Thursday, 11 December 2014

The leaves fell off our trunk, darling.

But I didn't want and couldn't squeeze saltiness out of my eyes when the time came.
You stained me
and the worst is, I let you.
The worst is I cannot turn back and untouch you.
You cannot turn back and touch my soul - deep inside it is already freezing.
The leaves fell off our trunk, darling.

And I didn't want to be silent and I didn't want to glare. 
I didn't want to sit beside you as you wanted me to, but in front of you.
I wanted to look into your eyes and find comfort in them.
My friend told me today that my eyes are ones she gets lost in. Eyes of innocence.
Why is it that you cannot look into them and see? 
See. Look. Explore. Lose yourself.
Drive your fingers through my soul
Carress my consciousness
Undress my mind.

I wanted you to touch my soul, not only my skin
I wanted you to be a longer eternity. 
Because every moment, as short as it is, is a momentary eternity. 
I just wanted you to be a long one.

The auburn leaves are crunchy beneath my feet.
And if you tell me that you don't know what to say,
I am at loss
because there is so much to say.

Is it too late for me to warm up around your campfire
that the winds blew out?

(c) Julia Tosi on deviantart.

Nocturnal Stream of Unconsciousness III

My throat is dry and my eyelids heavy
Will you be the Holy Water
That drains death
Lingering over the remains
Of sanity?
Can a sip of you
Reanimate dying cells
And vanquish gloomy thoughts?

(c) Lucy Evans

Sunday, 16 November 2014

Shower Inspiration

"I want to know all about the wounds that are scars now
So I can kiss them even more tenderly
Let me peek through the shutters of your soul
and greet the rising evening sun
in all its pastel watercolor splendor."

From Tumblr.

Monday, 3 November 2014

Sylvan Home

Lythriel opened the studded wooden door and stepped out into a sea of greenness and inhaled the intense odor of the woods - the smell of sap, pines and December rain all mixed up in her nose and made her ecstatic. Never would she leave this place, she swore, a sylvan haven and home to her dreams. Here she'd sit on logs and write letters to the constellations, lean on tree trunks and daydream, make a bed of leaves and look for hazelnuts to crack open and eat just like she used to with her childhood friends - a memory long gone but nevertheless preserved in the last chamber of her heart. And he would be there to share every new memory and adorn it with his presence. He would be there to call her in when it rains and light a fire. Or to let the heaven-sent drops soak them both as their hands intertwine. She'd be there to point at tiny insects creeping beneath the beds of grass and unknown flowers whose names they'd memorize. Lythriel would play her flute everyday, wear a crown of flowers and leaves, make one for him and be an elf, his elf. They'd be immortal to each other. At least here, she can dream. At least here, they can dream. Lythriel walks to the side door to cut logs for the chimney. It will be a cold night but now that she had a home, she felt that even seven Winters cannot freeze her to death.

Sunday, 2 November 2014

The Man with Antlers

In the light of a Red Moon
I found you in a gloomy forest, astray.
Antlers grew out of your head
and pierced my chest as I approached you
You wreck my bones and twist my flesh
You're my crucifier
Lucifer that ensnares me
Lucifer that wants my blood
And thus, I bleed.
Your love is the crucifix
that I am nailed to
I cannot breathe
I don't want to breathe
You asphyxiate me.
Lick, inhale, drink the passion
that seeps from bloody antlers.

In the dead of night I feel serene
Your chest, an ocean of pumping veins
pounding against my head, gently cradles me to sleep
You are like the hollow of an oak during winter -
When everything freezes over
You are the refuge,
the place to be,
the place to lay my tired heart to rest.

Sensitive as Death by Mala Lesbia on deviantArt

Monday, 11 August 2014

Aurora's Theme Lyrics [Inspired by Child of Light]

So I got inspired and tried to write "Child of Light"-themed lyrics to this instrumental masterpiece :T
It's from the perspective of the people enslaved by the Queen of the Night - a song to honor Aurora's bravery and cheer her on on her journey.

"Take the stars and the moon
Grab the sun and its lights
Only you can save us
Only you can guide us

Princess Aurora climb
Hills and mountains
Fight the monsters
Descend into darkness

Fight the demons that took
The light from our towns
Save us and yourself
From evil

Take the stars and the moon
Grab the sun and its lights
Aurora save us from darkness
Aurora shed your lights

Take the stars and the moon
Grab the sun and its rays
Only you can save us
Only you can guide us"


Heavy Light-years

These past light-years
Were actually heavy
Years of granite-studded

Those seconds full of
shrill laughter and mirth
that you think I owned
were only borrowed

Those hours I spent
shedding shards onto
the merciless tiles
were hours
I spiral into


Now I own those seconds.
Now I step on the tiles instead of crawling across them.
Now the light years will indeed pass as years of light
and not full of a darkness I enslaved myself with.

I know you are still crawling
You are still borrowing smiles and collapsing into your bed
as Insomnia embraces your powerless body
and makes love to your darkest thoughts
I know that the fields of darkness are claiming you
and that your feet are blistered
Here is all my light, take it
If I can beam at you and guide you home
Use me.
Use me as long as you reach for the stars.

But if your eyes are shaded and your mind is numb
I cannot help you, even with the strongest will
I can give you the flowers but you have to water them.

And if you think that by dragging me down
You can reach the light
Think again.

From Tumblr.

Tuesday, 1 July 2014

Nocturnal Streams of Consciousness III

You know that sensation when you feel like it doesn't matter if you are alive or not? You feel too weary to keep going through a senseless maze. You tell yourself "I want to die." Well, I wish I could do that. I wish I could at least lie to myself and say "I am going to kill myself." But I'm too conscious of the fact that I am both attached to life and that I am a fighter, that it is a sin and out of question for me. I wish I could show them that I am suffering; I wish I didn't hide it all behind a smile and inflicted everything upon me. It's like I lost my senses, I am too numb for pain. And now this emptiness, this lack of feeling is killing me. And I know, I am alone on this earth. Truly irreversibly and miserably solitary.
It's been a while since I have last wished to just drop dead. Not breathing. Not existing. Not self-inflicting. Just eternally lie there and not exist and not exist and not exist. Just a beautiful rotten pile of bones and maggot-colonized earth.

Saturday, 21 June 2014

To My Mother

Dearest corpse that once was my mother,

"Do not stand at my grave and weep", Mary Elizabeth Frye said, "I am not there." So you might wonder why I bend over your marble epitaph and tell you stories. In fact, I could ask myself along with you, why do I bend over your buried debris in desperate monologues and inner wails?

I talk to your pictures. The pictures that decorate each of the four walls in my room. The picture-frame on the TV,then the biggest frame on top of my bookshelf, the two others on the opposite wall and again the other two facing my bed. Your miniature selves watch over me. They seem to listen and they do not fade. Their materia will die a long time after I do. The cells cannot be corrupted; the smile depicted on them unchangeable, untouched, unweathered by time.

So again, why do I stand at your grave and weep? Where else could I go and listen to your silence?
What else bonds us but pain and memories?
Move on now, they say, those who are still cradled their mother's warm bosoms.

Have I betrayed you, Mother, because I am smiling? And not only that: smiling at her?
Is it hypocrisy, betrayal or simple stupidity that I believe my pacifism could make it better?
That maybe it is what you would have wanted? To see him happy again in freshly-washed clothes, sitting at a rich dinner table, beamed at by her?

On our way home in the new car, she sat in the co-driver seat that you have been so eager to sit in once everything would be okay. She sat in it and my heart wept. She reaped what you sowed. She is there where you wanted to be, where you should have been, where you and only you deserve to be after all the blood, sweat and tears.

"Love's golden arrow at her should have fled
and not Death's ebon dart to strike her dead"

I did not cry much these days, Mother. Even while looking at your pictures. The pain has numbed me, it lies so deep, it can no longer be expressed. Entangled around my organs like ivy, it strangulates my core. But I couldn't weep for a long time. The day I wept, it was because of a really simple thing and I don't know if you could understand. But let me tell you. I was rearranging my bookshelf on which I had little accessories as well. Absent-minded I was shuffling through all the stuff until I held two objects in my hand: two little purple plushies - one is a bear holding a heart and the other a little cute doll. I looked at them. Held them in my hand, twisted them and turned them and neglected memories flooded my brain. Little things that are not easily recalled unless their memory is triggered as it then did. I saw you shopping and every time coming home with a little gift for me because that is just who you are. Little dolls and plushies, keychains and Chips, random things of which you think: "Let me buy this for her, she will love it." And until now, I have rarely seen a mother do that. In fact, I cannot recall any mother who does that. Every mother buys her daughter gifts: clothes or perfume. You did that too. But you would always think of me, symbolically expressing your love at the tiniest occasions, always in quest of my happiness, always in quest of seeing me beam at you.

But now you are gone and gone are the little things. Little things that make a huge difference. Gone are the three phone calls per day that I used to shrug at but that I now miss hellishly, now that I have known their true value. Gone is the endless nagging about having to clean the house every day because cleanliness is important. I used to laugh and wonder why it had to be a task performed every day. And again, I did not know that you did it as a proof of love. I knew your knees hurt hellishly, I often told you to stop cleaning every day but you wouldn't listen. It was more important for you to be the flawless mother you are. I knew it at that time too, surely, but now I feel it. I feel it through its absence. I go downstairs, where she resides, and the floor is covered with a thin layer of dust.

You have missed all the times you have lived for your whole life, all the times you have stayed up late, all the nights you could not sleep because you were too worried about me. You missed my graduation, the day I got my driving license and many ceremonies where I was honored with prizes for my efforts, efforts that were in fact yours as well, efforts of a lifetime of suffering. I promised you that when I would become a teacher and get a driving license, I would drive you around, have dinner with you and take walks at beautiful places with you. I wanted to buy you gifts and clothes and travel with you. All these things that could never repay your motherliness, your flawless motherliness, your almost divine motherliness. But of course a drop of clean water in the polluted sea is better than nothing. and in fact, I knew that my success and happiness would be all that you asked of life as a repayment.

Here I am, Mother. The seed of your pain. I did not fail you. I promised you that, remember?
Look here; all I did was in your memory. All the times I resisted was in your memory. All the times I thought of giving up, your guardian presence of your absence elevated me.
I haven't betrayed you, do you believe me?
Can you hear me?
I wish I could have just one minute with you again... to see your radiant smile that everyone is remembering you for. To see your proud expression, to see your hands hold mine, those hands I miss, brown-flecked and with blue veins popping out here and there. Oh so tender, motherly hands that are raw from work and strain. Motherly hands that made me who I am. You have implanted in me independence and strength, kindness and honesty. I could not ask for more.

I feel your presence, I feel your nagging speeches, your tender Goodnights and Good Lucks, your ever so gentle hand stroking my hair, your nightly kindness of getting up many times just because my bed sheet fell off me, your 3 o'clock nightmares, your beaming smiles whenever I told you about good marks, the sunlight in your face rendering your eyes blue-grey-green, the way you'd enthrall a whole room of strangers with your jokes and laughter, the way you would always give in to my pleads, accompany me, support me and never let me suffer; and if you did, you knew it was inevitably necessary. I know that now and all the tears I wept because I thought you were unjust are sighs of gratefulness now. I am sad, unbelievably grievous, I wail and I scream, I sob and try to strangle my cries. But if you, from wherever you are, see these horrid images of your little angel with fits of crying trembling on the floor, please forgive me: for I, until now and forever, cannot let go of your memory. I often smile at past incidents. I always involve you in my conversations. When others speak of their mothers, I don't look down anymore: I happily tell them about you. It is a paradox: I don't want you to become a memory, but when I weep alone I know that you are.
"She is not dead, she is just away", James Whiteomb Riley said. I tried to believe that but... my heart aches.
I try to reanimate you, resurrect you, make you alive again through stories, shared anecdotes and poems. But in the end, you will see me on the cold tiles again, sniffing and sobbing and I am sorry. I am sorry.

If this is a letter I could send to you, I wouldn't sign it with Yours Sincerely or Yours Truly: I am yours forever, infinitely, unimaginably indebted to you and immeasurably attached to your soul. Yes, your soul. Your body might have rotten but your soul will forever shine, your deeds forever resonate in this desolate void, your voice forever a soothing lullaby.
If this is a letter I could send to you, I would not sign it, nor write "goodbye". My letter to you is infinite, as my love.

I cannot say, and I will not say
That she is dead, she is just away!
With a Cheery Smile and a wave of the hand
She has wandered into an unknown land.
And left us dreaming how very fair
It needs must be since she lingers there.

And you - oh you, who the wildest yearn
For the old-time step and the glad return.
Think of her fairing on, as dear
In the love of there, as the love of here,
Think of her still as the same, I say.
she is not dead - she is just away.

- James Whiteomb Riley

Monday, 9 June 2014

Nocturnal Streams of Consciousness II: Dear Self.

But think about it, dear Self
When have you ever been the priority and not the option?

I am the rain that washes away rusty tears.
The lake on which your corpses float, swollen.
I am a forlorn Erato, maybe her long lost twin sister whom the great writers have forgotten.
Erato, muse of Oblivion and doleful poetry
I am the pale body floating downstream embracing Ophelia's flowers
Goodnight, Sweet Ladies, Goodnight!
Have some poppy, my dearest
Sink into a slumber to forget
that you will wake up to the Ninth Infernal Circle
Have some more poppy, my dearest
sink again, deeper, sink, sink.

But think about it, dear Self
it has never been your fault.

Yes, it has not. Have you not wondered why your feelings have turned to stone?
Entombed, they lie at your very core, granite, untouchable, intangible.

Yes. I feel safe. I feel sane. I feel like they cannot get to me. They cannot draw me in. They cannot lure me.
They cannot. They will not.
Hello? Is it me I'm looking for?

You will not lose yourself. I will not let that happen. I'd rather turn myself into stone than see you give in and hold me out for the daylight to rape me.

But think about it, dear Self
A facade this is and nothing more.
Because here I am, vomiting words of pain.
Whence do they emerge?
You are as vivid and livid and liquid as ever.
I cannot lie to myself.
I am alive, I feel and I am drawn in
and no poppy
and no slumber
and no facade can change the fact
that this blood-pumping organ


My First Spills of Ink for You

There it was again: the piercing feeling of someone creeping into her heart again, stealthily, through the backdoor, like ivy slowly growing over the wall. For a moment she felt as if she flew, the other as if she was falling. She had stopped expecting, indeed. But the gut-tearing excitement she felt was beyond her power. She felt its grip, resisted it but that only made her feel it even more intensely. She was trapped, watching the white wall being conquered by ivy, covered in ivy, consumed by ivy that spread and spread and spread.

Let's Ignite our Stars

A little Orion shines inside me
Fragments of it flow through every vein
But my marrow radiates melancholy
Yet, my eyes are dry and I dance
Who could ever see that the stars might go out in me at any moment?
And why would it matter?
I am done with waiting. I don't expect you to save me, darling.
I can save myself and you can save yourself. I am not your Manic Pixie Dream Girl and you are not my Manic Pixie Dream Boy. But I can promise to be there when your cocoon cracks and your wings start to flutter. I can promise to take flight with you and watch your eyes glitter with pride. I can promise to be myself and stay with you. But your own salvation is up to you. My own salvation is up to me, darling. Let us ignite our stars. 

Sunday, 25 May 2014

The Sylvan Fae

But the Sylvan Fae just wants to frolick all day
Amidst the trees and forget-me-nots
On the cool moss she wants to lay
Picking the daisies and making knots
For a wreath of priceless gold
For a wreath that cannot be sold

The Sylvan Fae just wants to sing all evening
and watch the dragonflies sway and swing
From the oaks the sap is oozing and seeping
and untouched was she by the insects' sting
Wearing her wreath of priceless gold
Wearing a wreath that cannot be sold

But she remained alone, the Sylvan Fae
He who enchanted her spirit remains absent
He who has her heart in the grass does not lay
He's drowned in hypocras and ale and absinthe
Not seeing her wreath of priceless gold
Not seeing her wreath that cannot be sold

But she would never ever stop frolicking
The Sylvan Fae avowed and swore
For her world should stay merry and mesmerizing
For all the love the forest and faes for her bore

Here is a wreath of forget-me-nots and daisies
Crown yourself and fare on, valiant traveler
The Sylvan Fae blesses your way.

Friday, 23 May 2014

Nocturnal Streams of Consciousness I

Again, you filled your cup by emptying mine
Thank you, Mister, for your company
I should have let your cup fall
When I held it in my hand
I could have watched it shatter with a sound so sweet
The sound of defeat.
But it's okay, my dear, no harm is done
If you thought that a drought will ensue
Then I am sorry to deceive you
The ocean is my home, the river my refuge, the creek my sanctuary
The currents and streams will take me away
Floating and floating
It's okay my dear,
I am not afraid of shipwrecks

I love and hate you.
I want to kill you, yet at the same time weep in your arms
I want you to leave, yet I crave your touch
Leave me at once.
I cannot take this state of Limbo you inflict upon me
Leave me at once.
I wanted you too much.

And now
I feel numb
I jinxed it.
I don't care about anything anymore
Where is my sentimentalism, the excessively emotional side of me?
I feel nothing, I care for nothing, I don't mind anything at all.
You have torn out the bit of life I had kept aside
The bit of life I did not want to consume
the bit I kept to keep hoping.

Leave me at once.
I wanted you too much.
Too much.

Sunday, 18 May 2014

Eveningless Days

I hop from stranger to stranger
From broken soul to broken soul
The broken becomes the breaker
The forsaken becomes the hunter
What is my mind doing on this summer evening?
Back into your gloomy nook, you little rebel
Don't dream too much of far away lands without breaking your chains first
Dream dream dream they say
As they break you
Run run run I say
Melt the iron and forge the steel for the blade
To decapitate false hopes and throw them to the hyenas
Die die die weak heart
Live live live on amaranthine gemstone called endurance
Here's to a tomorrow with no sighs
Run run run I say
Here's to a yesterday that will perish
Memories wailing
Flashbacks shrieking
As dusk breaks out and floods the eveningless days ahead
Flood flood flood my soul either with light
Or with your absence.

Sunday, 11 May 2014


1 am and I am sitting here on the floor in my room
While music is blasting at full volume from the speakers
Filling the silent house with a tune to stuff the void
The void of presences I cannot retrieve
The doors are shut and the living-room lights glimmer only for me
Only to give the impression that somebody is actually there
Lingering on the couch, watching the turned-off TV
Nobody minds the noisy loud music
Nobody tells me to go to sleep already
And nobody walks on tiptoes over into my room
To take the blanket that fell off in my sleep
To cover me gently
To watch my chest move up and down
To be there
To be an unfading amaranthine presence.

"I am awaiting the sunrise."

Friday, 25 April 2014


I don't want to be hanging from the crescent again, neither touching the earth nor roaming the stars.

I want you to not take me for granted, to want my happiness, to let me want your happiness.
 I am afraid of you this time, afraid I might have opened up too easily, afraid I might have let you tread where you should not tread.
 You came with your heavy black boots and the ground shook.
My nails dig into your flesh, red marks spoil your pale arm.
But when I look up, I see no twitching traits, no painful expression.
It is as if didn't exist. Maybe I am a ghost that you can't see?
I look at your arm again. The scarlet marks still exist.
Have your senses numbed in this misanthropic world?
I can't blame you
but why didn't mine do the same?

Did I fall?
Or am I still standing?

I don't know.
I always don't know.
You always don't know.
We're floating.
One time you catapult me up to Orion
Next minute, I smell grass and my head is stuck in a hole
I blink
An infinite blueness cradles me, the stars wink at me
I blink
Maggots creep about my body lying on the moss

Home is where the heart is.
Mine is where yours is but
where is yours?

Wednesday, 23 April 2014

Tread Softly Because You Tread on Your Memories.

The past is a dead land;
Barren soil, skulled earth
Filled with either stitched mouths
Or pain-staking screams
No middle-ground for serenity

I wanted to bury the past
Annihilate it from my life
Imprisoning it in a sepulcher
For it to never see the light of day
To never have a visitor touch the granite
Of its last remains
Cold walls seperating it from the here and now and tomorrow
Like an ancient spell, bound to isolation

But there it lies in its tomb under the willow
As I weep over the cold stone
The stench of death reeking
into my wet nostrils
Decay gnawing at me.

Thanatos, I invoke you
Come and take this panorama of madness
Dig out the crumbs of yesterday
and throw them into Hades!

Faciam ut mei memineris.

I'll make you remember me.
But if I will, one day, be yesterday's child
and when with all my brothers and sisters
I will roam the naked land of ruin
What will you remember?
I will be dead.
As dead as I can be.
Will you scratch at the wall of the sepulcher?
Will you slide down in despair?
What will you remember?

The past is a dead land;
beware, traveler,
tread softly because you tread on
your memories.

(c) Hella Grichi

Friday, 18 April 2014

An Explosion of Stardust

We couldn't touch each other's skin
My hands infiltrate everything
touch every little particle inside you
cradle your soul
caress your very being
but never your hand.

I wanted to feel your chest pounding
and your heart gasping
and your lungs aching
I wanted to press you against me
You and I,

an explosion of stardust.

Be the acid that burns my skin
Consume me.

We couldn't touch each other's skin
As if my touch was Holy Water
and your flesh cursed by God
My fingers crave to sin
your skin aches to burn
The hissing sound is near.

Be the acid that burns my skin
Consume me.

You and I, an explosion of stardust
but it seems we have to 
and writhe
and burn
in blue flames 
before we can explode.

Thursday, 17 April 2014

Exquisite Pain

But I couldn't find the right words again.
You see, the moment you part your lips to light the dynamite in my ears
Everything around me disappears
as I wait for the bang to paralyze my organs

and I float.
In oceans so far and violet
Swollen and in pain I float
and float.

The pangs of pain hammering against my skin
so hard, I fear it ripping open
Cracking my bones
and spilling the marrow.
You expose me.
You strip me.

The orbs of your eyes gaze into me
Me, the invisible little girl
the lovelorn damsel
though not in distress
but just irrevocably
and morbidly in love.

Rip me open.
Strip me.
Look inside me,
explore my very core
Cut me open
Crack my skull
Pierce me with your gaze
Spill me, kill me
I want to die in your abyss.
Impaled upon the stake we're at
I bleed passion into you
as your vampyric eyes
swallow and swallow
I want to die in your abyss.

Paul Delaroche - La Jeune Martyre

Tuesday, 15 April 2014

Opeth Song Name Story

By the Pain I see in Others, I swear that the Fair Judgment you wanted to grant me Deliverance with has caused me nothing but suffering. For Absent Friends tried to cheer me up but the Wreath of loyalty you gave me was already set ablaze. You were my Master and I your Apprentice but once the Drapery Falls, anybody can see the Bleak pale face of their murderer. I was lost in a Reverie, in a Harlequin Forest and these Isolation Years prevented me from my rightful Hours of Wealth. I wonder if Atonement and regret will ever strike you for the Burden you bear is great. Aren't you afraid of the Ghost of Perdition? I was your Black Rose Immortal but you could not seep from my Nectar. We stood there in the dead of Night near the Silent Water, awaiting the Advent of a new dawn. But you were the Lotus Eater that shattered my Porcelain Heart. I had no choice but To Bid You Farewell and forget the April Ethereal we had spent together. Oh my Demon of the Fall, if Karma exists, have you no fear of The Face in The Snow that will not cease haunting you? Hope Leaves and as I lean on the Windowpane in the house Under The Weeping Moon, I desperately try to Rid myself Of The Disease. You were not there In My Time of Need and you never will. There is Credence in my word and you can be sure that you are not The Apostle In Triumph. It is Time To Bid you Farewell and announce the Epilogue: Remember Tomorrow for it will be The Moor of your dreams without the precious Face of Melinda to guide you through the Moonlapse Vertigo.

Sunday, 13 April 2014

My Star-and-Sky-themed Short Writings.

You left me under the stars
Will you find me there again?
I see you walking down the sublunar valley of nostalgia
Are you scanning the place
for the light in my eyes?
Do your fingertips ache for the burning touch?
Can you taste the bittersweet craving
that the grey smoke seeping from your lips
can never extinguish?
Yes, you left me under the stars
But dear, look up
I'm riding shooting stars now.

And if I could choose one starry constellation to lose myself in for light years, I'd choose the one under your name every time and lose myself and lose myself and lose myself.

As the sky's colors dance in a sea of blue, violet and pink, I gaze upon the immense entity above me. I can feel the beauty around me despite the ugliness that emanates from humanity.

You are just like the sky.

I need nothing else but to see you smile your honest, peaceful, genuine smile. A smile that paints my own sky blue, violet and pink. That turns the monochrome firmament into a sea of colorful splashes, strokes and blotches. A smile that is one of the most precious pieces of art ever painted upon the canvas of my life.
"Dive", my heart says.
"Retreat", my grey cells alarm me.
Interregnum reigns inside of me. Where am I supposed to tread, where am I supposed to turn away? We met at the fork of the road. I don't know which way we'll take. Nobody takes a step. I can hear the suspended breathing of my exhausted lungs. I have been running for so long, on my own, down narrow lanes, into mazes, out into meadows and back into obscure groves. Endlessly wandering, infinitely erring. I am tired. I want to lie down and dream without having to set a limit to my horizon. See, the sky is not my limit. My limits lie beyond Orion.

He smiled like the star he is. The impact of his spark seemed to last as long as the light years that separate him - a dweller of Orion - from me, a cornflower upon the earth. 

Picture (c)

Tuesday, 8 April 2014


She couldn't stop dreaming of distant misty hills and raindrops surfing on the carglass as she drove away from all that she wanted to exterminate, of distant forests and a warm mug between her hands in a wooden house. A notebook lying on the oaken table waiting for ink to tarnish its virginity seduced her to spend hours on consuming her thoughts. She couldn't stop dreaming of living. Sometimes he appeared in her visions, holding her tightly but most of the time she saw herself alone, hugging her knees and humming sad tunes to the rhythm of the midwinter breeze.

Photo (c)

Listening to John Mayer's "Slow Dancing in a Burning Room" gave birth to this

We sat on the couch holding the two mugs we had bought at the same store together.
His legs were dangling from the end of the couch while his head rested on my lap. I put my mug on his bushy hair just to tease him. He looked up at me, upside-down like my thoughts whenever his warm brown eyes pierced my soul. He smiled and pouted in a way that told me "I love this but I will play the vexed". I stretched out my tongue and laughed. He stopped pouting and just intensely focused on looking into my eyes. I blushed as he rose, putting both our mugs on the table, sitting down and pulling me over to sit on his lap, facing his angelic features. It was just wonderful to put my arms around his neck and look at his face, full of love, full of warmth, full of safety. Yes, I remember his glares, the way he left me waiting yesterday night, but all that is gone now. Here he is, in flesh and blood, today, now, in front of me, for me. What else mattered than his arms around my waist, John Mayer blasting from the speakers and his eyes hung on my lips? He couldn't resist and neither did I. In the fraction of a second, he kissed me, smashing me passionately on the couch. I heard my phone ring at that moment but I blacked out into a heavy trance.

Monday, 17 February 2014

White Oleander by Janet Fitch - My Book Review on Goodreads

White OleanderWhite Oleander by Janet Fitch
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

This was one of the best books I have ever read. Even though I watched the movie before I found the novel, I was excited all throughout the book. Fitch's style of writing is simply unique: although she tends to stack similes, all of them along with the descriptions of objects, places, people and memories are breath-taking. I marked many amazing passages.
This is a book to sink your soul into. I couldn't stop turning the pages. Yes, it is depressing but also enlightening in its own way. Astrid's evolution and her relationships with the people she encounters are very interesting and intriguing. All the characters in the book are unique and wonderfully elaborated.

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The Monk by Matthew Lewis - My Book Review on Goodreads

The MonkThe Monk by Matthew Gregory Lewis
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

(Contains minor spoilers.)

I had heard little about this book when I started to read it so it was one of those literary journeys that I undertake on my own. At first, it started off in an interesting and attracting way. As the narration continued, I got bored (there was a lot of mediation by one of the main characters on past events). Once I finished the first 60 pages, the true suspense started. I was unable to put the book down as the events rose to a climax. Lewis' imagery and writing style are unique and amazing and absolutely befit his literary genre. Of course, there is a great load of criticism towards the church as Lewis' implementation of the tragic twist at the end shows.

All in all, this book deserves the 5 star rating I attributed to it not only for the wonderful gothic mood and atmosphere Lewis elaborately creates but also for the excellent way of arousal and suspense, and the alarming message behind the story for which his work has been censored during his lifetime.

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