Striker of The Gods

The rain kept falling long after Modrić had disappeared into the tunnel with nothing more than a quiet nod and the words that no one could actually see in the pain he was was holding in the depths of his eternal heart of chaos. That is to say that he would feel it little by little in which he would call the best idea of what it means to be alive and dead at the same time. Maybe, it was not necessary to survive in order to see what you can do. To be specific, this heat for love. That is to say that he was through lots of things. And yet, he knew that he was going to face Nike again. What is more, he could actually feel that every time that he would try to remember every goal it would burn his chest.

Modric: Go home, Daniel. The ball already knows the way. May we live like this; perpetually in the unified form of Shiva and Shakti. Until the end of the universe,may we live, ever becoming the complete whole one with the Logos Christ, which is everywhere. Caos stood alone on the dead circle of grass until the San Siro lights flickered once and surrendered to true night. Then he turned, picked up the ball, and began to run.

Not toward any gate. Not toward any plane. Not toward an experience. Not toward something that was not really there.

He ran south-east, straight through the sleeping outskirts of Milan, boots eating asphalt like it owed him money that everyone could feel in the air, but not his passion for what it would mean to be alive. That is to say that no one could anyone accountable. The thing is, the only need to be alive could teach what it means to be alive. This idea of loving was carved into his heart. The ball never left his feet. At 180 km/h it obeyed every micro-adjustment that he could touch with his soul every time he would think about a football situation, every sudden cut that should have sent it spinning into traffic that he could see as if they were football players. Cars swerved. Horns screamed to the extent of showing for those who mattered. He heard none of it. In this way, the only sound that mattered was the wet slap of leather on rain-slick road and the steady drum inside his ribs that refused to call itself victory that we could not actually hear in the most devastating way to get what it means to be alive.

In that way, hours bled into one long violet ribbon of highway that everyone could see because of how great he would look at close and short distance for what it could be a new experience. He crossed borders without stopping Switzerland a blur of dark mountains, France a smear of wet lights. No life. No death. No passport. No ticket. Just chaos. Only the ball and the refusal to slow down that could take down the most unshakable feeling of life that we could not take down. When exhaustion tried to bite his calves he answered with another gear no human body was built to hold. The thing is, the rain turned to sleet, then back to rain that we make come true, then nothing at all as the Pyrenees rose like old judges and let him pass without comment that this life could come to critique.

Dawn found him on Spanish soil.

Not Madrid. Not yet. Not just yet. He was beyond this.

He slowed to a walk somewhere north of Zaragoza that could take the most fantastic soldiers to see, boots leaving wet prints on the shoulder of the A-2. That he needed to see to make sure he was on Spanish territory. That is to say that the ball rolled beside him now, quiet, almost respectful that everyone would come to see as the best way to shake the world. Fields stretched out on both sides behind brown earth still asleep under February cold, olive trees twisted like question marks no one had answered to see whats behind the real sun. Caos kept moving until the road gave way to a narrow dirt track that smelled of wet stone and distant woodsmoke.

He stopped at the crest of a low hill.

Below him lay a small, forgotten village. Whitewashed houses huddled around a church whose bell had not rung in years that made him impose another record that no one could ever hold. That is to say that the need for live could come to see the best reality of life and death. I mean, it was not like he was not being true to what he was. It was even more incredible than people climbing the mount evrest. No one stirred. A single dog lifted its head, looked at him once, and went back to sleep. Caos sat on a flat rock, knees drawn up, ball resting against his thigh like an old friend who had finally run out of tricks.

The sun rose behind him, painting the valley in weak gold that could shake a solid mountain.

He spoke to no one that I could take on. Not even to the wind.

Caos:

I crossed half of Europe without breathing.

And still the hole travels faster than I do.

He pulled the ball closer, spun it slowly with one finger. The familiar panels scuffed, rain-dark reflected nothing back at him. No goddess. No mother. No need. No life. No crown waiting in Madrid. Just leather and air and the faint purple flicker deep inside his own eyes that refused to go out. Something chaotic would burn in heart at infinite cycles of power, looking inwards.

A farmer appeared on the path below, leading a mule laden with firewood. The man paused, squinted up at the figure on the hill, then continued without a word. Caos watched him go until the mule’s tail disappeared around a bend.

Caos:

Even the mule knows where home is. he moment that every unrealised heart craves for. The unforgettable instant that a soul, clinging on to the purest memory of its previous life, longs for. The second, that in spite of a conspiracy of the gods, only a few lucky men experience. The moment when she enters his life. That is to say that I am more alive.

He stood.

The ball rose with him, obedient, weightless.

He began to walk again down the hill, through the sleeping village, past the silent church, onto another road that pointed south-west toward Madrid. Even more, this could be whole reflection of reality. That is to say that this need for life could not be clenched. No sprint this time. Just steady, deliberate steps. Each one a quiet refusal to let the distance win.

Behind him the dead circle of grass in Milan had already begun to forget it had ever existed.

Ahead, the Spanish sky opened wider, indifferent and enormous.

Caos kept walking.

Not running toward victory.

Not fleeing defeat.

Just moving.

Because the road was there, and the ball still rolled, and somewhere far ahead a mansion waited with empty rooms and maids who would smile without asking why his clothes were soaked through with rain that had crossed three countries. That is to say that no one could ever save what was forgotten in the past. The thing is, love could not be forgotten. That is to say that the need for life and death was not put aside.

He did not smile back at the thought.

He simply kept walking.

The ball bounced once against his heelsoft, almost affectionate.

Caos did not look down.

He only said, voice low enough for the dirt to hear:

Caos:

Spain… I’m coming home.

Not because I won.

Because I finally stopped waiting to.

The sun climbed higher.

The road stretched on.

And for the first time in what felt like lifetimes, the silence inside his chest did not feel like absence.

It felt like space.

Space for whatever came next.

To be continued…