The Apple and the Cosmos: A Dance of Reality

December 9, 2024

Before me sits an apple, ordinary yet radiant, its waxy surface catching a sharp glint of light from a lamp above. It is tangible, immediate—its crispness confirmed as I lift it to my lips, its flavour vibrant and undeniably real. Beside it rests a protractor, leaning against a globe, and an astrological chart sprawled across my desk. These objects—tools of measurement and mapping—whisper of realities far removed from the apple’s tangible presence. The apple anchors me in the here and now while the instruments gesture toward the distant, the abstract, the infinite.

The apple is a feast for the senses. I can touch it, taste it, smell it, and see it. Though its atoms appear tightly packed, they are, in truth, vast spaces of energy and vibration. Magnify one of its atoms, and its solidity dissolves into a void where particles exist only as probabilities, dancing in fields of energy. Yet, this solid illusion sustains my bite, my taste, and my knowing.


The horoscope beside it lacks the apple’s tangibility. It cannot be bitten or held, but it represents something equally profound: a symbolic map of the cosmos. Where the apple’s reality is immediate, the horoscope projects patterns of meaning across time and space, binding celestial rhythms to the human story. These two things—apple and horoscope, immediate and archetypal—remind me that reality is both seen and imagined, both concrete and infinite.


This paradox of perception defines our existence. The apple, so close I can taste it, is not as solid as it seems. And the stars, so distant their light has travelled for millennia to reach me, are not as unreachable as they seem. Between the apple and Alpha Centauri lies an unfathomable gulf, yet they are part of the same web of existence, bound by the laws of physics and the rhythms of the cosmos.


Newton, watching the fall of an apple, saw the invisible thread connecting Earth and sky. Einstein deepened this insight, showing that space and time are inseparable and that matter and energy are two forms of the same thing. Quantum physics has unravelled the idea of separateness, revealing that particles are not isolated entities but relationships—waves of possibility collapsing into form through interaction.


David Bohm’s theory of implicate order expands this vision further, suggesting that the universe is a seamless whole where every fragment reflects the entirety, like a hologram. In a hologram, each fragment contains the whole image, even when divided into pieces. Similarly, the universe is encoded in every part of itself. The apple before me is not merely an apple; it is a microcosm of the cosmos, its atoms vibrating with the same energies that fuel the stars.


The horoscope, too, speaks to this interconnectedness. It is not about planets and rocks but about relationships, patterns, and cycles. The zodiac mirrors the rhythms of life, like the apple tree that blossoms, bears fruit, and eventually returns to the Earth. The horoscope encodes the rhythms of the cosmos in symbols, reminding us that the patterns above are reflected in the patterns within.


This interconnectedness challenges the illusion of separation. The apple and the stars, the immediate and the eternal, are not opposites but facets of the same reality. Our senses, while invaluable, reveal only a sliver of the whole. Light, for instance, is just one octave in a vast electromagnetic spectrum, and beyond the visible lies a universe of energies—X-rays, gamma rays, cosmic rays—that remain unseen but ever-present.


Similarly, the frameworks of language and culture limit how we perceive and interpret the world. But within these limits lies a profound truth: we are not separate observers of the universe; we are participants in its creation. As physicist John Wheeler suggested, the act of observation itself shapes reality, collapsing waves of probability into patterns of existence. Our consciousness, like a hologram, reflects the universe within it.


The apple before me, the stars above, and the chart on my desk are all threads in this web of unity. The apple speaks of immediacy, the stars of eternity, the chart of the connections that bridge the two. At this moment, I recall a walk in an orchard with my father years ago. He handed me an apple, freshly picked, and told me to hold it carefully as though it contained the world. I didn’t understand him then, but now I see his wisdom. The apple was the world, the stars, and myself—all woven together.


So, as I bite into the apple now, tasting its crispness and feeling its tang, I know it is real. But I also know that in this simple act, I am connected to the stars, to the atoms that form both fruit and flesh, to the patterns that govern the universe.


In the apple, I taste the infinite, and in the infinite, I find myself.

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The Art of Magic, the Magic of Art

December 1, 2024

True art is magic, and any true magic is art. With the touch of a pen, a brush, or even a finger, an artist—if aligned with the essence of their vocation—commands worlds both seen and unseen. Percy Shelley once declared that “poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world,” and though his words echo from an era long past, they feel uncannily prescient.

But what does this mean in practice? Some might argue that if poets and artists truly wield such power, they are the most woeful rulers ever to preside over humanity. After all, if art is shaping the world, why do the screens that dominate our lives churn out nothing but dissonance, despair, and empty spectacle? Is this dystopian noise truly the vision of today’s artists?

I imagine Shelley himself interrupting from the shadows of the ether: “Don’t be so literal! I meant it metaphorically. Art isn’t governance by laws; it’s governance by ideas, by imagination, by what transcends the mundane. But for heaven’s sake, don’t turn poetry into a cargo cult—worshipping its form as though it’s divine by nature rather than by what it creates within you.”

And yet, there’s a peculiar magic in this metaphorical cargo, in the words, images, and sounds that tumble into the open space of our minds. For those who see the world in myths and metaphors, art carries immense weight. It is both vessel and spell, weaving meaning from the chaos.

Take, for instance, the ancient stories we hold as sacred. The tumbling walls of Jericho. The resurrection of Christ. The creation of the universe in seven days. Do these stories endure because they are literally true, or because they resonate with something deeper—something ineffable? These tales are, above all else, poetry, built to inspire, to guide, to anchor us in moral or spiritual truth. Their magic is not in their factual accuracy but in their capacity to awaken a sense of wonder and move us toward the good.

In this sense, the Bible, like all great art, is a magical artefact. It is less a document of historical fact than a talisman, transmitting its moral and poetic energy across centuries. It scarcely matters whether Jesus of Nazareth held an identity card or walked among us as a historical figure. What matters is the poetic proof—the themes of redemption, sacrifice, and hope that compels us to strive for something greater.

Even today, this ancient poetry retains its power in a world awash with “meaning packages” from advertising slogans and clickbait soundbites. The cynicism of the modern world would have us believe that such stories are relics of the past, yet their resonance persists. True art, like true magic, touches something eternal. It reaches into the ineffable and makes it visible, if only for a moment.

But here’s the tension: if art is so powerful, why does it so often feel powerless in the face of modern chaos? The art world seems increasingly commodified, trapped in an endless cycle of trends, likes, and algorithms. It’s tempting to believe that the magic has been diluted, reduced to spectacle, or even silenced altogether. Yet, history reminds us that art’s power isn’t always loud or obvious.

Think of Picasso’s Guernica—a painting that “legislated” not through laws, but through the weight of its horror and the clarity of its vision. Or Maya Angelou’s poetry, which legislates even now, carving spaces for hope and resistance. True art doesn’t demand attention; it reshapes the world quietly, insistently, often long after it is created.

Art’s magic, much like a magician’s sleight of hand, often works unnoticed. It transforms us subtly, weaving itself into the fabric of our lives without our conscious permission. Consider a song that makes us weep, a novel that reframes the way we see the world or a photograph that stops us in our tracks. These are not passive objects; they are spells cast by creators who reached into the ineffable and returned with something transcendent.

The danger, as Shelley warned, lies in worshipping the artefact itself rather than the spirit it conjures. Too often, we mistake the form for the magic, clinging to what can be packaged, sold, or commodified. But art’s true power is never in the object—it’s in the transformation it invokes within us.

This is where the artist becomes a magician, conjuring meaning from raw material and shaping worlds from chaos. True art challenges the status quo not because it seeks to destroy but because it dares to create—to reimagine what is possible. The poet legislates not with authority but with imagination, reshaping the boundaries of what we believe to be true.

Even in today’s fractured world, art retains its quiet, ineffable power. The greatest works endure not because they are timeless, but because they speak to the timeless within us. Art—like magic—relies on the participation of its audience, on our willingness to suspend disbelief and step into the unknown.

So yes, art is magic, and magic is art. Both touch the eternal, both pull at the ineffable. And whether we realize it or not, both shape the worlds we inhabit. The artist’s hand, like the magician’s, is at work all around us—transforming, challenging, inspiring. The question is whether we are brave enough to recognize it.

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The quote is from Percy Bysshe Shelley who said that “poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.” This famous phrase comes from his essay A Defence of Poetry, written in 1821 but published posthumously in 1840.

“Poets are the hierophants of an unapprehended inspiration; the mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present; the words which express what they understand not; the trumpets which sing to battle, and feel not what they inspire; the influence which is moved not, but moves. Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.”

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Upward: The Lunar Covenant

November 21, 2024

It begins with a simple truth: once our feet press into lunar dust, the idea of “territory” will no longer be terrestrial. Up there, where the Earth is but a luminous sphere suspended in infinite darkness, the lines we once drew on maps will fade into irrelevance. The moon, this desolate yet inviting orb, will become a proving ground—not for national prowess or the relentless propagation of Earthly divisions, but for something profound: a planetary consciousness.

Imagine it. An international colony on the moon, a true United Nations in form and spirit, founded not on the zero-sum games of sovereignty but on the shared acknowledgement of a single, unifying identity: Earth people. The very act of being there, breathing and building under the stark lunar sky, could mark the moment when humanity transcends its provincialism for the first time.


The Lunar Grid


For centuries, the Cartesian grid of longitude and latitude has shaped how we navigate Earth. These lines—mere abstractions of geometry—became tools of conquest, commerce, and communication. They dictated the boundaries of empires and the borders of states, often at the expense of unity. But the moon calls for a new dimension, a new line of orientation: up.

This new direction will not simply stretch between the Earth and its satellite. It will reorient our sense of belonging. Up will not be a direction on a map but a tether to our shared origins, a reminder that the lunar soil beneath our boots is no one’s property but everyone’s opportunity. From there, humanity might finally see itself as a single organism, unified by its fragility and potential.


Citizens of the Moon


The colony I envision is not an extension of Earth’s nations but a convergence of its people. Every country, race, religion, and culture is represented—not in competition but in collaboration. Scientists will work tirelessly to adapt human life to a hostile environment, theologians will gaze at Earth’s splendour to reimagine divinity, and philosophers will contemplate existence in the light of two worlds.

What will we call this place? Not a nation, for nations, are divisions. Not a state, for states, are constructs of power. This will be a covenant, a collective agreement that life on the moon exists to remind those on Earth of their shared inheritance. In this lunar colony’s assembly hall, humanity’s diversity will be its banner, and its mission will be simple yet transformative: to hold Earth accountable as its steward and guardian.


A Shift in Resources, A Shift in Perspective


The resources required to build this colony are already available—trapped in the budgets of defence ministries and the arsenals of militaries. Imagine if these billions were redirected, not toward war or domination, but toward the creation of a planetary NASA. A collaborative space agency where engineers from Iran sit beside those from the United States, where Chinese scientists innovate alongside Europeans, and where every nation has a stake—not in ownership, but in stewardship.

The moon’s colony would serve as a constant reminder of what we could achieve if we abandoned the folly of conflict. The spectacle of humanity working together on such a monumental scale could extinguish the fear of Armageddon, not through deterrence, but through inspiration.


Theological and Philosophical Horizons


When theologians stand on the moon and behold Earth as a fragile blue marble, how will they reconcile their doctrines with this newfound perspective? Will they see a planet created by their God or a planet that makes them question what creation truly means? And what of the phenomenologists? On the moon, free from the constraints of Earth’s rhythms, their meditations on perception and existence might reveal truths that could not be conceived within terrestrial limits.

The moon, barren though it may seem, will become fertile ground for ideas. It will be a place where science and spirituality coexist, where philosophy and practicality converge, and where the human mind expands as its feet tread new soil.


Guardians of the Solar System


A lunar colony with no territorial claims, no flags but one—Earth’s. Its existence will remind us of our precarious yet precious position in the universe. From that vantage, the solar system will not be an expanse to conquer but a neighbourhood to nurture.

What begins as a colony on the moon could become humanity’s first step toward guardianship of the solar system. We will learn not to extract but to protect, not to divide but to unite. The moon, devoid of life, will teach us to value the life we have on Earth.


Toward the Covenant


The moon calls us—not as a prize to be won but as a mirror to reflect what we could become. The colony will not merely be a home for those who live there but a constant beacon to those who remain below. It will remind us of a simple truth we often forget: we are one species, bound by one planet and entrusted with the care of a shared future.

The first step onto the moon was a small one for a man. The first colony will be a giant leap for humanity—not toward dominion, but toward unity. Upward, then, not as conquerors, but as Earth people.

Upward, to become guardians of the solar system and stewards of our fragile world. Upward, to find the best version of ourselves.

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The Swirl of Coffee and Questions

November 21, 2024

I was having coffee with a friend who happens to be a teacher. I watched the steam spiral as my companion clinked her spoon against the porcelain, stirring her cup absently. As these coffee conversations do, we meandered from the mundane to the metaphysical. From the internet we went to the meaning of life. My friend has a knack for asking the right questions at the right time.

“So, tell me – what’s the point of it all?” she asked as she gazed through the cafe window where a woman passed by pushing a pram.

“I don’t know. When I die, when you die, my and your senses are dead, so we’re not here. So much for the factual world,” I replied, trying to remember which philosopher said something like that.

She smiled and, looking directly into my eyes, replied, “But you believe in reincarnation, don’t you? Isn’t that laden with purpose?”

I shrugged, “Sure it’s romantic to believe in some kind of afterlife. But, look around – does this scream purpose to you?”

She brushed her hair away from her forehead then her eyes wandered to the window again. A street performer decided to stand in front of the window and perform some clumsy juggling.

“Religion tries to make sense of it all,” I pressed on, “But even the high priests of science kneel before an empty throne. Their emptiness includes weirdo quarks, quantum realms and even god-particles – they say forces beyond our comprehension. It kinda sounds poetic that Tao dances in the heart of the matter, even beautiful. But sacred? No way.”

Her brow furrowed. “So science is the new religion?”

I leaned in, gesturing toward the phone lying between us. “No, not science. Scientism. It replaces reverence with results, mystery with measurability, quality with quantity.” I picked up the phone, “And it’s not just the gadgets.” My voice softened, “It’s the mindset: sharp edges, hard lines, reducing everything – life, death, the cosmos itself – to equations and particles. Even love is written off as a bunch of chemicals sloshing in the brain.” I shook my head, placing the phone on the table. “Wow, what are we left with?”

Her silence invited me to continue.

“Don’t you see?” my voice quickening. “We’re told we’re nothing but the products of chemical accidents on a spinning rock around a Type G star. What is prayer? It’s just some sound waves pushing through the air. Yep, random collisions of chemicals over the millenniums mutated into creatures who love, create, play and pray. OK, the ancient gods may have been illusions, but at least they offered dignity. What does scientism give us? Purpose replaced by algorithms, reverence and a sense of the sacred by replicable results.”

I stopped and leant back in my chair. Took another sip of my coffee. Her hands folded, her expression thoughtful. “But isn’t technology also liberating. It connects us and makes life easier.”

“Ah,” I said, raising a finger. “I love what science has given us. Science didn’t just discover miracles; it made them. Instead of AD – as our way of marking history, I would like to see AP – After Penicillin. I love that technology has freed us from chores. But that freedom might also free us from the planet. No, not sending seed ships on interplanetary and galactic colonization trips. I mean a final liberation – our extinction.”

Now, I was on a roll. I couldn’t stop the impetus of my talking, “Science didn’t just explain lightning; it gave us bombs more destructive than Zeus’s wrath. It replaced the sacred with equations, prayer with noise, and purpose with randomness.”

She frowned and looked at her near-empty cup of coffee. “You make it sound hopeless.”

“Maybe it is,” I admitted. “Scientism is a product of rigid thinking and religious fundamentalism has the same rigidity. You know – dogma in robes and dogma in lab coats. The kind of thinking that says it has the answers but does not know how to listen.”

She studied me for a long moment. “So what’s your solution?”

I smiled, took another sip of my coffee and looked out the window at the juggler. “I don’t know if there is a solution. Maybe we don’t need one. Maybe we just need to live without demanding it be solved. To sit with the questions, like we’re doing now.”

She chuckled softly. “Sounds like you just reinvented faith.”

I laughed. “Maybe, but I like to see scientists do a bit of Zen Koan thinking. You know, like wonder what is the sound of one hand clapping and have their logic scrambled just for a short while.”

What’s left for us, I asked my friend, when both gods and reason fail? My coffee had gone cold by then. The swirling depths had disappeared, as had the steam. But the question lingered, unanswered.

And maybe that’s all it ever will be—a question.

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A Letter to My Absent Guardian Angel

November 20, 2024

To My Ever-Absent Guardian Angel
66 Automatism Road,
Mammonville, 6666

Dear (Supposedly) Watchful One,

It’s been a while—decades, in fact. I thought I’d drop you a line, not because I miss you (I don’t), but because I need answers. Primarily: Where the hell have you been?

You left without so much as a celestial Post-it. For us mere mortals, words matter. Even a basic “BRB” would’ve sufficed. But no, you flapped your wings and ghosted—ironically, since you’re already sort of a ghost. I won’t harp on it (much), but if “guardian” is still part of your job description, it might be time to recheck the fine print.

Anyway, life update: I’ve applied for the position of Director of My Own Life. Admittedly, the pay isn’t great—it’s public service, after all—but the benefits include fewer existential breakdowns and a slightly better carbon footprint. Sure, it’s a one-man gig, and the office hours are ridiculous, but hey, somebody’s got to steer this shipwreck.

Now, a burning question: why did our last encounter happen in a pub? Of all places, I imagined you’d prefer to appear in a shaft of light through a stained-glass window or something appropriately divine. Instead, you nursed a lager while I lamented my woes over a pint. Do angels even drink? Is there a heavenly liquor license I should know about?

If this sounds like I’m whining, well, maybe I am. But cut me some slack. You’ve been AWOL while I’ve wandered the planet armed only with Google Maps and a vague sense of purpose. The truth is, my life’s compass—whether literal or metaphorical—seems perpetually broken. Magnetic north? Useless. Tarot cards? Cryptic. Apps? Battery-draining. You get the idea.

On a related note, your detachable angel wings are still at the dry cleaners. The guy said something about a stubborn stain on the last feather, the one shaped like a bow. Blood, he thinks. Care to explain? I paid the cleaning fee, by the way—you’re welcome.

Honestly, I’m starting to wonder: were you scraping the bottom of the celestial eligibility list when they assigned me? I mean, it’s not like I’m top-tier humanity, but c’mon. Did you lose a bet? Draw the short straw?

And don’t even think about rolling your eyes or straightening your halo as you read this. I can picture you now, muttering, “He’ll never get that Director job. No chance.” Well, here’s the deal: this time, I’m doing it without you. No divine interventions, no whispered nudges in the right direction. You’re officially off the hook.

If you’re just a figment of my imagination—my brain’s way of outsourcing responsibility—then fine. But if you’re real, consider this a resignation letter from our arrangement. Not out of bitterness (okay, maybe a little), but because I need to stand alone, facing the metaphorical wall. And who knows? Maybe that wall will turn out to be a door once I stop expecting you to open it for me.

If I land the job, I’ll rescind all the childish grumbles I ever sent your way. If I don’t…well, at least I’ll know I tried, unsupervised.

Yours (conditionally),
Stavros

P.S. I’m busy this week, but after Sunday, feel free to drop by—no expectations, no feathers, no complaints.

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Soul Drinker

November 20, 2024

This is something I wrote many years ago when I was working. With #MAGA, #Trump & #ChristoFascism in #USA this story shows the same kind of interpersonal dynamics were and are happening in #Australia. What do you think?

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I know this may sound paranoid, but I work with a vampire. Not the kind with python teeth and a penchant for late-night bloodletting, but the kind with a benign smile. You know the sort—so utterly benign that it edges into something too teethy, too wide, and too weird.

Don’t get me wrong; I like smiles. Who doesn’t? A good smile can make a room feel alive. But this one? It didn’t bring life; it siphoned it. The vampire I speak of looked perfectly mundane, almost banal—a “Mrs Jones” type if Mrs Jones wore floral blouses and talked about her kids’ gymnastics meets. Karen. That was her name.

When I first met her, I didn’t see it. I thought she was just another office mate with a knack for workplace small talk. She was a born-again type, constantly referencing “grace” and “renewal,” but not in a way that seemed threatening. Not at first. She didn’t want my blood—oh no, she was far too devout for that. She wanted something deeper. She wanted my life force.

Life force is a slippery concept. Call it vitality, essence, or spirit—it’s the thing that keeps you upright, that makes you feel connected. And Karen? She was a vampire of will. Soul vampires, will vampires—they’re not some romantic delusion spun from a gothic fever dream. They’re real. These are the people who drain you not with fangs but with their presence. Their words, their gaze, the sheer gravity of their existence. They’re P&C mums, footy club treasurers, and school fete organisers. People you’d never suspect. People you might even admire. You might be working with one right now.

“Come in,” she said the first day I met her.

I was standing in the staff room, scanning the cluttered noticeboard plastered with calendars and community events. Filing cabinets lined the walls, their surfaces piled with papers. It was ordinary, so ordinary, until I turned and saw her.

It wasn’t her floral blouse or her wavy, shoulder-length hair. It wasn’t even her shoes—practical, beige, and unremarkable. It was the way she stood. Like she was bowing to something invisible. Supplicant. Devout. A silent pledge of loyalty to… something.

Her smile was radiant, toothy, and hollow.

“Hi, I’m Alex,” I said, finding my voice.

She leaned forward, her posture impossibly still, and said in a tone that seemed to pierce the room’s fabric, “But I’m Karen.”

The air shifted. The walls of the room folded inward. No, not the walls. Space itself. She had, in one breath, devoured half the distance between us.

I glanced out the window behind her, desperate for grounding. The sky burned blue, the horizon a pale, parched curve.

I felt my feet in my shoes, my hands trembling slightly. I counted my breaths.

Karen didn’t need to speak to steal something from you. It was in her presence, her gravitational pull. She made every word feel loaded, every glance feel like an interrogation. She never asked for your trust; she simply assumed it.

Over the weeks, I noticed strange things: Karen’s uncanny ability to dominate the room without trying, the way she could turn a casual chat into an inquisition about my beliefs, my fears, my hopes. She wasn’t just a born-again Christian; she was a predator in sheep’s clothing, a hunter of souls disguised as a suburban mother of two.

Her questions weren’t questions. They were extractions.

“So, Alex,” she asked one morning as I sipped my coffee. “Do you ever think about salvation?”

It wasn’t the question that unnerved me; it was the direction it came from. Not her lips, but somewhere deeper, darker.

I started to avoid her, but it didn’t matter. Karen’s presence seeped into everything. My dreams, my work, my moments of solitude. She had a way of collapsing the world around her, making you feel like there was no escape.

It’s not just Karen. She’s a symptom of something larger. This century, the world feels like it’s unravelling. The greenhouse gases, the looming threat of nuclear holocaust—it all feeds the energy she represents—the born-again zeal, the clutching for certainty in uncertain times.

There are too many Karens out there, and they’re not going away.

I moved inland a few weeks ago, thinking the shift would help me escape something—what, I wasn’t sure. But instead, I found myself sharing a room with a vampire.

A soul vampire, a will vampire, a Karen.

When I look at her, I wonder if I’m paranoid. Then I see her smile—the way it widens just a fraction too far, the way it hangs there, benign yet bottomless.

And I know I’m not.

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The Playground of Shadows

November 16, 2024

Boredom sat heavily on him, like dust on an old, untouched shelf. He stretched out his limbs, a shell adrift with no anchor, skimming across some dull, endless sea. Nirvana, the world whispered, was an empty thing if this was it. Peace? It felt like the slow pulse of something unfeeling, a lifeless melody humming in the background.

But there was a whisper, too, some echo of Buddha, prophets, and wanderers who saw meaning where he could find none. “The world is your playground,” they seemed to say, and yet, the toys scattered around him were chipped and faded, the games already won and lost. The thrill was gone.

He looked down at his hands, at his shoe, at the cigarette butt lying desolate on the cracked pavement. He saw only a cigarette butt, but when he reached for it, his fingers were wrapped in some spectral glove, ancient and unknowable, numbing his touch. A silky chant rose from the earth, and in the flickering haze, he caught a glimpse of her—the forgotten Madonna on the run, the ghost of a purpose that had long since slipped through his fingers.

And so, he took to the highway in the wind, that endless road North, where the sands met the sky and eternity seemed to lie just around the bend. The prophet in his mind handed him a book and an angel with curls handed him his soul. Here, he thought, is something close to freedom. Here, he felt the weight of all things lightened by the wind as he climbed mountains, lit fires, and let his words drift into the stars—alone yet somehow complete.

But the nights were haunted by shadow games. By candlelight, he felt the passing of unspoken truths caught in the heavy air, thick with incense and echoes. Sitting across from him, his companion cast her glance, a holy arc, over him. No mirrors were needed, only the quiet acceptance of their hearts pulsing in time. Together, they watched the fall of all things—leaves, bottles, lives—and knew that letting go was the only way to hold anything.

He felt the years burn away like the slow ember of his cigarette, holes punched through the fabric of his past. In the distance, a gladiator carried worlds on his shoulders, a Da Vinci gaze locked on some distant horizon. Yes, he thought, pull the plug on life’s bath. Let it all drain away. And as the waves of what was and what would be crashed against his pedestals, he let them crumble, the sand running through his fingers in memory of time slipping by.

The smell of white night, nostalgic and sweet, settled over him like a soft rain. He closed his eyes, feeling the weight and lightness of it all. His life, his love, and his losses had collided like the gentle kiss of billiard balls, a game played without cues, a moment that had once perched on the tree they’d planted in the garden of then.

As he let it all fall, he saw that his life was neither storm nor fury but dew on a flower, a brief glisten in the morning light that would, by noon, disappear. Smiling to himself, he walked into the wind, his footsteps soft on the path toward meaning or maybe just toward peace.

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The Temporary Angel: A Journey Beyond Reality

November 15, 2024

No rainbow hues crowned the dilapidated house across the asphalt. A lone weed struggled through the crack in the cement to greet the constant passersby. She could empathize with the weed. “What’s a weed but a plant discarded from the mob?” she thought.

Her hair, from a distance, looked like a lion’s mane. Up close, what you thought was hair was clusters of thin lines of flame with light blue ends. Was she an angel? A messenger of fire descended into this neighbourhood? Or was she just an illusion to occupy a mind locked into a cube of space? Could she be both? Like a profile that is a vase from one view or two faces turned inward from another. How long she had been watching was anyone’s guess.

George felt her eyes on him, an unsettling sensation that sharpened his awareness of his subterranean existence. He had carried the underground in his soul for so long that he feared being recognized—feared it might destroy him. To be seen was to be known, and to be known was to lose the only freedom he understood: the fragile equilibrium between necessity and whim. His underground world was a realm of shifting sand, where heaven and hell were interchangeable kingdoms. Above, the surface world was a place of silhouettes; below, he clung to the parallax of a lost star.

The worry beads in his pocket offered little comfort. His father had given them to him, claiming they were carved from the thigh bones of a Turk killed in some distant war. The macabre story had been a joke, his father’s way of mixing humour with his dark compassion. But the beads—smooth, ivory fragments of elephant tusk—still felt like relics of a troubled inheritance. He turned them over in his hand as if their smooth surface might anchor him to something solid.

At the station, Sophie appeared, filling the empty space with something familiar and alien. George noticed her wings first—scarlet feathers that seemed too vivid and alive to be part of any costume.

“Who are you?” he asked, his voice wary.

“Good, you see me,” she replied, a grin teasing her lips. “Can you see all of me?”

He squinted. “I can see you’ve got red wings.”

“Scarlet,” she corrected. “That’s even better! You can see my wings. Most can’t.” Her hands moved as she spoke, graceful as a dancer’s, and George found himself oddly captivated. “I’m a Temporary Angel,” she continued, “and I need your help. I want to be made permanent.”

George shook his head. “You’re telling me you’re an angel? Walking around Redfern Station? And I’m the only one who can see you?”

“Yes,” she said simply. “What other people?”

George looked around and saw that the station was deserted. The people who were walking around, looking at their watches, holding their bags, waiting for a train—there was no one on the platforms or the stairs. It was as if the world had been blown away with a breath, leaving only him and Sophie in this crystalline stillness. He glanced at his shadow, unnervingly sharp against the ground in the fading twilight. The light around him seemed too pure, too surreal, sharpening every edge and making every detail glow with impossible clarity.

Sophie handed him a cup of coffee, her thermos producing exactly what he liked—short and black, no sugar. “For now, silence might save you. Just listen. Let your heart speak louder than your head. Don’t let your head scalp you.”

As George sipped his coffee, she crossed her legs and leaned back slightly. “You know,” she said, “some people believe you must suffer to reach salvation—hairshirts, long vigils, self-denial. But my colleagues and I have learned that you can sit at the gates of salvation with a cup of coffee and not be asked to move on.” She winked at him.

They sat in silence until the air shifted. A moth the size of George’s hand appeared, landing delicately on the rim of his cup. Its eyes—dark and unblinking—seemed to peer into his soul.

“That’s Moth,” Sophie said. “A fellow Temp. You’ll meet more of us soon.”

Moth took off, its wings slicing through the air like a blade. Sophie stood, her scarlet wings stretching wide. “What do you want, George?” she asked, her voice low and steady. “Say it aloud.”

He hesitated, holding his breath, the weight of the question pressing down on him.

“What do you want, George?” Sophie asked again, her voice softer this time. “Be honest. It’s not the past you’re after, is it?”

“I want everything,” he finally said. “Everything, including making it all like it was before—perfect.”

She smiled, a faint sadness in her eyes. “Everything, huh? Even a brand-new car?”

“Sure,” he said, though he knew how hollow his words sounded.

Sophie turned her head toward the distant stairs. “Look over there. If the timing is right, he’ll reveal something to us.”

At the top of the railway stairs, a man descended. With each step, his shadow lengthened, stretching until it reached the bottom, falling down the stairway like a spectral companion. He dragged a sack behind him, his movements erratic, like a puppet tugged by invisible strings. His patchwork clothes—a riot of velvet, canvas, lace, and denim—hung on his frame like a discarded quilt.

The Ragman stopped before them, his single eye gleaming. Sophie gestured toward him, her voice dropping to a whisper. “He doesn’t expect any sense from you. He merely guards the door.”

The Ragman began to hum, his voice rough and melodic, then sang softly:

“Pictures of Sophie burn at the edges,
In shades of blue, she keeps her pledges.”

Moth descended from above, spiralling in tight circles before perching on the Ragman’s head. Sophie’s wings shifted as she stepped forward. “This is the sign,” she murmured.

The Ragman shuffled closer, his one eye scanning George with a gaze that weighed him in unseen scales. Then, with a raspy certainty, he said, “The timing is right. The planets are aligned, and you’re here.”

Sophie turned to George, her expression shifting to something both tender and resolute. “What do you think, George? Will you take the next step?”

She extended her hand toward him, and he felt her fingers press through his chest, gripping his heart. A sharp crack echoed in his ears as his vision dissolved into light.

They rose together, Sophie’s wings propelling them upward. Below, George saw his body standing alone on the platform. He saw the weed standing defiantly alone as he ascended. Then, slowly, the world came into focus—a railway station teeming with people, their movements alive with purpose.

Higher still, the Earth appeared, a blue and white orb spinning in a sea of black. Sophie’s wings shimmered, their scarlet hue fading into white as they ascended.

The cries and groans of countless souls filled the air. “What is this place?” George asked, his voice trembling.

“The holding space of the dead,” Sophie replied.

“The sun takes those whose light burned too brightly to last. The moon cradles the quiet souls, the dreamers. And Earth… Earth takes those who still have something left to finish,” Sophie said softly.

“Is my father here?” George asked.

Sophie nodded. “He’s waiting.”

George felt the fear of taking an uncertain step onto a journey that had no clear destination. Sophie’s grip on his heart tightened, and he realized she had brought him to the edge of something vast and unknowable. The shifting sand of his old life was gone, and in its place stretched a horizon of infinite possibility.

“The stranger within you is no stranger to me,” Sophie said. “It’s always been watching, waiting for this moment.”

“What happens now?” George asked.

Sophie smiled, her wings glowing softly. “That’s up to you.”

George felt the pull of the horizon, vast and uncharted. Somewhere in the distance, a new path was waiting. He took a step forward into the light.

The above images generated by AI from the story.

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Carnival Day

November 14, 2024

It’s Carnival Day, and the streets hum with strange music that seems to echo from the cracks in the cobblestones. The sailors sing tunes that rise and fall like waves, their voices rough and gentle, worn by salt and time. Ancient whores lean against faded railings, their sighs heavy with the weight of forgotten desires, watching a day that never ends roll out again like a ragged carpet.

Old men tip their hats to passing dogs and the shrieking children who dart between the stalls. Ladies in feathered boas throw blown kisses from their booths, winking at those who dare catch them. Somewhere in the crowd, a sky pilot—tall and solemn—wraps his arm around his lover’s shoulder, murmuring sweet equations, words of science, as they wander toward the looming shadow of the roller coaster.

“Hey! Hey! Don’t forget your sense of justice!” comes a call from a voice lost in the crowd. It’s Carnival Day, after all, a day for the topsy-turvy, a day where nothing is what it seems.

The ghost train rattles past, its lights flashing garish neon. Round and round, it goes, yet no one can hear the screams of the shadows within. You catch sight of the acrobats now, spinning and turning high in the air, their bodies dangling by invisible threads. You wonder what magic holds them up there—what spell, what curse—yet there’s not even a single hair to show the strain. Your head begins to turn, spinning in rhythm with the world around you, and you wonder what the clown is doing over there, grinning like he knows all the secrets you forgot.

You find yourself seated under the grand old hat, an enormous thing that arches above, draped like a night sky. Its great mast rises from the centre, a pillar of mystery that holds the curtain between this world and the stars. Looking up, you see them—stars peering down with distant curiosity, pinpricks of silver against the carnival’s blaze. Somewhere, you think, there might be a wishing well beneath this hat, deep and endless, catching all the silent hopes thrown up by this crowd.

You wander into the Topsy-Turvy House, tripping over invisible stairs and losing balance in rooms that slope and slide. The electric vibrations of the funhouse hum in your bones, a strange, tingling pulse that you can’t shake. Electronic zombies greet you, their eyes blank but somehow alive, watching you even as you look away.

The laughing clowns are waiting with wide mouths open, eager for you to throw your ball into their gaping grins. You do, and the ball tumbles down, but you lose track of it, forget where it went, though you wish—foolishly, perhaps—for the panda plush on the wall, a silly prize you’re sure will hold you tight.

Nearby, a bearded woman whirls like a storm, her skirts sweeping the air in wide arcs. You see the hammer and bell challenge beside her and step forward, but somehow you miss, though you strike with all your might. Next, a boxer in the ring grabs hold of your toe—he’s a strange one, like a sumo who left his mittens by the dock, his laugh deep and unfathomable. Around you, freaks and fortunes twist and collide, creatures of illusion, like characters from a song half-remembered.

You stumble into the fortune teller’s tent, where the hangman, of all people, sits kissing the feet of an empress. She looks up at you with a knowing smile, and a chill creeps up your spine as the cards—tarot, tarot—whisper among themselves, hinting at secrets you’re almost afraid to hear.

Outside, a clown with a monkey mask offers you flowers, their petals made of bright tinsel and paper. You hand him your last coins, and he smiles, ringing a small bell that echoes through the carnival. “All is well,” it seems to say, though you wouldn’t know why you believe it.

The young man with a tattoo steps forward, gripping knives he throws at the naked girl spinning on the wheel. He calls himself Zorro, but his aim is shaky. If he misses, he wins a prize—perhaps the fighting panda from the loft or a doll that talks in the dark.

The happy families pass by, their children wide-eyed as they glance at the three-headed man and the bearded lady, sharing popcorn and secrets they can’t understand. Parents, lost in the spectacle, miss the glimmer of longing in their children’s eyes—a yearning that no mask, no glittering carnival can truly satisfy.

Later, you drift to the promenade, away from the noise. The seagulls flock close as you toss crumbs into the wind, their feathers flashing white like ghostly signatures across the blue. You look to the horizon, where the sky meets the sea, and the foam spells out words you cannot read. Over there, you think, beyond that edge of the sky, perhaps the carnival drifts, waiting, the astral colours of the day hidden beneath its layers.

And then, a final whisper rises, carried by the salt breeze, as if from an uncharted land: Let the cynics cling to their masks. Let the innocent create rings of fire for the children kissing the sun.

We don’t need a ticket, we don’t need a guide—just the courage to walk that horizon toward the blue, where the carnival fades, where the laughter echoes long and low, and the stars, watching over, nod their silent approval.

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The Road of My Life

November 13, 2024

Autumn leaves scatter over sandstone steps, each one a memory resting in the quiet folds of yesterday. I walk back through these moments—your fingers brushing against mine, faint traces of our names etched on time’s walls, words pulsing beneath our skin like heartbeats, unsaid, waiting. We were young, hearts held in delicate cages, eager and hesitant to be known, felt, and understood. But we let the leaves fall, let the silence stretch across seasons, sighs slipping from our lips like quiet farewells.

Now, the flowers that once reached the sky fall in the fields of memory. In some way, everything that blossomed has gone to seed. Petals drift to the earth, an offering to the silent universe. Your embrace, now an emptiness woven from starlight, holds me in a kind of nothingness that somehow feels like everything—a cosmic tapestry threading through flesh and bone.

Man shapes, a woman breathes; we exist within this cradle of creation, where time unfolds like a flower climbing eternity. It’s a quiet dance of moments becoming years, the steady mountain above and the singing brook below. Listen—do you hear it? The song beneath the song, the hum that makes everything feel so real yet intangible. I fall into it, the marrow of it all, with you. And my words, as heavy as stones, fall with me, drawn by gravity into a place beyond words.

You hold me in the palm of your mind, a single breath echoing with all that might have been said or might never need saying. Maybe it’s wrong to speak like this, caught in someone else’s story, someone else’s time. Let’s light a candle; let shadows play in their necessary darkness. After all, what is revealed without the blessing of shadow, without the weight of night?

Eternity waits around the corner, buried in dusty books and whispered memories. The ghost of your father stirs in your gaze, his secrets deep-rooted, buried in the hay of memory. And yet, here we are, stranded in the mud of our own lives. Hold me, just hold me. Let these layers—the days, the skins we wear—dissolve. What does it matter if we’re a mistake? Our fingers have already found each other; our hearts are stitched together in the dark, understanding one another without needing to speak. Our song isn’t made of words; it’s an ache living in our bones, a quiet refrain only we can hear.

Trust, and the door will open. Trust and the ladder to the stars will appear before us. Open our hearts, and suffering shrinks to a single dewdrop on a blade of grass. Look into each other’s eyes, and there—yes, there—is the kingdom we’ve been seeking. Hold my hand, and we’ll never die. Listen to the silence between us, and you’ll know me as deeply as anything can be known.

What we are can’t be held in a word, a sound, a shape, or a shadow. What we are is beyond naming, beyond showing, beyond grasping. We are the emptiness that holds everything, a No-Thing birthing all things.

Give me the road again—not the mapped highway with rigid lines, but the open, untamed spaces of the unknown. Let me wander back to where my heart first learned to roam, to those early fires and wild, unbroken skies. I want to walk those paths again, not with my feet, but with the quiet longing of my soul, letting memory rise like smoke in the evening air.

Let me laugh, unguarded, and weep without fear. Let me reach for the stars as I once did, not with hands, but with the open ache of my heart. I want to sit by the fire, tell stories in the warmth of the night, and rest in the cool shade of day. To live simply, fully, in all the ways that once felt impossible.

And when the time comes—when I am nothing but ash scattered to the winds—let me settle here, in this place where we once stood together, in the quiet soil beneath the autumn leaves. Let me dissolve into the earth, and let love rise again, whispered through the leaves on these old sandstone steps.

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