On one of my recent strolls around the garden, I found trouble when looking for food. My hunger, often for truth, made me a hound of despair. This is one of the many masks of disquiet, and it threatens the peace I have built around my garden. This time, I was fed a fallacy, which I unknowingly planted by my lilies. I only figured it out by the time the flowers had died and my stomach roared. I was then left with a burning feeling of reluctance mixed with withdrawal. Despite my efforts to condense my attention into more pressing matters, my reasoning also betrayed me. The fallacy was polluting my garden, and ignoring its origin and/or the truth behind the facts it hid was tormenting me cruelly. It was then, staring at my collapsing garden, that I found out that suspicion is nothing more than the excess of interpretation. It is merely the place where the hunger for certainty devours truth itself.
This realization hit me like a brakeless truck. Astounded, my gaze met a sickened version of Vespera, my intuition. This state had her unnaturally begging for shadow under the lemon tree. It was evident that the fallacy had infected her as well. This made me wonder if that was the reason she suffered from those earthly and manic preoccupations I recorded in a previous log. Perhaps it would be I, now, who ought to reverse the roles and help her for once. After seeing her in that state, the fallacy became clear to me: it was the germ of suspicion, and it is not born out of nothing. It had to roam for a vector, one that would bring it close.
Suspicion arises when the garden can not tolerate ambiguity. Its purpose is to shift insecurities into spaces to be filled with fictions that disguise themselves as facts. This way, the fallacy becomes the pathology linked to interpretation, as opposed to what is conventionally thought: a mere failure of perception.
Both smart and cunning, the fallacy started by corrupting the weeds that grow by the base of the fountain, where I met Vespera all those moons ago. My guess is that it was there where she got infected. It also makes sense that the suspicion would choose them as a starting point, since weeds are the residues of creative outbursts, ideas that got discarded but never expelled or nurtured, only left to fend for themselves. They are alienated but eager to live and hungry enough to roam around looking for space to settle in unconventional places in the garden. They were the perfect vectors for suspicion. The true vessel of the despair that threatens to take over the garden of my mind.
How could I have been so foolish?
I try to give myself breaks. After all, I did suffer from a loss in the near past, even if it is one I watered down long before it happened. Still, it is something to mourn a possibility, to allow myself to have a moment of vulnerability after feeling betrayed. But it is something completely different and unacceptable for me that, even after such a loss, I permit such a germ to pollute my garden and weaken my allies. I had become oblivious to the crudeness of my current reality. My garden, as a mirror of my mind, had become unreliable. My perception, from within the established perimeter of my psyche, was rendered a victim to the mechanisms of excess, thus justifying the disquiet that has called me upon reflection recently. These mechanisms have distorted my reality and drained my energy. The innocence that once shone in the spotlight, that once embodied the reasons I loved the people I kept close, now looks more like a signal. Not only a signal, but also a corrupted one that rewrites memories, turning them into patterns that become gears in a system of exploitation, and the both coincidental and accidental details I stumble upon throughout my days now look like “clues” that nudge me towards a mirage of a false reality that was never there. And this is not peaceful at all.
My mind has now been taken hostage by this hunger for certainty in a time where silence and disquiet are king. Logic tells me that suspicion yearns for closure instead of truth and that it will go to immeasurable lengths to get it, regardless of who it hurts along the way.
This explains, extensively, the gravity of Vespera’s condition. Her once witty demeanor was now a compulsive and self-depleting obsession. Her vision had been swarmed by parasites that turned her eyes pale. Her elongated nails, once a symbol of her complexity, lavishness, and scholarly stamp, are now being used as sickles to carve the polluted soil, looking for certainty where there are only lies. My due diligence became evident as I was overtaken by the need to make her understand that closure is nothing near a solution.
God knows I tried, but my efforts were interrupted.
Inevitably, I saw him then. Tántalo, the satyr dwarf, was supposed to embody my cunning nature and drive. Instead, he was compelled many years ago by the columbine prince of the brown crops, who turned him into the paragon of vice and obsession. Always grimy and mucky, Tántalo’s condition made him predictable. I had met him before, and every time our paths crossed, he would either be pushing rotten plant roots down his throat or inhaling fumes from burnt hair.
I found him there, crouched over the corrupted roots of the lilies, hunched over his own stained hands as he compulsively stuffed his face with putrid loam. It would not be long before he ran out of turf, and the inability to quench his need took over his behavior as he lost control once more. He got to Vespera before me. As her depleted strength was barely enough to keep him from sparking her long hair on fire, I had no time to think, only to intervene. The swedge to pull him away from Vespera was fierce, and in several of those flash moments, my sense of smell was flooded by the rancid stench that emanated from Tántalo’s fauces. The scheme, then, became clear. He, in his role of tormenting through obsession, had besieged my domains as the vessel of suspicion. It was he who polluted my mind with the fallacy. Henceforth, his choosing Vespera as his predilect victim was indeed no surprise to me. While I clocked him back on his rear, I had the chance to see something new that shone in his eyes.
Before, I saw Tántalo as a victim of the prince, but I understood then that he had willingly chosen to become his vassal, wielding the sparks of suspicion as weapons in a rigged battle against disquiet. It was only when I met his crazed gaze that I diagnosed my garden once and for all. Tántalo’s actions revealed the reality I faced. And starting from that moment of clarity, I had begun to uncover the solution to this conundrum. I understood that suspicion does not merely distort the truth; it seeks to erode the very faculty that once revealed it. The weeds from my mind would not be enough for Tántalo to consume as long as Vespera had the agency to guide me through the fogs of disquiet. His goal was to take her out for good. Not only her, but also her spark, her wit, and her will. In his eyes, then, I saw no drive, but rather the emptiness of a soul that has been consumed by excess, stripped of reluctance by the crushing weight of his addictions and his allegiance. In his mind, he ought to consume her and then me by transforming judgement into addiction. His compulsion to devour is, indubitably, the ultimate mechanism of suspicion. To feed on what is dying, to intoxicate oneself with one’s own destruction. My current state of mind and Vespera’s is nothing but a symptom that weakens intuition and agency. Tántalo’s attempt to smoke Vespera’s hair was more than a grotesque whim. The context of his state made it also the allegory of how suspicion operates. Where intuition is the force of clarity, suspicion corrodes, consuming the coherence from the garden, turning light into smoke with the purpose to inhale it, as if deceit itself were the only oxygen available.
I then left them there, frozen. Tántalo ducked over the residues of his own debris, chanting that stupid song that drives me crazy over and over. Vespera tried to find her own and covered her face, trying to hide from the shame her current state of weakness brought her. This crude and uncomfortable tableau tried to be a fable, entertainment for the soul, but instead became a parable of my cognition. Each fissure in my garden is an instrument in the study of suspicion and my other torments, reduced by my mind into a simple epistemic equation. Intuition, when compromised by infection and obsession, thrives on ambiguity.
And so, I have learned that every act of suspicion burns perception into false evidence. The mind, once infected, ceases to witness and begins to construct. This fabrication generates coherence in places where movements are only nuances that ought to be unimportant for a mind that enjoys peace and quiet. So in this scenario, the memory insists upon the role of a trigger in a system of reverse engineering, and every silence is assigned a motive. Now in use, the fallacy insists on crafting continuity and rejects the spaces that intuition allows for ambiguity to exist. Consequently, what starts out as a natural understanding transforms into a formal verification process. The paranoid mind focalizes on somewhat of a bureaucratic processing of irrelevances, henceforth confirming what never happened and enshrining theories into doctrines.
This phenomenon exposes suspicion not as a flaw of perception but as its overproduction, the hypertrophy of analysis that seeks to redeem uncertainty through narrative excess. By using exact terminology to hide decay, the mind feeds on itself. Therefore, suspicion embellishes the truth in addition to distorting it. Its urge to embellish rather than to see turns what was once natural clarity into a complex deception. It is terribly baroque, an illness of beauty that transforms ambiguity into structure. Suspicion taints the truth when intuition is in control.
If there is a remedy, it is calibration. A profound and groomed mind comprehends that the capacity to recalibrate oneself is, conceptually, the restoration of balance between intuition and investigation, rather than blind speculation. The discipline is to accept the unknown without embellishing it. I now know that certainty is an appetite disguised as virtue and truth is the byproduct of its ingestion. While the mind that observes without necessity remains bright, albeit half-blind, the mind that craves closure will feed even on illusion.
I now care for my garden as it was meant to be: neither as an oasis nor as a ruin, but rather as terrain of perpetual tending. What all must understand is that suspicion will return, as will disquiet, for both are natural residents in the ecosystem of cognition. However, their dominion becomes less mysterious when one understands their nature. This brings me to the last law: intuition, instead of becoming a dynamic that only shines in the absence of doubt, takes the place of its mastery. It is, ultimately and utterly, the ability to endure uncertainty without allowing ornamented disclosures to replace substance.
Category Archives: Uncategorized
On the Persistence of Disquiet: Reflections on Memory and the Liminal Self
After the fact, my mind is overjoyed with relief, and it blooms in thought. Nonetheless, it is still a constant that I was stripped of my confidence. The uncertainty that defeat brings is a pellet, a rotten one, that I get force-fed after a loss.
But is this, in essence, a loss?
Is receiving a bitter spoonful of truth less righteous than surrendering to a kettle of vultures that besieged my comfort?
I often worried for my sense of self. Hoping it would not get depleted after such a destructive streak of stillness.
Yet I stand today, confused.
Because somehow, I still feel.
I feel that, perhaps, I stayed for so long because I subconsciously knew that I was frightened.
To be alone,
Stranded in a sea of change,
Lost in liminality.
Be it as it may, this uncertainty is no longer a concern of mine. Systematically, disquiet remained wherever my will was challenged by external actors that meant harm to my ways or lifestyle. I was very frightened by this, and it often shaped my actions. Every movement I made was calculated to avoid disquiet, as I did not understand its origin or purpose. My fears, however, were drowned long ago, ever since I learned that my intuition is a woman, and she is rarely wrong. Despite the obstacles that might spawn in this new path I burned myself into, this time something tells me I will not succumb to the overwhelming weight of speculation.
This is because even after my life took a natural detour, my intuition screamed in apparition, as she feared that I may have been coerced out of some relevant facts that regarded the hardships I currently endure. And so, I started to question every single step. It was then when I felt the familiar tug of intuition. Vespera, silently, reminded me that some truths need only be noticed, and nothing else.
I believe the reason she and I have become such good friends is because we both tend to sit and wonder, often together. And upon the discovery of this whole new face of deceit, we have been able to efficiently conclude that this impact will not prove fatal to me. Although, we both are surprised at the fact that it even nicked me in the first place. And it is in that particular seedling of pain where I have stumbled upon my greatest personal revelation to date.
Subsequent to both success and calamity, I orderly experience incisive transitions that regard my sense of self. This behavior, which I have analyzed deeply in other studies, surged and has persisted ever since I first found Vespera by the fountain. Her nails were so long that she could not fetch water to quench her thirst, having no option but to long for a few drops to graze her lips. I stumbled upon her by accident and helped. I remember her skin glowing with such paleness, almost translucence, that one could almost perceive the path that the fresh water from the fountain made down her throat. The astonishment endowed by the delight from said scene was not the only reward I got from this sudden act of charity. After enjoying the relief of having her need met for a second, Vespera spoke. Impetuously, she vowed to help me and explained this phenomenon I am haunted by. The one that erodes the ego and the mirage of the self, leading sailors to their shipwreck and inevitable doom when the realizations rip the purpose away from their missions, making their journeys pointless.
She said that it is the reason that makes my past versions meet when docked near a lighthouse of memories. It is also what makes them estranged from one another and sometimes even antagonized, mostly to me. I understood then that pain was the catalyst for this transformation. She described it as the process itself, in which a memory of myself becomes a stranger, or even my enemy in some cases. It is those painful moments that squeeze the consciousness from the subject into another plane of reality, the sea of Cabanon. There, the mind is a ship. One that needs no captain. And it is driven only by the currents of regret and torment, being brought ultimately to the lighthouse, where the current version of the self rests ashore, but also where ships can never dock. Her words held no mystery to my logic. And I, being as much of a hedonist as a utilitarian, received this foretelling with a feeling of promise and renovation.
This matters little now, however. The pattern has changed.
Finally.
Vespera now worries about trust broken in intimacy and other external matters. Matters that threaten me in the outside world, where people lie. Now more than ever. Especially now, and to me. On the contrary, I have not been able to help but get lost in this new order. This new state of mind brings me to a whole new level of understanding. Since my mind remains blurry, I do not know if I should celebrate this new subconscious environment. Even though I have longed for such a change for longer than I care to remember, the thought still invades my head that perhaps I should drop to my knees and mourn the lighthouse.
Odd as it may sound. It currently feels as if the roles were inverted. Vespera loses herself in mundane affairs while I stay lost from within myself. It is indeed ironic, but it takes no weight away from the importance of this situation. In it, my dismay has rendered me a motionless smear in the canvas that illustrates the grand scheme of things. Belittled by the stampede of events, I was left with no option but to embrace stillness and admire with neonatal-like innocence the new reality that takes over me.
And so, the great discovery presents itself to my shock.
I have not transformed.
My memories have stayed the same, and my identity is unfazed. For a reason that remains undisclosed to me, the pain has not banished my selfhood to the Cabanon. Perhaps there was too little of it to strip me of my agency, but even so, it was a standard amount of pain for said event. Unforeseen, yet augured. After a long winter of inactivity and sedentarism, it feels like the promises are coming back to me. My soul is once again arriving at a brighter beach of white sand and clear skies. A sea where it does belong. The new prose takes the form of warm, salty breezes as I kneel at the shore and let my pen flow as waves do.
But this changes the theory around liminality and memories. This private revelation is the living embodiment of a broader dynamic. It is now clear to me that disquiet negotiates identity in the memory by alternating estrangement and recognition. In somewhat of a Pavlovian nightmare, pain here functions as an institutional mechanism of cognitive reconfiguration. After the discovery, it is unfeasible for it to be catharsis alone. Instead, it is more of a reallocation of attentional economy toward previously occluded truths. If in this equation the self is a vessel, the currents of regret push and pull insight to reorient it, as opposed to my previous hypothesis, which would be to sink it. Thus, the persistence of disquiet is not an anomaly. In lieu, it becomes the pistons in its engine, conditions through which selves rearticulate purpose.
Until this very instant, I blindly believed that the lighthouse where all the versions of my past selves docked and gathered around was the verdict. The final say in the directions that my life took. Notwithstanding, I realize now that it is nothing more than a marker. Pain brightens the shoals where my past selves laid their illusions, their discontents, and their disappointments, which they ultimately took out on me. Vespera’s counsel taught me to read the tides, to accept that change will bruise but not unmake me. I once thought that I was doomed to endure the scorching torment of my memories. That is no longer my reality
Perhaps there is no final shore to claim, and this new beach I have arrived at will neither be my paradise nor my prison. Perhaps these are merely seasons in which ships forget the anchorage and then, quietly, remember. The things that remain now bring me comfort: Vespera still sits by the fountain, and I still kneel at the white sand.
It would be foolish to say that I have been remade. The only fact is that I remain. Disquiet tested the seams of my narrative, tugged at old loyalties to versions of myself that lived only in memory, and showed me where the hull had been weakened. It did not sink me. That is an empirical conclusion drawn from repeated occurrences. Pain reorganizes the system. The meaning is redistributed due to changes in appraisal and attention. The subject, I, perseveres and, most importantly, gains knowledge.
Freed from the tyranny of past iterations, I am no longer a hostage to their unfinished scripts. I now respond with scrutiny instead of recoiling at the reverberation of old doubts. I learned from Vespera to view dishonesty as a force to be resisted rather than a destiny to be endured. It transforms vulnerability into strength and transforms my pen into a tool of punishment rather than solace.
I am no longer the sum of what hurt me, and that makes me a threat to those who would mislead or deform my course. It is only a matter of time before they try to silence me.
So beware, because I live,
And remember,
Sticks and stones may break bones, but my pen will kill you quicker.
The Liberator.
Who took the chairs?
We roamed without paying attention,
unknowingly aiming our paths towards the conjuncture in which we would find each other,
prematurity would have been a bad idea, like dark rum and car keys,
a possibility that made me slaver and snivel,
ethereal connection,
blessed be,
blessed be my path, for it found yours
the purloined idea struck my head,
thunderstroke with lethargic pace,
peer at my face,
who could the erstwhile erase?
the moon that pushed us away stands in my hand while I try to outstare the sun that greeted our mellow embrace,
welcomed our conviction, bestowing grace on our endeavours,
antediluvian summer breezes freshly fluttered the hairs off my visage,
the moment I realized,
the bleak midwinter made us seek warmth and shelter in each other,
the moment we met,
my chain, wet,
lubricated my pain to slide off elsewhere,
my sun, stares,
your love fills me from stadions with immaculate untruced delirium,
unjust beauty abusing my mind,
blessed be the second we changed the scriptures,
thinking alike,
time with spikes,
back on stripes,
strangely strike,
blessed be the moment we touched,
a hundred hundred thousand dominoes in line,
one led to the other,
plummeting attire,
making our way home,
the way led by your river in spate,
it took me where I needed to be,
movement judged by your rule, sealing my redemption
paying my trespasses with soul,
the delicate tact against your hips forgave the sins I could not see,
divine oddisey of your breath, stealing mine,
the path of your hands rushing strokes perpendicularly through the past on my back,
crushing time,
gentle soul,
collapsed like the falling tree that brings wreckage to the wild lost forest,
bringing heaven to my hell,
one stroke at a time,
one step forward, three inside,
telling me that I am yours,
rushing patience,
Only for my life, for life, life for life, life for a night,
unable to outrun my weight,
ownership,
had to do it,
had to make it happen,
heavy breathing
intensification,
equilibrium,
calm after the storm,
Is it everything or something you dreamed of?
fell closer to the stars that responded to the claps with explosions back,
a corrupted man with a gift,
sangfroid and detritus with nowhere to sit,
we made our chairs,
blessed be,
blessed be our chairs,
bénie soit ma sainte chance,
𓋍
9
Cherub Cobblers 𓌕
Word twist, sworn nemesis, spiritual spirit
Cowards
World list
Call the bachelor. He puts his fate on the line.
Hail Mary, look what you taught us. This is not a place. Look at the tones of my pale face.
Could I have let you go easily? Do you still believe in me? Is your vow for eternity?
The peerless feeling that fills my viscera owes its gratefulness to my pristine shoes. Not sure if I am worthy of them.
The bridge is burning and I walk over it.
Thank the shoemakers. They look like little moppets with wings over their necks. They work in the sewers, caring for our ways.
A swarthy atelier, cherubs only need a few candles in order to see.
Only working with their hands and the passion put into their work, they make sandals, moccasins, clogs, boots, layabouts and more for those who step towards tenderness and glare.
Be aware of the importance of their work. No roads could have been crossed if it were not for those special shoes that took the great to meet their goals. Eternal gratitude for those shoes that allowed folk to go back and see the ones they love.
Lucidity
Once upon a time in a country so divine, a youngster from the north of the south started wearing their shoes and dancing when he started hearing the news. His path seemed clearer, He did not have to care that his clips were empty anymore. He had it all.
Regardless, fear still filled him. He feared losing it all. Scarred with freedom, he soars yet he walks, and walks forward, all thanks to his shoes.
No longer a bachelor, he whips over to mine, my side. My cut of the story
By virtue of my shoes, I smile.
ευλόγησε την αγία μου τύχη
The Hand 𓂖
It all came in a dream. Eradicated pacifism, strayed reason, unstoppable changes. All of them are forces in action at the classic planes of farce.
Subjugated to a verdict handed down by spiteful lions that charge unjustly on those so-called unhackneyed prophets. Intimidated by the colossal columns that held the flying arcs, each step required indescribable bravery as the crippling trembling grew periodically when approaching the luminous apse. Intoxicated by the imposing windows with stained glass that gently greeted the corroded gargoyles with strains of coloured light.
Judgement is not as single-sided as commonly thought of because of the crude introspection that the accusations one is convicted for generates. Every single soothsayer called by name before the court of dishonourables is held accountable for the facts or falsities they preach.
Surprisingly, that was not the time for the child to meet chastising for his past transgressions but rather rewarded for his guile. A misleading treat, he has always been a cunning rat that grew up in the most luxurious sewers, see? Estranged from ethics since a young age, he had become a suitable candidate for the highest rungs of secrets. The heavy shackles fell off his hands as the oldest lion snapped his fingers while perpetrating a sinister burst of laughter. They all stood up and began fading down as they walked down a set of hidden stairs. Intrigued by chance, the child was given a choice by the horned guard, to walk away and move on with his life or to follow the lions down the stairs which end was not perceptible for a simple glare. In the middle of the attempt for a first step, the guard finally addressed him with the aim of advice as he told him that this kind of situation did not appear before commoners. Nevertheless, that did not matter for the fledgling had already made his decision.
Headed down the dark stairs the child ended in a circular room where the lions surrounded a blindfolded man strapped to a chair. Flooded by fear, his frayed appearance was not the main issue of apprehension as the clothes he wore and the leather straps holding him down gave the guise of being soaked in sweat and blood. Hitherto further examination, the lions all clapped once in unison. Giving the man the lead to start reciting poetry in a broken voice.
He ranted about the hidden meaning of every facet of nature, how every leaf in the trees held a story of love but kept silent. He showed expertise in time and how it affects the prevalent usability of the world with nothing but a few verses. Care was one of his topics for discussion purposes. His chant swarmed over the appearance of interest and how its alleged absence can be mistaken for tranquillity and calmness. The importance that absence is given does not correspond with the fear that deprivation may present. Passion can be peaceful and love is not violent. The atmosphere can materialize as companionship. His voice seemed to heighten serially as he articulated. Appearing as if he continuously forgot about his wounds while the impetuous recital persisted.
Exacerbated by the message he was preaching, his voice filled with motive progressively after every word. In the meanwhile, the lions looked at each other in speechless communication for a few seconds while the man was still chanting as his time had run out. Succinctly after, the leather straps and chains that held the man inert in his sitting position started to shrink. Constricting and pulling outwards, pressing the man’s internal organs against each other. Nevertheless, he did not stop his rant. Proportionally as his bindings kept asphyxiating him, his tone got more potent. His theme derived, from the agony that surrounded his soon to be ended existence and how he would allegedly never be silenced. The last words the man exhaled in an outstanding effort claimed that he would live in the hearts that had heard him, the places he had walked across in life and the souls he had loved. Overpowering his attempts to breathe, the chains had pulled in such a way that he stopped subsisting seconds after his ribcage collapsed in itself and deformed his body to leave a destroyed corpse. The child stared. That had not been the first time he saw death, thereupon, the cadaver that had once been a master of reflection did not have much of an impression on him yet a gruesome thought filled his mind when thinking on the message the soul had given him. In bereavement, he wondered if he would keep preaching in the stars and if the wicked will of power drunken sluts would be enough to carry his voice into everlasting silence.
Shortly after, the child received notice that it was time to resume moving again. Taking on the next lugubrious pathway, bedazzled by the lack of natural light that saturated the subterranean network in putrefaction, the child minded his every step in the aim of not tripping over with any disfigured and misplaced pieces of stone tile. If it was not for the oxidised metal torches that partially provided a vague sense of the way, the surrounding area would be completely dull. The length of the hallway was incalculable because the restricted light along with the uniform blocks of polished stone marked a feeling of uniformity that caused every step to look the same. Rather than following the lions, the child had a feeling of tailing a set of glooms that carried him to some sort of unscrupulous fate. All due to the widespread appearance of the circumstances. Trekking in unison, the sound the lions made when taking steps delivered the impression that they were walking in synchronisation, like an entire unity of mystifying aura which had the legends of fortune at their soles. The hellish echo of the promenade bounced off the walls and stormed into the child’s ears at lightning gait, laboriously difficulting the outpour of thought. Nevertheless, the sound worked as a trigger for a sensorial mirage that aggressively invaded his mind in the matter of an instant. Making the child connect the walking clangour and the delimited eyesight with sprinting horses of knights, rushing down a ridge to encounter their deadly fate with probity. That vision performed as cause for the ominous omen that inevitably paralyzed the child’s body upon thought, Merely like the corridors of that anomalous place. Thanks to that he comprehended the powerlessness that held him an insect affixed to the will of the corrupt and the boot that could terminate his life, strolling within striking range. Even nigher after witnessing the end of an artist, just like him. “Ars longa, vita brevis.”
Entering the following room a similar situation presented as the blocks in the pathway. Shape and aspect of the previous one repeat in the new chamber. A ribbed vault, held up by thick stone walls with embedded columns. Floral ornamentations in their shafts and biblical scenery carved in high relief at the capitals conveyed the enclosure an archaic appearance. The pointed arches worked as doorways, even though they were closed by rudimentary and damaged metallic fences. The four arches emulated the pints of a greek cross, accentuating the fundamentalist feeling that the whole room projected.
The abundant humidity and lack of light gave the impression of an all-embracing presence that filled the whole base plant with a morbid sense of disgust that walked side by side with that dreadful appearance that inspired fear. In general, every single point looked upon made all souls that walked in flood in screaming need of getting out.
A far more unpleasant situation presented itself in the new enclosure in addition to the dreadful appearance that the room portrayed in the first place. In the centre of the room lay a rabid dog filled with painful ulcers eating an unopened sea urchin in a water tank. Intermittent fur indicated chronic illness, in addition to the spikes of the urchin that pierced its jaw upon every bite. Evident hunger and lack of saneness did not stop it from chewing continuously despite the agonizing pain it may have caused.
Before the child stood a white weapon, specifically a butchers knife with a rectangular blade and leather-made and worn out handle. A note attached to the corroded and dull edge stated that he had the power in his hands to end the canine´s suffering in a merciful eviction from existence. Fearfully, he grabbed the knife and stared at it while meditating on the choice he had to make. His thoughts only seemed to intensify as the weight of the decision pulled his cervical in distress while the dog ate in agony.
The possibilities flooded the mind of the child. The first thought that came to his mind was that the dog had its death sentence signed and approved by then. If he did not kill it, perishing from the injuries was imminent and even if in a miraculous state of affairs in which it could survive the critical condition, the wicked lions would certainly end its life before or after leaving the space, assuming that he would leave that room walking and breathing.
Heretofore wondering if he would be able to do it, his contemplation suddenly changed in lodestar after dropping to the conclusion that he should not need to care if the dog lived or died. A soulless being with no functional use, doomed by malady, only left to bet trampled by illness, suicide or execution. Besides that, getting near the dog and engaging in contact with it would imply the hazardous possibility of getting infected with rabies.
Taking all the previous into consideration, the child made a decision. Withdrawing his hand from the handle of the knife, he chose to do nothing. He did it without any ridiculous gimmicks of pretentious nature and out of utter sobriety. In spite of the fact that the dog´s life fading away tickled his sense of empathy, the child stood beside the verity that he had no obligation of euthanizing a being he did not hurt or put there in the first place.
A few seconds after, the dog started suffering a respiratory crisis. Perpetuating coughs set the inevitable collapse of the lungs, causing the dog to begin convulsing in an intrepid and desperate manner. Out of despair, it fell into a terrifying epileptic blowup fanning its neck insensibly, trying to remove what was probably a spike that got stuck in its throat, nipping its breathing in the bud while drooling blood and going into spasms in the ground. Tension filled the room with distress as no one, no matter how wicked or unsensitized by tragedy, can stand to spectate such agony in a living being. Soon the legs stopped working, forcing it into the ground while its last efforts to breathe involved increasing pain.
It is like one of those situations where a human could bite their fingers off with ease, yet the brain would never allow it to happen. Likewise, the effort made when drowning makes a person involuntarily fill their lungs with water just like the dog did with its own blood.
It came a moment when it seemed that the only part of its body that the dog could move was its head and neck. Inevitably, those collapsed as well, simultaneously as the last breath the can took. After that, the one feeling that flooded the child’s mind when scrutinising the dog cease to exist was nothing but guilt. While overseeing the beat-up corpse as a lonely tear fell from his right eye, his hand closed into a fist as the morbid sense of impotence filled his mind. He did not know what kind of lesson, punishment or test that was, yet perfectly comprehended that he did not make a choice when letting go of the knife. Contrariwise, he was rendered completely disabled by disgust. How could someone regret not feeling condemnable? The death of the animal meant nothing to him, a judgement that triggered intrusive flashbacks that reminded him of how vicious he had already been at such a young age.
Prior to remembering to a greater extent, a bodily embrace immobilized him while being blinded and feeling a damp cloth over his mouth. Shortly after, the child would have passed out.
An acute headache pierced the child’s skull as he woke up sitting in a chair made out of wood. His vision blurred as soon as he opened up his eyes, nonetheless, he was able to recognize what was before him. An oversized mirror with an antique look yet in perfect condition showed him his whole body. This mirror had a gleaming and gilded frame with varied sculptural ornamentation that emanated a perspicuous perception of luxury and elegance, yet its presence was frightening and imposing at the same time. It delivered a feeling of reflecting much more than the simple physical image, likewise found in a conventional mirror. The first thought that came to his mind as soon as he gained the ability to see clearly again was that he looked like a corpse. The experience lived so far had had such an effect on him that his appearance resembled as if he had been in a month-long violent siege.
Regardless of that, sitting there in front of his reflection made him regret the original decision of walking down those damn stairs. He could have just perfectly turned around and moved on with his life. The situation in which he had been subjected without known origin was one of obvious malice, one that still seemed not to end since the soporifics to which he had been previously exposed to seemed not to have lost effect or to have presented some secondary ones since his pragmatic understanding seemed to display that the child was hallucinating.
Looking at himself with a hiemal stare, several other people gazed back to him as well in distribution as if they were standing behind him. Nevertheless, when turning his head around, he was by his lonesome. Adding to his problems, he was able to recognize all faces individually around his reflection. With his characteristic analytical vital method, his mind automatically assumed the direction of identifying some pattern or common factor that could represent the presence of the people in his notion. He successfully managed to give meaning not only to the presence of those people but also to their distribution and positioning around him. Closest to him stood the ones that he had hurt in the past. Those whose paths had ended at his hands maintained hostile eye contact with the young creature in complaints and protests against said past mistakes that tormented the child on a daily basis. Behind, those people he had been able to love could be found. There stood those to whom he gave his attention and selfless commitment from an utter feeling of high esteem. They looked at him with eyes of dissatisfaction and disgust due to seeing him as he was and at seeing what he had done. In the back, it was possible to observe those who at some point depended on him. Their looks were invaded with misery and woe, signifying that they were disappointed or forgotten.
The stares weighed heavily on his shoulders and conscience. The sense of judgement, guilt and regret pressed on his chest like an anvil sitting on a scrap of flesh. His gaze focused steadily on his own eyes as he sensed sanity vacate his body like smoke rises from a bonfire. All the ideals the child had stood for, ever since his childbearing flashed before him. The pace of withdrawal became dangerous while that wrath filled his mind. The fledgling stood before the individuals that constituted aspects of his life, before his past, his mistakes, convictions, deeds, confidences, his people.
The emotions flooded his beliefs for his predicament was considered unjust. He could not find the reason for him to be subdued to such suffering. The willpower of the malevolent beings which had undivided dominion over everything spoilt whatever they chose to destroy. Who could be so arrogant to put their will over the integrity of the arts and knowledge? What type of narcissistic joke would think better of himself than nature and its regulation? What kind of enemy to vitality could be so crooked? No man should be permitted to destroy for merriment.
The sanity had already left the child, yet that did not stop him from making a pledge. As long as his breath continued and his tongue stayed in his mouth he would not allow such unfairness to rule over his reality. Tormented by his past, Marked by tragedy, out ruled by death, he could not stand it anymore. Patience had abandoned him a while ago. His hand locked into a fist when the dog perished and the fury that filled him did not permit it to spread. His gaze pierced his reflection like an owl murdering its prey. Filled with hate, outrage took over his body as he could not bear on to his composure for longer. Dominated by a primitive impulse his lasting fist burst through the mirror in a straight swing filled with rage.
As conventionally thought, when involved in such debris as the shattering of glass, obnoxious sound fills the room in chaotic nature. Regardless, The child did not hear nor notice any as he was flooded with pain and anger in such a way that he could acknowledge nothing but his feelings. Immediately after the glass shards settle on the ground in sluggish motion he noticed the author of his calvary sitting in front of him, behind what would have been the reflective surface of the mirror until he destroyed it.
The chief lion, commander of evil, rubbernecked at the child rigidly while he caught his breath up. After a short time, it was the lion that broke the silence of action as he took his hands to his neck. He had decided to take off his mask and reveal his identity. Unhurriedly he did so, and the child was left with utter astonishment when glimpsing his true countenance.
It was no other than an older version of himself. who would have thought that after ageing, his expressions would still be the same? The child could see the accumulated abhorrence in his face as his features and wrinkles implied that the hatred that filled him then would never fade away.
The cruel version of himself started babbling about how the child had passed the test with honour. With an arrogant tone, the elder stated that he had earned a place sided by the modern erudite chiefs that rule the world. Before he could go for longer, the child stopped him. He clarified that he did not wish to take part in the wicked organization that put itself beyond what reality stood for. He morphed the feelings that took over him before breaking the mirror into words. In a scrupulous rant, the child cursed himself and the lions, the tribunals and their methods. He condemned every aspect of the nightmare he put himself into and the past that shaped him the way that he rose, as well as how he would fall.
Interrupting his harangue, the uncovered lion put his hand in the chest of the child. After placing it, he burst his fist through the chest without spilling a drop of blood. The child sensed indescribable pain as he felt his insides being crushed and shattered into a million pieces. With his other hand, the elder used his two first fingers to force the child´s eyes shut.
Both trembling from the violent struggle, the lion enunciated the last phrase in Latin symbolizing the apocalyptic nature of the whole situation.¨Benedicti sit sacra Fortuna mea¨ 𓋹
In ultimate effort before dying, the child yelled out ¨Stop!¨
And I woke up between sweat and tears. 𓋍
Siren Chant 𓅮
The starving scavenger scouting for a morbid meal, eyebags corroded due to the blood of past transgressions. The psychic sight lessens clouded in the new day, slowly fading away as patience runs out as well. Nevertheless, the truth stays where it has always been, the patience of a man only shows completely when he has no other option. Addicted to the light you showed me. This inexplicable bond is tied by ties that will never be broken and even if they could be, I would never allow it.
The absolute reality remains hidden, a virtual concept of livelihood challenges the individual perception of each mind, all trapped in the caves of reflection that protrude hallucinogenic influence in the plastic planes of mischief and treachery.
I got close to the angels with dirty faces, begging them to make me see you. I threw myself at their feet, impetrating for another chance to see you smile again, for my life knows no purpose if I can not share my success with your soul. I tried everything, left every channel of expedient communication open, wondering if there is even the slightest chance that one of them may be of use. The world is open for a broken child that lives in sorrow caused by entitled foolishness and unprecedented recklessness. Demeaningly rejected by the winged bastards I was left packed with illness and malady, vomiting despair while breathing agony. Maybe that would have been a way to see you again.
Heaven in tiny bags, paradise on weighing scales. How could the wrongdoings balance so unjustly and so fast? How could a mistake weigh more than all the love you gave? Remember when my brother left, he used to say he was unbeatable but in his dauntless ways the forty made him weak in a leap of the head.
Differing from him you did nothing wrong and I curse every holiday in which I used to hear you sing your song, knowing my apology is just dumb, unequivocally speaking if there was something I could do it would already be done. Flooded by torment, once again I went beseeching at the will of the angels with broken wings, imploring for them to take me to your high place, feels like the only way of pleasing this man-eating void that destroys my power of will or my will to live, will I ever leave this wicked place and see you be?
Lowering my standards, I limited myself to asking about your well-being, but their ways still made fun of me or thought I still am selfish as I used to be because such an individual flight took me nowhere other than paranoid sickness and a plane of broken dreams. Intoxicated by despondency, my insides constantly try to leave my body, yet I remain here, reflecting on my weakness I had discarded every other option. I understood that just like my city was nothing like yours, the angels that made me miserable differ from the ones that took you away from me.
I had not noticed until now due to the deafening sirens that muffled your song. The thought of it still runs around in my head daily. The spilling wine that soaked my hands then came the sirens and lights. Lastly, the frightful shudder petrifies me as I remember the feel of your body turning cold.
Angels on their way, now you rest where they lay.
I am so sorry for doing you wrong and aware that if our actions are bound to any kind of judgement I will never see you again. Regretting I started trying after losing your presence, I still do everything I can, even if there is no room for vindication anymore.
Following my farewell, I extend my biggest apology. Never thought I could do something so wrong. Now your path is done and it is all my fault. Knowing my pain will never fade away, I will drink my way to your new skies just like my metal prill flew you to the stars by the hand of winged bodyguards.
I will never forgive myself, yet I hope you do. 𓀓
Broken T-Wraps
I have been chasing a feeling my whole life, concomitantly fighting shy of gloom. Violently learning that keeping alive differs from living in almost every sense. Faithfully looking for the purple moon that would show me the way to the stars I woke up once again, the cold shiver watering down my spine as I was rendered clueless, once again.
Your message gifted light to my bellicose dark ink. Who would have thought I would start painting colours in the distance? Who would have thought I would meet the embodiment of my vivacity in such a belligerent sitch?
I am aware of my undeservedness and my past, dishonourable. Howbeit, if a fact can not be disparaged, it is that even after being racked with pain, feeling belittled by powerlessness and slighted by helplessness, I have prevailed. Looking for myself in the most recondite places and feelings with one purpose in mind and one only. Fighting beastly sorrows in aim of descrying resoluteness, looking for another day.
It is commonly said that time can erase, sometimes I wish it would take action in my mind. At any rate, I have to admit that your absent presence has made me rediscover feelings I thought were permanently lost. The ravishing evenings that brought conviction to my crippling indifference make my pen shout in merrymaking delirium… and I am grateful for that. Frequently cudgel my brains thinking on whether fate put you in the position to leave because I would not be able to keep away or maybe all of this was just not what I thought of in the first place. Be that as it may, figured I would rather indulge my craving than strip myself of the only positive feelings that have appeared in far longer than my memory can recall.
It is us racers that never find peace, rushing to hell and back so fast tears do not even have the chance to fall.
What if all of this was a lie? A construct of my desperation forcing me to believe in hollow promises that never came to be fulfilled. Making me cerebrate on ceaseless possibilities that are unsubstantial as they are precarious. Subversive to my Ka, alkadhibat alati la tantahi, the modern placement of a dreamy cast of characters, manipulators of my perception on a matter that involuntarily challenges my will.
In spite of everything, a prepossessing and undisclosed coercion still forces me to believe to a certain extent in the delectable feasibility in which the captivating reveries that have been cooking up in my subconscious are somehow tangible. I fear that I am not ready for being in a situation involving a need of providing a sincere caress to another atman. Nevertheless, I still believe in this universal binding of affection, not because of need, but rather pure, unasked disposal. Somehow, I still manage to be dull-witted enough to get a chance stuck in my head based on pure utter belief or stubbornness, granting a plastic misconception that inhibits my motivation on a daily basis.
Up to the present time, I wonder if all the lived was not the diegesis of the situation, but rather a teaser of what would soon come to be. Feasting on cruel memories, the concept of trust that resides in my head is likely to differ from everyone else’s. A vocational presence taking my call with any sense of independence and freedom of expression, A misleading fortune, a vastly improved sorrow, the propping clock erases my spirit at a leisurely pace.
A singular and endless effort, I undoubtedly believe that the longevity of my patience and tireless endeavour has not seen an end due to the nature of the desire that makes me soar in creativity and innovation for a charming moment that could or could not be. Believing that the possibility for consummating fulfilment still stands, even in the most microscopic expression, gives me a reason to keep going.
The split second I became aware that the concept I hate the most turned into the reason I still breathe makes me feel ignorant for not understanding what you told me that night I was rendered useless in my desire for taking action. Now that my mind has opened the way for understanding I took notice that instead of hating hope, I should be grateful for feeling it in spite of everything.
For all one knows, hope may be the reason I am so besotted with death, walking side by side with sleep, the creased concept of an imaginary farewell becomes the sole purpose for people’s lives. If there was not an imminent and inevitable end, no one would move.
Your nourishing advice compels me to wish I could borrow a piece of your mind and share a creative touch that is not forced upon by tragedy and sorrow. I remember that my plan used to be rather vindictive, lying in wait for the ideal juncture in which I would rise from the pool of pain I have been trapped in and retribute the evil that flooded my eye for so long. You made me feel at odds with my initial thoughts, yet I still lack confirmation on whether that is a sign of growth or vague conformity.
Although I thank your spirit for retrieving mine, I have learned ultimately that racers like me never flourish in the matters of the heart, for a screaming sprint unravels the tight knot that usually sticks in mortal’s throats, stripping me of all kinds of dishonesty.
I extend my gratitude for lifting my spirit when I only thought of declaring it up for loss but you will never understand me, you can not fit the shoes I walk in for my past carved holes on my soles and the acid death swamped the tricky roads I walk in. “Mala Madre”
If I had a chance to make my case I would show you the streets and boroughs that shaped me into the troubled prophet I have become. I don’t know if this is was what I was supposed to be but there’s no turning back now. If you let me I will show you the city that made me like this, maybe one day we could make something out of it. Violence and mayhem are the predecessors of ruin, and in every wreckage, there are materials for the new building.
I fear that these thoroughfares browbeat me in contempt to getting used to not seeing you, feel like the zip ties that made our flights go together are fading away, and even more painful than being viciously torn apart, I fear that these broken t-wraps will be permanently gone if lost. No matter what happens I will never disappear, and I know after trying. Hence my main concern, who will notice when I vanish? Will these writings prevail in the oceans of time and the name, transcend cultural boundaries and have a permanent position in history?
Living a racing life is living a life of threats, rebelling against the traditional conceptions of companionship, you taught me the new ways of love and no coincidence of fate that I am called to speak up on something bigger than popularity, I recognize that I need someone like you by my side.
I will curse for eternity the voice reminding me that I preached for millions, but never reached you. Maybe one day when we stand face to face we could use the broken ties that used to pull us towards each other to build the foundations of something that matters.
Patience is rewarded, however self control has never been my strong suit.
𓆲
Remember I will love you forever, nonetheless, my love is serpentine and forever is a long time. 𓆕
I call game.
Nothing here is for sale
Living in a world of struggle turns hopeful nights into useless chips in a rigged game of chance. Choked by dices in a sea of strangers, inhibited by the glimpses of leeching portals that judge back as they see through. Hoarding memories as currency in exchange for public recognition and worthless reputation. The statement of encouragement was promised yet never addressed and those waiting in the mud sorrow in silence while being mugged for their last breath.
Claiming to be awake has become a treacherous assertion in current times. Nevertheless, If I am not then those I see per diem are not souls and there are far more pressing matters to attend. A mighty hand shook my hair when I cried for help, making me realize the true worth of those goods and chattels that appear to give men importance in the eyes of every mother’s son. For this and this only, I decided to walk stripped of bindings across the lugubrious alleys that disembowel the pockets of dons and cads.
What do you turn in when they see you? A children’s book morphs into true assertiveness when reflecting upon the bullshit our society has become. My integrity became a good swarmed by parasites that wish against my welfare.
Only after strolling naked in the evil flooded streets of a broken city, I became aware of the true nature and recession that charms its way into our psyche. Opened my eyes like a newborn child barely able to distinguish light, unaware of the wicked fate that departs in a poorly designed dystopian future based on pride and bodies for sale. Not only genitals but corpses, everything seems to be accessible to the highest bidder willing to give everything for a charming moment of despair.
I pity those that depend on the other side of the world with programming APIs, putting immersive experiences in the first place at the immaculate consulate of corruptive outcomes.
The goal is to stand still and know that we can arrive whenever we want to the gates of enlightenment.
No matter how much dejection seems to be accumulated our spirit will never be for sale and our name will be remembered in the chants of the modern bards that will praise our victories in the broken inns.
Why would I sell my soul for empty promises?
Why would I preach the name of broken soothsayers?
Why would I break my spine over prideful corpses?
Never again will I sell my integrity for valueless assurances
I will keep my head high in this roguish world of lies.
Soon enough we will be remembered as latter-dayed prophets and our martyrdom will be a worthwhile cause
Do not despair, for we have our eyes open in a plane of mendacity.
☥
Shipwrecked
Remember the man lost in the storm for he is unaware of his final destination,
Abandoned by a possibility and clasped to hope’s bosom,
Rejected efforts made scars turn into callosities,
A dark candle still produces light like a three-legged horse still pulls its cart,
I made promises that weren’t up to me to keep,
Yet I stand tall by what I said,
As confidently as I prated that day I swear on the fingers of my hand that this tale will not end with this hollow, yet official valediction,
The crow that ate its kindred cries in pyrrhic satisfaction,
Undeserving of exoneration or shelter, still got found by an apparently sincere caress,
Not long after unconsciously disparaging the ephemeral fortune he was held accountable for the bloodshed,
Scoped for retribution,
Broken like a twig,
Chained to time and compromise,
Fear became his only companion,
Becoming a slave to his own needs,
Attached to the promise that promised the promise wouldn’t stay as a promise,
Waiting,
Biding his time,
How is it possible to miss something that never came to be?
Captain Collins! the boat is sinking
Time is when a story gets physical. There’s a point of breakthrough in an intellectual’s life where passion becomes cynical. Vision becomes blurred and actions become stereotypical. The one with the sense of the word can dodge madness and keep on track rolling smoothly like thin nickels. Precision is relative with the left hand but this is not the time to get political. Shit don’t change and even less when the feeling is biblical. Difficult to forget but also to expand, and I’m no Jim Mitchell. Manslaughter is a myth, there is no such thing as accidents and if it was meant to happen it was all about chemicals. Sour like dill pickles, your commitment to my cause remains unexplained and my lack of trust is best friends with my fear to share fates with my best mate, honestly I would rather fucking crawl naked to Winnipeg. You’d know these lips are unethical if you tasted but you can not handle them. In a lyrical sense, it’s like doing meth on a cloud while being gazed at by grinning skulls. This will mainly go unnoticed but if you know, you know. Open your mind T, otherwise, it won’t be visible, it’s thinning like Josh Nichols.
The harsh truth is that feelings, like atoms, are indivisible. I know if it had happened it would have been the pinnacle but defeating my pride is even more unlikely than witnessing multiple miracles so it didn’t and now my condition is critical.
“Ayo, Jah!… I got Zeke on the phone, he said it’s good if it doesn’t take long”
“You ungrateful little fuck,
You asked and you received, you cried and were supported, you lied and were believed and yet still no satisfaction was recorded. What else do you want? What else could you receive if you’ll never take that leap of faith needed to reach happiness? No one can walk through the door for you, child. Your deceit didn’t go unnoticed, you are wicked in your heart and pride will lead you to damnation. The scorpion, heir of retribution.
When will you learn that you’ll always be alone in your grief? even if there are good moments the premise remains simple: finish the cigarette, move on, be gone, depart. When will you learn, young prophet? Your gift comes with strings attached, you knew it and accepted it anyways.
Sorrow isn’t a part of the journey, but an indispensable foundation in its structure. Please, do it for the culture, you coward. How are the angels supposed to harmonize if they’re missing their instructor? You know you could’ve had it all, right? You know how but won’t show your sculpture.
You are a refined creature, prophet. Soldier, lover, king… the coward king. What did you have to lose? Why couldn’t you do it? You clearly wanted to.
You’ve pulled the trigger uncountable times, figurately and literally. You’ve done the incredible, the dreadful, the evil but still, when it comes to doing something for yourself… well, you know the rest. I’ve given you every single thing you ask for, placed you with the best possible opportunities that reality allows and what have you done with it? Please, kill the dog that’s been tearing and pissing in the wires in your head. I know nostalgia has been your friend but she’s always been treacherous and you’ve said it yourself, people don’t change.
Accept your fate or change your beliefs, are you going to believe that? Believe that no one will ever do anything for you and if you mean to ask someone if your eyes are open remember there will always be room for lies. But I don’t have to tell you anything about lies, right? After all, that’s your area of expertise.
Don’t beat yourself up too bad though. I know you wanted to do it with all your strengths, they know too. Still, you couldn’t find a way to do what you desired most, even after receiving anything you’d need, you were placed in front of the door but you couldn’t walk across, again.
I hope that grin on your face one day becomes a smile, I really do. Remember you are a leader and you are on a mission. Remember that your assessments are so dark that it’d be good you were wrong every once in a while. Remember you can see things no one can. Remember to keep your eyes open. Do you think hers are open as well? I think she’s at least trying to open them. Don’t keep everyone out, some might help.
Lastly, go fuck yourself, Zeke…”
“where did we go wrong?”
War FairyTales 