
And Echo? At first she was astonished and it was not clear to her what that stranger wanted from her. For too long, amused by her pain, sunk into it and separated from the world by it like an invisible veil, she was almost unaware of the existence of other people, let alone willing to come into contact with them. And all of a sudden, this satyr jumps from foot to foot in front of her and tells her some nonsense. He was funny compared to her Narcissus. But little by little, she began to like what she heard. Like when dry earth greedily absorbs rare raindrops. Narcissus never gave her a shred of his attention, he always just chased her away. And then she began to listen more carefully to the satirical verses. They were not something profound, nor meaningful, but she saw in them a trace of what was deep inside her, which flowed through her whole being to stay and petrify in her eyes. The same sadness and loneliness. At least that's how it seemed to her. That's what she only believed in.
The satyr was already on the brink. He spoke openly to her about his wish, but Echo did not react. He struggled with himself to continue to act fine, refraining from saying and showing what he really meant. After all, he didn't want anything by force, it wasn't his manner, the point and the real sweetness of the victory was that she surrendered herself. But as the concession went very slowly, the satyr began to lose interest. The peak of passion had already passed him, and other nymphs lured him with their unequivocally inviting smiles. Much easier prey. He didn't even notice how important he became to Echo, how much his words became morphine for her constant pain. When she finally held out her hands to him, he was already on his way, no longer looking back. Echo was at first amazed, struck by this new rejection, which deepened the old wound. Eventually she realized: both the satyr and Narcissus are all just different faces of the same being, the one for whom he constantly extends his hands in desperate hope, seeking tenderness and intimacy, and which always eludes her, giving her nothing and leaving her only an awareness of essential solitude. She retreated deep into the mountains, no longer descending to the water to imagine Narcissus reflecting on her. She also stopped dreaming. Rare intentional travelers, however, say that her voice can still be heard through the mountain.
A satire? He still sticks to Dionysus, intoxicating wines and herbs, hunts nymphs, sings, lies, that is. imagination. He lives a consistent satirical life, as different as the gods created him. There is no longer a desire for experiments like the one with Echo, and thank heaven, he doesn't come across such nymphs often on his way. And there is no giving up. And he will rest - only when he is not there.