Grim

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.

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.

Pavilion

my eyes dried, holes in the vast desert

blinking tears on the corners of perception

waiting for the rain to wash away the sorrow

the wind masks my trail

alone I walk, the cruel sun over my head

until the breeze comes

and the raindrops glisten on my face

slow lover healing my wounds

it won’t be the same anymore

in dream no one count the hours

no one looks back

under the grotto, covered with crimson flowers

my heart beats, the secret place

known only by the two

it won’t be the same anymore

the silent smile, in peaceful pavilion

I sleep, caressed by the moon

Fae Realm

At my feet, a dark army pays tribute to me. My robes turn black, and a crown of moss and bone appears on my temple. I close my eyes as I hear the soft chanting of my name.
I did not choose such a fate. But I will impose will on worlds behind mirrors. I will become the master of forests and lord of twinkling stars …

Me, after writing these words: Uuu, I will be fae lord, just like I always wanted!
My friend: You’ve seen too much of Chronicles of Riddick.

On the verge of perception, I feel the black eyes of the faery world, piercing, watching. Maybe the unseelie realm is waiting for me with a night crown?

A 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 lets its sand fall to the end. But all the time he thinks about his sand, which does not pour over a millimeter. 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 himself 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 colorless field of still life. The Rider sighs.

Short Story Called Life

The first thing I remember from my childhood is carrot juice. Painted with orange, vivid red days, that went by slowly, as if dignified. There was something of a cat in them, lazy, old, and very clever, which observes the world through narrowed feline eyes. Still, when I see on the store shelf a bottle of carrot juice, I am struck by the contrast between life then and now.

Then, came the death of my first dog. I was too young to understand death, but when the dog did not return for a long time, I began to worry. I asked where he is – parents were responding that he went onto his longest journey, and I still didn’t understand what it meant. I was drawing the dog ‘s eyes in a notebook, hoping that my care will bring him back. It didn’t. And it lasted until a year later I realized what really happened.

My father’s illness. It started innocently, with a cough. Father was coughing, was often talking very seriously with my mother, my mother cried. For several years I thought that everything will be fine, it’s just a cough, so insignificant. It will pass. I did not love my father, but every rattling sound coming from his throat reminded me in a strange way the longest journey of my first dog. After five years, there was blood. Hospitals. Living practically on a weak, almost invisible thread. Mother was afraid of what will happen to her, she could not live without him. Even if love has expired. I accepted his last days with indifference. I lived in another dimension, and I was not concerned. As he never was my father. Whom, after all, I didn’t love. Still, the weightless feeling of freedom from his drunken self turned into the bitter taste of rot.

Then came the relationships. Or rather, one unique relationship, which had almost no future. I looked for a submissive girl without her own opinions, which I could manage to take care of, as I called it stupidly. Young teenager caring for someone, to fill the void? That should be put into a joke book. However, the relationship with a girl who is not a partner, doesn’t have her own opinion, with which who is impossible to speak to not make her nod in agreement, is only a bland substitute for love. In addition, she broke up with me. Her mother ordered to do so, I was an outcast, an odd one, and she was always listening to her mother.

Colorful years. Beautiful. Butterflies in the stomach. Roses before the window. Cats basking in the sun. The smell of fresh bread. Joy. Sadness. Then a sudden collapse. Which was as needed as painful.

All these years led to that point, to the special time of being thirty-eight years old. When everything has changed and I finally stopped feeling anger for the dog, who chose to go on his longest journey… without me.

Kingdom of Fools

The skeksis rule my life. There is no hope for me anymore.

Yup. You heard right, you old bastard. I love you all.

It Happens

The urge to write, the long forgotten feeling, which blooms suddenly in mind, ready to spread petals wide and reach with roots to other people with ideas and imagination.

I love it. It happens. IT HAPPENS.

Shadow of the Vampire

When I first listened to the opening music to Shadow of the Vampire, I thought I touched heaven and hell at the same time.


This was music not only nostalgic, not only dark and brooding.


This was the last melody of something passing, disappearing. Of something that will never happen again and it’s absence – maybe unnoticed by the world – will be painful, by mere not existing.


The last vampire, knowing it’s not his time, that the time of the hunt’s over. The world goes forth and there is no place for the likes of him.


The melody touched the ancient parts of my soul, that still remember, by some miracle, things, that passed and disappeared.


Memories frozen in time, forever, Akasha, the relic of the past, and her stillness on her throne.

I love Shadow of the Vampire. But that music… is something that is both painful and extremely beautiful.

Abandoned

Visiting an abandoned place is like letting the ghost touch you. The thick cobweb-covered drapes, the broken windows, and sills. Time made them still, while the world moved on.

It’s a past enchanted into dirt and dust. Past that will never come alive again and it lays in stagnation, filled with unfulfilled dreams and hopes.

My gothic soul breathes in those lone places, where the only footsteps are mine.