This December all the trees were bare
but for a chestnut that I passed
It still retained a small retinue of leaves
all sickly green
as if they refused to accept that the season
It reminded me of us
of our society
believing that summer
clinging onto the idea
of unchanging fortitude
like those chestnut leaves
desperately holding onto chlorofyll
refusing to let go
even though the summer is long gone
the autumn also passed
and winter is not coming
it’s already here
but we refuse to see it
out of fear
It was supposed to be a game.
A way to spend Eternity.
To understand, to know, to name.
It was supposed to be a game. Continue reading
Still waters. Clear skies. High spirits.
She closed her eyes. Familiar red-tinged darkness. Entoptic larvae crawling in imaginary space, a spastic dance of perceived light. Her hands resting on the skin of her qayaq. The soft sound of water caressing its underbelly. She imagined the waters within. The ebbs and floes of her inner reservoir of H2O, the swirls, the eddies, the crushing waterfalls and deep, still ponds.
„I am a mirror“ she whispered, allowing her mind to float and dissolve into the vast ocean below. Picture: Her lines of thought as erratic strands of photons falling apart, dropping like fairy dust. Small submerged specks of energy interacting with the informational content of the liquid surrounding them. Becoming one with it. A somewhat guided vision, to be sure. Yet she also tried to stay open, to receive whatever intutive imagery that would come to her in this state. Every time she did this. Every day. There: A flash of darkness, something deep. And a lingering memory of too much death. Translated in her being as a tightness in the chest and a welling of the eyes. Continue reading
The grapes were shining. Giving off light, a reflection of the raging firestorm in the city below.
“It is true, then.” he said, looking up at the red, shaking sky; a canvas of hell, “These are the days of the Apocalypse.” Silent tears streamed down his cheek, pooling up in the shallows of his beard. A piece of cloth appeared in the corner of his eye, dapping his moist skin. He turned to look. It was her veil, still covering her hair. Seeing his surprise, she withdrew her makeshift handkerchief, letting her hands rest on the box between her legs. Continue reading
There is a pen. A pen which never stops. A pen which moves deftly across the blank pages of existence. Writing everything into being. Except that is only one way of looking at it.
There is a wheel. A wheel which never stops. A wheel which turns and turns, spitting golden sparks, carving a yellow path across dark blue velvet skies. Life erupts, suddenly, in its wake. Thinking itself immortal. Building empires and civilizations on the path of gold. Until the wheel returns, crushing everything, pure annihilation. Then life starts anew. A faint memory of the old in its new genetic makeup. Remembered, yet always forgotten. Except that is only one way of looking at it. Continue reading