I Dream of Death

I died into a bed of a small cabin. When I wake I already know what has happened to me. The cell is reminiscent of changing rooms in swimming pool facilities; the walls are bare with pale colours. I can come up with no expression for their warm hues. I'm not familiar with the capacity of this place − it seems I haven't been dead for a while. I look down to my body and there is no corporal confusion or any other post-traumatic effects that bodies are supposed to endure after a physiological change. This leads me to believe that the laws of nature my reasoning got to instinctively know are now gone.

I get up and go to the door, but my reflection in its mirroring surface stops me. Is this how I looked like before I died? I don't recognise myself, and yet I remember my former life so clearly. Shrugging, I open the door. The corridor outside reveals what seem to be cabins like the one I died into. Their entrances are reflective on the front, too. There is someone waiting for me outside and I notice the same face that looked back at me from the mirror. I stare at myself silently, knowing inexplicably that I am here to guide myself, according to the principles that shape this place into order. So I turn back to the entrance in order to look at myself again, to shake off the feeling of irrationality. I look a bit chubby and ageing.

Final Day, Act One

A seraph approached me last night
Gave me a burning letter and flew away blazing
As I broke the wax stamp a black phoenix fluttered before me
It took me to the fractal spiral and shattered my body
And with it all of my self-proclaimed sins
The eternity that is to be was one and I was told that
There is nothing to regret and there will never be
If I should go through this scabrous wildwood again
I would, just to live again that night when we met at the cemetery
The bird sent me back to believe that there is nothing to regret
Aye, there is nothing to regret


























When the time comes for gentlemen Their ethics to deprave
I’ll be standing in front of my children’s grave
I’ll be asking with a brain gone illogically brave
Where is my promised final day
That has been taken from the grievous away
Who will kindly grant it to me
Where are the pages of Genesis Lost
And who will pay the cost
Where is my promised final day
That has been taken from the grievous away
Who will kindly grant it to me
Where are the pages of Genesis Lost
And who will pay the cost
Better than my noose in the company of I to be tossed
I to be tossed
Who will kindly stand in front of me and say
"There is still a cigarette to finish in the ashtray."

Paranimalia: Deer Witch

If it wasn't obvious by now: I love writing. This pleasure exceeds the pages of Asylum for Thoughts. One of my ongoing writing projects is entitled Paranimalia. As I see it now, it will contain short stories, all of which tell tales by forging motives of animals and mythological creatures into the fabric of the wording, but with a specific twist each. The animals will never be directly depicted as They are usually imagined. Rather, Their symbols are to be used as stepping stones for hopefully enjoyable plots.

Until recently, I thought of these series as a project only to be publicized once it is finished. I changed my mind. In order to one day finish the whole collection, I'm proceeding in smaller steps. A neat element to this approach is that I can also tell the story of each story (i.e. what inspired me, and how the writing evolved until its ripeness). These descriptions will follow after each of the texts.

Dear Reader, I present You the first narrative of Paranimalia I penned, the: Deer Witch.

Dream Distillery: Africa, You Voodoo

I present another "series" on this blog. The one I already started is focused on clarifying principles from psychology. While this new one won't be outside of the mentioned scientific field, it is about exploring an area which I find to be missing a crucial angle of research. What I will be writing here are the re-imaginations and mash-ups of my most memorable dreams.

Oneirology, the scientific study of dreams, found many answers, definitions and ways to interpret dreams. Today we even have a machine that can record dreams. The way I see it, we are only accessing our nightly involvements from the waking world, from the outside. Far from that being bad practice in itself, it still misses a fundamental element: comprehending dreams for what they are, from within the dream side. Hardly could we call such an approach empirical by consensus, which is probably the reason behind the notable lack of this method.

These "dream semi-journals / short stories" won't be an attempt to unlock the secrets of the sleeping living. They will rather serve as expeditions into the intangible contents of my own symbolism, fur the sheer fun of it. The everyday common sense and logic may break under the conditions of my inspiration. These glances to a reality out of conventional time and space will have structural meanings of their own. Please, bear this in mind when reading. Comparing the inner rules to those of the external phenomena would, at best, be a philosophical effort. Instead, let's find out if we can leave our common sense behind for the sake of a different setup of reason.

This series of posts is labeled as Dream Distillery. Let me begin...

Monu-Mental

Directing breakdown and
disgrace before the whole cast

Too bad the mass is sightless with ignorance so vast
Thirteen syllables, thirteen lines to force a new take
Another posed act shot - fallow egos have been fed
No one knew what could have been left undone or unsaid
To the deepest dismay, no one cared, for goodness sake
Artist's block strained the result to befall foully fake
The mob heard laughter, didn't care about the tale's thread
Self-worth high as the flame, violent minds packed with lead
A crimson pond mirrors the wish to turn a new slate
And who crawls beneath the debris can stand as the last
Who observes with the sight from a script burned in the past


Curtains seal, clap for the chronic
longing to create

Too Late Is Never: An Introduction

Not so long ago a dear friend convinced me about making little time capsules to flow around the World, which He labeled "immortality projects". The main reason for these, He argued, is leaving a personal point of view towards the World, frozen in time. A few frames of a personality left afloat between other minds who could access them for the better or worse.

The form of an immortality project doesn't really matter – as long it has a relatively lasting imprint in the World outside its creator. If it is to be shared with other people, the better. Upon reviewing these time capsules of thought and creativity later in life, we might feel accomplished, embarrassed, challenged even. And that's the whole point.

So this little stream of ideas got me encouraged enough to finally start this blog which I have been contemplating for a long time. They say I can prove to be quite a complicated person at times. Not that bad opinions have a too consequential impact on me directly, but I do tend to listen to critique. I can't really say that I'm not complicated. More often than not, I fail to understand the complexity of my thoughts. I don't say this with the intention of flaunting… It just happens to be how I feel, and how probably most of us feel if we are willing to admit it.

We, human beings, tend to label ourselves and other things for easier comparison. This is to make sense of the phenomena we encounter. To have some comfort. I don't really like labeling myself nor others because no concept is specific enough to be fairly applied onto any personality. Alas, it seems to be unavoidable. So let's just say I'm a skeptic. I believe in the potential of everything anyone can imagine and more, all while knowing that we all die stupid.* What I mean is that there are more than seven billion of us around this planet – each with Their own little subjective ways of dealing with reality. It is hardly possible that anyone of us knows what exactly is going on.