• thoughts

    Silver Splinter

    Days pass slowly. In the fog of everyday’s life, my own world spins, orbiting around the incoherent ideas and sparks of creativity. Sometimes I wonder where I lost so much time, a whole year, if not more. I am rebuilding it; stars over my head and in the heart – silver splinter for a werewolf-self.

    I am not completely well. But not as bad as to howl.
    Howling means that the wound is still there. It’s more like a scar.

    In the headphones Her Ghost in the Fog. Gothic mood passed, but I sense it will return in a blink of a light side of the moon.

  • thoughts

    Whole

    The fear is crimson, like a flame. It’s my private demon, dressed in gauze and silk. The royal upbringing I gave it, shines like a black star. Where I go, it slowly creeps after me, leaving dusk and twilight on the path I passed. It loves me. And I love it too, it’s like a ghost haunting me for so long, that I befriended it and made my second skin, tougher somehow, darker.

    I am dark inside, even if nobody sees it. I hope that no one sees it. I am happy I am made, both of outer light and inner darkness. Isn’t that what makes us whole?

  • thoughts

    The Lost Souls

    My mood now?

    The lone ghost among the graveyards, standing silently between tombstones, reaching the hands to the unwilling groom. Her wide black dresses float in the air and her blank face shows no emotions. The wandering soul in the early September glory.

    Mortaur sounds so good when the sun is bleak and the wind cleans the field from the freshly fallen leaves.

    Nostalgic feelings of the day, checked. Strong black coffee, is what I really need. Or cappuccino. Nothing as good as the taste of almonds.

  • thoughts

    Gothic Mood

    The warm, soothing rays of the autumn sun touch my hands as I stretch them into the air. I sit in my own asylum, the solace for the hurt soul – a tattered bench in the corner of the park. I always come here, when I am sad, when I think life is unbearable and it’s no place for me on this earth.

    Here, I used to spend another life. It seems so long ago and unreachable. Like it was cut from me with a surgical knife. I was happier, more lively, YOUNGER then. I didn’t know many things and made a lot of mistakes, but I carried them with head high and hope.

    When I sit on this bench now, my bench, from long ago, I feel only nostalgia. The filtered afternoon sun kissing my skin through the canopy of leaves makes me remember. And my soul silently weeps, even if obviously, it has no real reason to do so.

    Listening to A Gothic Romance (Red Roses For The Devil’s Whore) by Cradle of Filth. Somehow, strangely, fits my current mood. I feel like I come back to my oh so gothic roots.

  • thoughts

    Silence

    Calm comes with understanding. Understanding comes with the opening of the mind.

    Silence…
    The silence of the endless wasteland, where the human foot has never stood before.

    Silence…
    The silence of a forgotten temple buried by time. The silence of ancient events and memories that disappeared with the wind.

    Silence…
    The rustle of material right next to me. The silence when I turn my head to enjoy you. Your body is so close…

    Silence…
    The clock is ticking slowly, measuring irrelevant time. My eyes glitter with a strange glow in the grey darkness, separating themselves from the surrounding me, fading, night.

    Silence. How wonderful to achieve peace. Absolute peace. Our own world in which we live silently, breathing in the same air. Two people, dancing in the shadows.

  • thoughts

    Hell on Earth

    The fire descending from the sky, the scorched mind, begging for the ethereal water. All thoughts closed in a small burning casket, where no air seems to be allowed. The deserted brain yells for relief, the body shivers under gusts of heat.

    I loathe hot weather. Give me a cold beer, please. Otherwise, I will change into a dry scarecrow. I miss the winter, the beautiful snowy landscape of forest behind my window. Now even trees beg for a solace.

    How many months? Only a few. I count the days until the first freezing pattern painted by frost on my pane…

  • thoughts

    Ricefield

    Well, from where I should even start? From when Vampire Chronicles shaped me and my book taste? From where the Interview with the Vampire shook me and left me speechless and made me a fan of the creatures that drink blood at night, hunting for dark-hearted victims?

    I guess it happened during my first year at high school when I read mostly Batman comics and delved in DC and Marvel universes, eating it with a huge dose of black metal music. I picked the Interview with the Vampire randomly – and I was already lost. I started listening to gothic music, as my mind was in there, where Siouxsie and the Banshees fit well. I started imagining I am a vampire, which made me met a special kind of people, but that’s story for another blog entry.

    I deeply feel Anne Rice and her characters, even if I know the author kind of treat her fanbase like it was her enemy, forbidding fanfiction and suing its writers. I think that copyrights became too important lately, when the most important is sharing and imagining.

    But truly, Lestat, Louis, Armand and Marius – old beings, only the same shape making them human-like, angels with battered wings, the beautiful of face and dreadful of the soul – who love art, music and life, of all. The elegant and gentle predators, filled with red blood they drink every night, their eyes glistening like gems, their skin like made of glass, their history vast and spacious, the un-living yet craving for every single breath…

    That’s why I love Anne Rice. Her vampires are different. Her vampires are her vampires, simply. And even if I am not a fan of all books from the series, I love that universe, vampire laws, Theatre des Vampires, their mythology and children of the millennia.

    Here, I created still growing Anne Rice website – THE COVEN

    It’s my tribute to most inspiring author that entered my reader’s life. Maybe not pefect, because nothing is perfect – but close to what in my own secret garden of mind I tend to make feel like perfection, translating every flaw into my own language.

    But there is a rotten egg I must to throw. Don’t read Blood Canticle. It’s bad. It made me furiously go all over my room and even over my ceiling (aka Floor Jensen). Reading it was one of those hard times when someone you admire, suddenly makes a cruel and public joke on you.

  • thoughts

    The Minute Apocalypse

    Sometimes it’s good to be alone. But the Rider doesn’t like loneliness, even if it seems that it is the other way around. The Rider looks at his grey homestead, the clock frozen in time, the faded flowers in front of the house, and he wonders. He very carefully pours the grains of his sand through his fingers. And he sees the void, even if the sand is still there, still and motionless as stone.

    Emptiness is never good. He sees the void where the heart should be and tries to replace it with a substitute. A substitute for feelings, a substitute for imagination. Sometimes he succeeds, and then the Rider feels a bit of joy. He can enjoy, oh yes. Sometimes he thinks that it is a true human joy. Then, however, it comes to the sad conclusion that it is completely the opposite.

    When he rides his horse, white as snow, the stars dance for him in the sky. They dance and dance until they are tired, they will not sleep in their heavenly beds, until the Rider reaches his next man and does not let his sand fall to the end. But all the time he thinks about his sand, which does not pour over a millimetre. It makes him sad. It pleases him. He does not know how to pick up this strange feeling in his skull that makes him regret some people and regret himself.

    His work is not popular among mankind. Everyone would never meet him, but most of them feel relieved when he stands next to them and doesn’t explain absolutely anything. They can go where their lives have always led them, and the Rider is the gate to what people call the afterlife. It is also frightening, especially when you believe in burning pots. But finally they see and hear clearly, and for these few moments of absolute weightlessness, it is worth sacrificing the temporal shell. Which about they don’t care anymore.

    Cats. Cats are good. Sometimes, he catches myself imitating love for them. In the rhythm of the non-ticking clock, cats, living cats, murmur him a lullaby to non-sleep. These cats, so soft, so unbearable, so…perfect in their conceited way of being…sometimes the Rider has the impression that they give him a piece of the life they emanate. And he sees more and more distinct grains of his sand.

    Sometimes, different individuals are passing through his domain. He wants well for them. He knows what they did in their lives, do now and will do in the future. But this knowledge seems empty to him, the same emptiness that surrounds him from all sides. He doesn’t want emptiness, only life. He wants life. He wants it so much.

    He scratches the cat behind his ears, the cat purrs. A horse snorts in a black-and-white stable, white snowball in a colourless field of still life. The Rider sighs.