My Lady of the Earth: A Tale of Renewal and Time

November 12, 2024

In the heart of a forgotten desert, a lone figure trudged down a cracked highway, each step scraping against the sun-scorched asphalt as if metal clanked against stone. His feet felt like tin cans, hollow and beaten, dragging his weary body forward as he clutched an old glass bowl—its only inhabitant a sliver of something ancient and alive, a glint of Time itself suspended in water. His arms ached, heavy and empty, as though they’d died long before, holding nothing but the fragile keepsake of ages past.

But just as his strength waned, there was a shift. She appeared as if conjured from the dust itself: My Lady of the Earth, the Sun’s seventh Queen. With a graceful lift of her arms, she raised him above the smoke, the Screen of all that clouded and concealed. Her touch was unlike anything he’d known, reaching through the rusting paths of his veins, setting them aglow with purpose. In her embrace, he felt something long lost—a feeling like Home, a warmth too timeless to describe.

He looked upon her as her veil began to dissolve. Beneath it, her face bore the quiet strength of mountains, still and unyielding, forever patient. From her eyes spilt silver brooks, flowing over her cheeks without urgency, slipping past with a gentleness that defied the chaotic world below. The brooks whispered of hidden peace, where Madonnas rested in perfect balance, and saints lay quiet in their coffins, untouched by mortal turmoil. Shadows of the powerful faded here, hollow ambitions dissipating like smoke. Even the rooster—herald of dawn and disturbance—lay silent in her presence as if Time paused.

She was both familiar and fierce, the Only Child of Passion and Earth’s eternal heartbeat. Winds swept through the dust, weaving through her form, rooting into her flesh, and carrying the age-old whispers of forgotten stars with them. Her body, raw and untamed, glistened in the light of the Sun, bound to it yet free, dancing in an endless circle of life and death, decay and rebirth.

With a flick of her golden feet, she nudged the Moon, sending it into an orbit known only to the wise and the wild, beckoning all with a silent proclamation. The man held his breath, feeling the weight of her gesture, her assurance—this was no end but the beginning, an age reborn. And as he stared into her eyes, he understood: he was no longer lost in the desert. He had been brought back to her, the soul of his journey entwined with the spirit of the Earth, who whispered to him that, like her, he too was eternal.

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Mass-Mind Masseur, Masseur of the Lonely Heart

November 11, 2024

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The Folly of Creation

November 7, 2024

How do you record a moment of recognition? How do you capture moments of lost time and fill them with flowers? How do you grow a second self, one with ink for blood and paper for bones? By writing, of course.

Why attempt such folly as reshaping the world within your mind just to watch it transform again outside? It’s absurd, isn’t it? But if you’re not breaking down the world, how do you build anything new?

I’m making payments to the wind and sacrifices to the moon. Writing demands these offerings—it asks you to confront what threatens everything you hold dear.

If I understand you, then yes—now is the time. The time has come for flesh and blood to transmute into paper and ink. The only problem is, paper burns. But then again, man rots.

In that fleeting moment of recognition, we glimpse our own folly in this battle with mortality.

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When the World Gazes Back

November 5, 2024

The old man feathered the last moments of his career with stories, tales that drifted through the room like the whisper of wings. Each word held the weight of years, worn smooth with retelling but still gleaming. He could sense the dual reactions in his listeners—frustration and unexpected tenderness as if his presence coaxed them to teeter between exasperation and compassion. It amused him how people sought certainty and tried to pin down meaning like an insect under glass. Did they not know that meaning moved? That it was as alive and elusive as breath?

How far, he mused, does coincidence extend its net of significance? He had asked himself this a thousand times in the quiet hours before dawn. Could one take any number of random events—snatches of conversation, objects forgotten on a windowsill—and draw them into a pattern that whispered truth? He knew the answer now, in his final years: yes. But not in the way the young or the impatient might think. The act of seeking, the mind’s restless weaving, made meaning spring forth. It was the seeking that revealed the hidden architecture beneath.

As his voice filled the room, he considered the balance between what he called the ‘real’ world and the world of omens, the oracular glimpses he’d chased in private. To him, there was no hierarchy between them. Each world was as substantial, as fleeting, as the next. The mindless churning of existence, with its nerves and synapses, was only one half of the story. The oracular world, though—ah, that required a different lens, a careful marriage of heart and mind until something else appeared, a perception that belonged neither entirely to reason nor to intuition. It was a simple shift, not mystical or eerie. The world turned inside out, and suddenly, what was hidden became visible.

He remembered trying to explain this once to a friend. They had stared at him as if he had grown another head, their eyes blinking slowly as though trying to adjust to a sudden light. “It’s not about predicting the future,” he had said. “It’s about seeing the shape of things as they are, from seed to blossom to decay. Each moment is a whole, a micro aeon within the larger arc. The hexagram from yarrow stalks is just a fingerprint, a snapshot of that whole.”

He paused in his storytelling, looking into the expectant eyes across the table. Why did people seek meaning in things as simple as sticks or numbers? Why did 2 + 2 need to equal 4 for them to feel anchored? “Perhaps it is childish,” he thought. Yet, as he spoke again, he felt the familiar electric hum in the air, the moment when observation shifted. When the seeker stopped being the observer and became observed when the world turned inside out and gazed back with its own eyes.

That was when history became soft, dissolving into a bouquet of time’s petals. All the crimes, victories, and forgotten moments of humankind—each one a petal on a single, magnificent flower—the old man wondered if beneath each word, beneath each silence, there were universes folded up like secret notes, crystalline palaces shining their light inward, into the very marrow of him.

Expression, he thought, was a prison of sorts. Words carved meaning in stone, but the stone always fell short, chipped and weathered. Truth was a living thing, alive only when veiled in a lie beautiful enough to reflect its facets. The more exquisite the lie, the closer it came to capturing the truth’s pulse. Was that not why nature adorned herself with roses, daffodils, swaying palms—her final goal reached in beauty? He realized then, as he looked out at his listeners, that the truth lay not in what was said but in what shimmered in the silence, what was caught between the eye and the breath.

And the old man, with all his stories and musings, felt the joy of the garden before him—a place where the botanist’s microscope held no power, and each listener stood barefoot, waiting to sense the bloom.

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Secrets Behind Sunglasses: A Poetic Conversation

November 1, 2024

The other day, I spoke with my friend who wore sunglasses, even at night. They were not just any sunglasses; they had thick, tinted lenses that turned his eyes into secrets. He sat in his bamboo chair, curled like an embryo in a second womb, and waited for the silence between songs on the record. When it came, he tilted his head, aiming his gaze—hidden behind the black glass—at me.


“Your passage shows a definite poetic sensitivity, an emotional quality that strikes one—but what does it mean?” he asked, words biting the quiet. “You are trying to communicate?” He leaned on the last syllable of “communicate,” stretching it thin, squeezing it like elegant toothpaste. “Aren’t you?”


I felt the weight of his question sink into my chest, leaving behind a sharp, echoing hollowness. I glanced at the poem I had laid bare on the table between us, exposed like a wound. His words transformed before my eyes into writhing maggots, their white bodies squirming towards the ink. Without thinking, I took off my shoe—a thin, worn sandal—and slammed it down. The thud startled the silence; the maggots burst, leaving wet smears across the wooden surface.


I didn’t speak for a moment. I scraped their remnants into an ashtray, their tiny corpses mixing with the charred remnants of past thoughts and past sins. I dropped my sandal to the floor. He laughed, a dry, brittle sound that cracked in the dimness. He crossed his legs, the fabric of his pants whispering like a taunt. The damage had been done—a single maggot had escaped my fury and burrowed, unseen, into my ear. I could feel it crawling, tiny feet clinging to the tender skin before settling into the cavity of my heart. It pulsed there, secret and vile. He knew it. His smirk was the proof.


Now I write to pull it out, strand by bloody strand, from my heart. I know that only when I spit it out, stained and gasping, will I be free.


This maggot is unlike the others; it shifts and moulds itself, a grotesque mimicry of thoughts, without shedding its true nature. Later, it transformed as I read Dostoevsky’s The Devils, a cigarette balanced between my fingers and a small, gleaming grain of eternity in the palm of my other hand. Between puffs and between sentences, I noticed that the grain had grown in weight. Kirilov had just explained why man must commit suicide to proclaim his freedom from fear. He was called a madman. I thought he made sense. I looked at my hand and saw that the grain had grown into a crumb. Realizing that Dostoevsky was performing the alchemy in person, I continued to read and commune with him.


The grain in my palm felt heavier, its edges pressing into my skin. My mind wasn’t playing tricks. It had grown into a dense and insistent crumb. I realized then that Dostoevsky had performed this alchemy, transmuting despair into something tangible, a weight that dragged at the fabric of the world. I kept reading, feeling the maggot shift inside me, watching with its eyeless stare as I communed with a man long dead but never silent.


The record ended while the needle turned and turned on the dead wax, and I looked up. My friend still sat there, sunglasses glinting darkly in the thin light, the smirk on his lips a question left unsaid. I inhaled, the smoke and the maggot’s secrets filling me to the brim.

I asked AI to make an image based on the writing. This is it.

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Soul Searching Under the Spell of Shadow Magic

October 14, 2024

Sitting under a wide, cloud-streaked sky, it’s easy to see dragons protecting fair maidens—shapes forming and dissolving like ideas half-formed. This is soul searching, a turn of the dial hoping to find clarity amidst static. That’s why I’ve come here, to the quiet of the countryside, away from the city’s endless grind. Winter’s chill creeps in, but perhaps the soul thaws when freed from its corporate chains.

Still, the absurdity of it all strikes me. My 1960s stripes are showing, but that’s okay—it’s the 2020s now. What once felt raw, visceral, and alive has been packaged and sold back to us as curated content. Rebellion itself is now a lifestyle brand. You can buy a $60 band tee, a protest-themed candle, or an algorithmically curated playlist of “protest anthems.”

Sex sells, they say—cars, perfumes, ideologies, even people. The marketplace has commodified humanity itself. The icons of individuality—once untouchable, electrifying forces—have been domesticated and rebranded as influencers. These influencers don’t just sell products; they sell the illusion of a life you think you should be living. It’s a polished performance, a constant reminder that you’re incomplete.

Advertisers and influencers are the shadow magicians of our age. No, they don’t conjure fireballs or brew potions, but their craft is no less insidious. They convince us we lack something intrinsic, something we already possess, and then sell us fragments of our wholeness at a markup. They turn rebellion into product lines, package freedom in cans, and sell identity at a discount.

We’ve entered the era of the psychic supermarket. Neon lights, slick branding, and shiny apps promise “insight,” “transcendence,” “authenticity”—but all they deliver is distraction. The spiritual hunger that once drove revolutions now fuels workshops, weekend retreats, and life-coaching apps. Gurus with trademarks stamped on their third eyes sell “enlightenment,” but their products are more like chains than keys.

What does all this have to do with shadow magic? Everything. In the Renaissance, magicians were acknowledged as such. Rasputin helped bring down the Romanovs; today’s digital influencers and ad-tech sorcerers are just as powerful, spinning illusions that shape entire nations. Their methods are subtler now, cloaked in data analytics, viral trends, and algorithms optimized to hijack the soul. It’s not just conditioning—it’s enchantment.

Take rebellion, for instance. Once, it meant something. It had a pulse, a fight, a fire. Now, rebellion is a glossy ad campaign for sneakers or energy drinks. The ethos of “sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll” has become “sleaze, addiction, and mindless consumerism.” Even awakening itself has been commodified, sold back to us in mindfulness apps and wellness retreats. Choose the blue pill, and you stay plugged into a world of viral dances, curated feeds, and endless scrolling. Choose the red pill, and you wake up—only to realize that even enlightenment comes with a subscription fee.

Advertisers don’t just sell products—they sell people. The stars of the golden age of cinema have been replaced by viral TikTok influencers and Instagram idols. They are brands, and we consume them as eagerly as we consume their endorsements. The human soul has been commodified, packaged into likes, swipes, and carefully curated feeds. The smile of the influencer is a product, optimized by algorithms to sell us something—beauty, status, belonging, or just the faint promise of being seen.

And behind it all, the shadow magicians profit. They don’t just take our money—they take our attention, our dignity, and, worst of all, our sense of self. The tragedy isn’t in enjoying a good streaming series or the latest tech gadget; it’s in losing the capacity to see beyond them. We’ve traded pieces of our souls for branded personas, and the worst part is, we hardly even notice.

Yes, this is heavy stuff. It might sound extreme to say advertisers profit from souls, but consider it: they convince us to buy not just things, but meaning, identity, and purpose. They replace the shared wisdom of communities with synthetic substitutes—neatly packaged remedies for the emptiness they themselves create. Each product promises to fill a void, but the more we consume, the emptier we feel.

As we rise up the modern pyramid—a fusion of Instagram stories, YouTube ads, and AI-generated content—we witness a Tower of Babel built from distraction and desire. The shadow magicians have sold us illusions of ourselves, and in doing so, they’ve blinded us to what we already are. The battle isn’t just for our wallets—it’s for our souls.

But here’s the thing: the spell only works if we believe in it. We’re not powerless. What’s the way out? Maybe it’s as simple as returning to awareness. The images we cultivate in our minds shape the world we create. Will they be pyramids to ego, or bridges to collective responsibility? Love must move beyond the self—beyond the petty “me”—to embrace stewardship of our planet and its people.

The shadow magicians won’t stop. They’ll repackage even this message, selling “save the planet” kits with a monthly subscription fee. Awareness requires vigilance, a willingness to question even the noblest calls to action. The battle isn’t fought in boardrooms or markets—it’s fought within. It’s a fight to reclaim the soul from those who would sell it back to us in pieces.

So, here I scribble—seeking clarity, exorcising spells, and reclaiming the space I almost lost. Perhaps this is just an exorcism, a way to break the spell over me. But I hope it’s more than that. There is a battle going on—inner and outer. For too long, our eyes have been closed to the inner world, the world that contains the outer one like a Madonna and child. This psychic terrain is populated by forces—good and evil—and it’s up to us to choose sides.

The choice is simple: shadow magic or light, me or we, destruction or renewal. This time, let’s break the spell. And let’s get it right.

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Coffee Cup Conquistadors

September 29, 2024

Coffee Cup conquistadors, I have problems of vision in this midnight age. I see the eye of a hurricane within each loss and gain. I lose treasures all day and night through these paper walls. To top it all—gurus don’t come around here no more.

Brothers and sisters, we stand at the edge of civilization, a unified force. As we sipped our coffee, we observed each other’s movements, recognizing the cosmic significance of every gesture. Some of us ascended the mount of Golgotha with reverence, each touch a sacred act. The sober one, Sophie, refers to it as the Skull. Others of us, with spider-leg vision, delicately traversed the coffee grounds, seeing beyond the visible, like the delicate threads of fate. In this shared experience, we are all part of a larger narrative, connected by our observations and interpretations.

We gazed upon a scattered army, initially hazy, but with the valour of conquistadors, we honed in sharply. The porcelain edge of the cup transformed into a precipice. As we peered over, an alien script unfolded, twisting like crystal algae on white china. The white China, akin to the sterile laboratories of Science. The depth of this cup, viewed from the edge, was dizzying, shrouded in mystery. This cup, a vessel of unknown depths, invites us to wonder and contemplate its secrets.

The saucers flew while my cup’s base remained anchored to the tabletop. At the culmination of our exploration, at the far reaches of spider-web logic, a talking salt shaker appeared. “Hey! It’s not as dire as you believe!” it proclaimed, igniting a sense of adventure and discovery.

I thought I saw Lot’s wife, her form engraved upon my forehead, a silent spectre watching from the salt shaker’s voice.

Shapes, shapes danced upon the surface of my cup—who’s the best survivor of them all? The ones who reach for the North Pole? The ones who head for the South? The ones who climb to the roof of the world? Or the ones who dive for the floor? Is it we, the coffee brigade, stirring life’s bitter brew? With the world’s calibrated spoon, we stir the dissolved sugar cube. The cube is a reminder of the shape we’re locked in. The cube is a symbol of the microchips stirring in the scientific soup of existence.

I see the eye of the hurricane within each loss and gain. I lose treasures all day and night through these fragile paper walls. And to top it all—gurus don’t come around here anymore.

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The Dance of Mind and Heart: Finding Meaning

September 28, 2024

Mind: How can you know where you want to go in a non-conceptual way? Knowing is inherently conceptual. You claim to know your direction without knowledge. Can you explain that?

Heart: It’s true; my previous statement may seem nonsensical. Let me rephrase: I don’t know where I wish to go or what I want to write, but I feel a direction. It’s not knowledge as you understand it, but it’s no less real.

Mind: A feeling? Now you’re stepping into territory that doesn’t compute. You either know or you don’t. What you call ‘feeling’ is a fleeting, unreliable sensation—something grounded in chemical responses, nothing more. Don’t introduce it as a third state between knowledge and ignorance. It’s simply you grasping at shadows.

Heart: Shadows? Perhaps. But what if the shadows themselves lead me to something more? Something you, with all your calculations, cannot fathom. Feeling is my map—it tells me where to go, even if it’s into the unknown. And I trust that.

Mind:  This feeling must offer you more than the uncertainty lurking at my realm’s edges. How can you venture into darkness without light or a map? I doubt there’s anything beyond my domain. This darkness could merely be the boundary you wish to cross.

Heart: (more impassioned): What if I don’t need your map? What if I navigate around you, above you, beneath you? What if you, dear Mind, are the source of my doubts, the cage that keeps me from leaping forward? Perhaps this very dialogue with you holds me back from answering the call of something bigger than us both—my destiny.

Mind:  Be cautious; you’re starting to sound irrational. You’re proposing unfathomable ideas. How can you use words to traverse this invisible path of feeling? Words are my essence—my very being. Now, you claim to transcend them. It’s absurd, like trying to leap over your shadow or lift yourself by your bootstraps.

Heart: (voice trembling with frustration): Listen, Mind—my heart beats without you telling it to. My blood flows, and my breath rises and falls. Why can’t I express the words within me without your rigid orchestration? Words are surface-level—the crust, the shallow layer of something vast beneath. You think you hold all meaning, but real meaning is hidden below your borders.

Mind: Now you’re introducing another term—meaning—as if it exists apart from me and my realm. How can you have meaning without Mind? That’s utterly ridiculous.

Heart: (with passion): What’s ridiculous is your blind belief in your sovereignty! You may be necessary, but you are not the king. Meaning comes alive when you and I collaborate, yes, but it begins with me. It rises from the depths where words can’t reach. Look at joy, for example. Joy needs no words—it is felt in every part of you, a deep swell that exists without concepts or definitions. And yet, it carries meaning! Joy is meaning in motion. What about love, Mind? Can you break it down into logic? Can fear be measured by words alone?

Mind:  Fine. I disagree with your abstractions, but you venture into places I cannot see. Have it your way. I will always be here if you need me, and since you’ve chosen to communicate through words, I will remain your foundation—even if, as you say, I’m only the tip of the iceberg.

Heart: (softly, almost vulnerable): Thank you. But even with all of this… the question still lingers: What is my way? How will I find it?

Mind:  You don’t expect me to answer that, do you?

Heart: No. It’s my question. And I hope that we’ll find the answer together with your assistance—one step at a time.

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Finding Meaning in the Blank Page: A Writer’s Reflection

September 27, 2024

I found some old notes written by hand—this one around 1979—and OCR scanned them. I revised and edited them, and here they are.

I have been sitting here for centuries, for months, for days, waiting. What am I waiting for, exactly? It’s a mystery that even I can’t unravel.

This blank piece of paper yawns at me again. Yes, yawning—not roaring or demanding—but simply sitting there, an expanse of white, opening its mouth to be force-fed words. But why force-feed it? Why sit here, pen in hand, scribbling down words that may or may not carry meaning?

Listen carefully. Read between the words, beneath them, through them, and beyond them. Somewhere within this ink, there is a reason, a lifeline that could pull me into a world where the ordinary becomes extraordinary, the mundane becomes miraculous. The world where one is equal to nothing, and nothing is equal to all. What? Am I trying to touch the portals of Heaven through this thin squirt of ink?

Listen again—is it not I who leaves the rind of the world behind? Is it not I who is lifted into the wild, illogical realm where reason twists like a pretzel and humanity shrinks to a slug? By excreting these lines (yes, excreting!), I have an activity fit for a lazy bum like me to call myself an artist, an author of the world. This is my voice, my essence, spilled onto the page.

It is as if a visitor sweeps away the remnants of me, picks up the pen, and records what he sees, feels, and tastes of this world through an eye that sees beyond the immediate, beyond the personal—the ‘cosmological eye,’ as Miller calls it. This act is like a cigarette slowly burning, like a caterpillar shedding its caterpillarness. Leaves fall from trees, and they realize they are always part of something more significant when they touch the ground. I want to understand what I am part of without leaving the tree—and the only way to glimpse that is to write myself into extinction so that the eye may peek through the smouldering ashes of these words.

And you know what? Just sitting here and rambling on is fun. But what is your aim? You might ask. Do I need one? What is your purpose? Do I need one? Few aims and purposes come with capital letters. Right now, I’m having fun, and that is all there is—pure, unadulterated fun.

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In the Labyrinth of Cosmic Intricacies

September 21, 2024

In the labyrinth of cosmic intricacies, an unseen design defies the logic of minds—we try to walk upon the ethereal fabric of black holes, where reason stumbles into awe.

Rebellion stirs, a cosmic key in hand, unveiling truths long lost in shadows of accepted wisdom, a door swings wide to whispers carried by the solar winds.

Some mysterious force, an ancient hand,weaves its stories through the constellations,an eternal presence watching the ballet—the rise and fall of stars, beings, and lands.

Matter becomes the frozen music of stones, Pythagoras’ melody echoing through time, each stone a note in the silent symphony, resonating through the star’s long sighs.

Art becomes the footprint of the soul, its brushstrokes on the cosmic canvas, a dance of thoughts, of dreams, of love, that falters when the soul’s light fades.

No soul, no footprint—only shifting sands, where glittering dust replaces vibrant marks, a desert where creative echoes vanish, leaving silence in the place of song.

Yet still, absurdity spins through the air—inside-out policemen, dogs, and cats create a dreamlike dance of chaos as space folds into a single doorknob.

Poetics, the study of soul’s strange symbols,scribbles that transcend mere meaning, tracing the whims of wandering minds and the patterns that the cosmos leaves behind.

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