dreamingwithfairies

You can let your passion become a sidequest or you let it consume you completely - you will suffer either way. The question is, why?

I never noticed when it happened but at some point in my life I began to think in systems. Structures, maps, pathways. Forcing nonsense to make sense. Meanwhile my feelings remained what they always were, deep beneath the current.

It helps me to view myself as an atmosphere. Climate and weather. Where once I adapted and understood myself the way nature intended, I began to look for patterns and predictions, the way meteorologists produce a constant update on weather patterns, despite how little we actually understand.

This caused a rift in my psyche that has no name other than "misalignment." Transforming feelings and desires into something mechanical, something to be understood rather than being enjoyed or experienced.

It is only through solitude and isolation, only through intentional boredom, that I've begun to get even a glimpse of a truth I've been running circles around for years. The silence that was once punctured by distraction finally has room for ideas to be heard.

The truth is - and always was - is that I am passionate. Irrationally so. I am driven to cross lines where to consume and to be consumed become indistinguishable. That fucking snake that eats itself forever. I have absolutely zero interest in convention. In rules. In rites of passage or routines or whatever constitutes as sensible. I am ferociously hungry for something real amid the noise. So much so it literally aches. Has induced breakdowns more than once. Something honest, something alive, something that takes guts. At all times I am ready to drop everything for these things I have listed. Sometimes I do. This year I started making something of a habit out of it.

And at some point, through a gradual chipping away, I forgot what it felt like. For ideas to come in naturally. How obsession lands before it takes over completely. What feels like to... not give a fuck. Not in a nihilistic way or a nonchalant way, but in an insanely optimistic way. I don't give a fuck because it's gonna work out one way or another. And it's going to work out because I'm making choices instead of having choices made for me. They're mine, and the distinction matters because the life lessons are chosen and no longer thrust upon me.

It's not quite freedom. Not rebellion. It's an attitude of a person who has nothing to lose and everything to gain.

If everyone found out I genuinely have no idea what I'm doing, that I only say shit in order to make sense, they'd call me insane. My family members would get aneurysms and never shut up. But I am done lying to myself. Done trying to build order. It's a cage to stifle passion. To encourage a safe death. I sincerely believe that I'm going to suffer deeply, as I have done. Life was always shit but what made the fucking difference in my childhood was precisely because I surrendered to the chaos. It was natural. I trusted it completely and profoundly. At some point the chaos twisted - but maybe that's not right. Maybe, in fact, I changed.

So I will suffer. Deeply. But as long as the suffering has meaning, my spirit will burn. That's the kind of suffering I welcome, even. Even if it fucks me up. Batters me. As long as it means something. As long as it's mine.

Current Mood: hopeful
Current Music: Mezzazine and White Pony on repeat bruv

Allegory of Death (ca. 1577-1586 - Etching) - Nicolas Beatrizet

My mother asked my roommate to tell me to call her. Because I had my phone on airplane mode since morning.

"What's wrong with you? Why are you like this? How many times did I tell you not to turn off your phone?"

Many times.

And many times I had to insist that I want to be left alone. That I have a right for it.

This is precisely why I will never be a parent.

I ignore my grandmother's phonecalls too, infrequent as they are.

I choose when to initiate contact. I choose when I want to talk and when I don't.

There is nothing in the world that I want more than to be alone. Except maybe for one person - one soul I want beyond reason, but cannot have for myself. Maybe.

I don't mean that in a depressed way, where I push people away, or feel some social anxiety, or tiredness from having to perform I'm fine (not my style).

I mean truly, fundamentally alone. Not isolation - solitude. I have literally dreamed of this my entire life. I only ever saw myself, detached, moving through the world on my own terms. To have a soulmate by my side was preferable, but not necessary.

Anne Rice's novel "Interview with the Vampire" describes it better than anything else:

"I am alone, I was thinking. I am alone. It seemed just, perfectly, and so to have a pleasing, inevitable form [...] As if the night had said to me, "You are the night and the night alone understands you and enfolds you in its arms." One with the shadows. Without nightmare. An inexplicable peace."

In one month I will be in Vienna.

I try hard not to think about it too much. Not to let excitement dim my sense of neutral openness, which protects me both from disappointment and allows room for something better.

I am going there because I had a dream. That's it. The whole of it.

But Vienna contains an old cemetery. Sankt Merxcer Friedhof. There is the grave of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, 1756-1791. I had forgotten Mozart was Austrian, the way people forget Adolf Hitler was Austrian. Not German.

This might sound absurd, and it is. But since last year, I have become bolder and more decisive, aiming to do things most people normally wouldn't. Gradually rejecting what's socially acceptable. Not as a form of rebellion, but as freedom. To walk my own path entirely. Unguided by old wisdom. Ignoring advice. Resisting support, unless practical logic demands it.

No one knows this, but I keep death close to my heart. Memento mori - a mental talisman.

In the steps I now take in my life, I feel like I have no choice because it's the only choice that doesn't make me want to die, ironically. Albert Camus spoke of something like this, and I think I understand now.

I sleep not to waste time, but to return home. Away from this world.

I walk through cemeteries and beaches in the dead of night because they're the only places which are real to me. The only places that do not deceive, do not impose, to not ask anything.

Since earning my full driving license, I've driven all over my county and the surrounding provinces, locating early medieval ruins. Castles, abbeys, churches, monestaries, graveyards, towers. Some even had tombs, effigies, mausoleums. Isolated, architectural skeletons from ages before Fra Angelico - that undisputed progenitor of the Renaissance - was even old enough to hold a paintbrush.

I do this not to look for ghosts or because I'm particularly fascinated with the history of these places. I do this to connect with something that is both timeless yet forgotten. The truth written in my bones. Death and decay are the only things - the only things in all of existence - that do not lie. That are exactly as they are. Unstoppable, inevitable, absolute. Whether they are the shards of a fallen god or clues as to his nonexistence matters not. And that's exactly why it silences the storms in my soul.

Sometimes I think about returning to college. I really do. To go back to the university I dropped out of - the first one, the one I actually wanted and was proud to get into. I want to study Art History and Philosophy again. I want to spend 80% of my day diving into Venetian politics in the 15th-16th centuries, what tools and techniques Michelangelo used during his work on the Sistine Chapel, what classicism meant throughout history, analysing Plato's "The Republic", understanding Kant's particular brand of empiricism... And how they intersect. Where art and philosophy become parallels to each other.

But then I'd have to face other students. Discuss, debate. That's fine on its own but I don't have patience for conventional, predictable thinking and lack of spine to challenge the same people we might admire. I can't handle that - not yet.

Right now my path is taking me to build independence, to fullfil my lifelong fantasy of starting from zero. Choosing where I want to live, how I want to live, who I want to associate with, what to fill my life with. With no interference. No unsolicited advice. No past disturbing my present or future.

It's my first time. I may or may not succeed. I may fail spectacularly or triumph miraculously, but most likely settling somewhere in between. Somewhere that's good enough. That's as much as I could hope for.

The only thing I know is that I must try.

Current Mood: pensive

( You're about to view content that the journal owner has marked as possibly inappropriate for anyone under the age of 18. )

Current Mood: flirty

Self-denial is a nasty behavioral habit I've had to live with for as long as I can remember, certainly extendeding into the oldest layers of my psyche.

It is a shadow that follows me everywhere I go. A shadow that stands as the inversion of my core personality, and is the central tension within. This shadow aspect is tempted by the security provided by social conformity, to dull my sharper edges, the fire that can burn whoever gets too close. The shadow inflames my spirit. Indignation rises like bile and erupts through the eyes as hot, salty tears sometimes. "I wish I could belong, I wish I was normal - I wish I could actually be who they want me to be without having to perform the illusion of it." Followed by an internal response "How dare you deny who you always were and what you dream of? For what?"

I rarely get to be with my large extended family, visiting my birth place, where I spent my early childhood. Visiting the place where my maternal great-great-grandparents owned an estate from which hundreds of people can trace their descent. I listened to the life stories of my grandmother's generation. I looked at photos both old and new. They're rejoycing at my polite interest, my questions, the respect and gratitude with which I receive them. They don't pry into my private life much, which is a pleasant surprise. I'm not exactly an open book, except for the select few, among which even my own mother is not included.

A very curious and frankly jarring thing happened today. I had the whole day to myself to explore the city I was born in and used to go to kindergarten and primary school to, up to the age of ten before I moved.

My whole life after I moved from my original home I longed to return. Sometimes I'd go to Google Street View to virtually walk around the places I have so many pleasant memories. For 21 years I wished to return because I hated where I was. Now it's different, and the same - I do not look back into the past. I am fixated on the future, which has only very recently ignited a living spark in my spirit. And with every day I get more excited, more impatient. My heart beats faster at the thought of leaving everything behind. Not to return to a familiar past, but to jump into an unfamiliar future, with no memories or expectations in it yet.

Anyway, the strange thing: I walked around my neighbourhood, even walked past the nearby hospital I used to frequent countless times with my mother when I was plagued with severe allergies as a child and back then they couldn't figure it out... I didn't feel anything. Maybe the place changed too much - it's literally been over 21 years since I was there, though I could still recognise the place.

Then I went down a path I used to take every day to school (except in winter when my mother used to give me a ride because it was too dark and cold for a little girl to walk, even if it was only a few blocks away). Through the familiar wiremesh fence I saw the school looking exactly as I remember it.

And I felt nothing at all. Blank. As if I was a stranger who had imagined a whole life I never lived.

This feeling caught me by complete surprise. I was equal parts befuddled and disturbed. I turned back around, frowning in deep thought, while my feet carried me back to the building I used to live in since I was born. Nearby was a dentist's office where my mother was a client. I remembered when it had just opened and I accompanied my mother one evening, when I was a little girl (circa 2002-2003). While she was getting her teeth fixed I flicked through a book about astrophysics and astronomy. I remember clearly an illustrated page discussing various scientific theories about where the universe came from, what was before the Big Bang. Could there be other universes like ours? It asked. Is reality structured in layers - are we perhaps inside a universe? What lies beyond the furthest reaches of the cosmos? There were two universes drawn side by side, both shown as black starry dots on a white page, and they raised the theory of a parallel universe. Maybe there was even something about antimatter.

That memory - of reading that science book about the universe at the dentist's office of all places - is the only thing I could connect to during my walk in a place that used to mean the world to me. There is a kind of irony in this.

Something inside me has fundamentally changed.

Walking back to the apartment I'm staying in now, a funny thought presented itself to my consciousness: I SHOULD feel sentimental or nostalgic, right? Aren't I supposed to miss the past, when I was happy?

But then the truth arrived to clear the confusion: I moved on. Somehow, I overcame nostalgia and longing for what once was. I don't feel any attachment. I am a stranger here despite my origin, despite my history and many rich memories. I genuinely feel like that was another life lived by another person, and that it no longer matters at all. It's not apathy or hate or sadness or even dissociation. I simply moved on from the past. It's such a strange feeling, which is why I needed to write about it, to process it this way.

However, this isn't the only thing. This simple truth reminded me of other things as the evening progressed and I got to meet with other relatives who live nearby - my grandmother's eldest brother and his wife, both now very elderly.

These people cherish the past more than anything in life. Family, tradition, nationalism, Catholic faith. Everyone in my family does - with the honourable exception of my lowkey rebellious mother and my second cousin who is literally like a sister to me and one of my favourite people ever. And then there's me with my imagination inspired by the old family photos from every year of the 20th century and across different countries, the stories I listened to, the historically significant places I visited. Even the food I ate - everyone but me has a green thumb. I ate family-grown apples, plums, cherries, blackcurrants, blueberries, raspberries, tomatoes, mint and snap peas. There was more still, and more is to come in the next few days, of course.

I was reminded that I changed with the times, and somewhere along the way, I decided to fully embrace the freedom which these times has afforded me. Freedoms which women especially did not have before, or even seem to want according to family accounts. Religion was the foundation of everything. A tenth child was not a burden but a gift. War, poverty and famine was a reality you had to learn to survive. Sexuality was modest, repressed and mystified. Work defined human worth, and the more you sacrificed yourself for others the more everyone loved you. To leave the community, to be on your own, was unthinkable. Togetherness and religious faith is emphasised as the only way anyone could have survived 20th century Europe and remain human. There are no thieves, criminals, addicts, homosexuals (unless they're closeted) or even handicapped individuals on my maternal side of the family. At least no one related by blood to the great-great-grandparents at the roots of the family tree. Everyone is pretty boring. Nothing like my father and what I know of his side. My father's uncle is a former member of parliament who has his own page on Wikipedia. My great-great-uncle was a priest and something of a cultural critic in the late 1800s or early 1900s, who personally associated with some of the ruling class, revolutionaries and intellectuals of the time, and who advocated for prohibition. He also has a Wikipedia page... and yet my father's side of the family is utterly fragmented, scattered, lost. The contrast between my maternal and paternal lineage is fascinating: one is a huge rural community of faithful, warm and hardworking people. The other is individualistic and socially influential - their traces found in the mafia all the way to the highest positions in the government and culture, while the rest is lost. I don't even know if my father's uncle would have any interest at all to talk to me, to tell me anything about his brother, his own father or mother, who would be my great-grandparent I think, and therefore our mutual ancestor. Above all, I want to know if my father's claim that we have a relative in the higher ranks of the literal mafia is real. All I have is his word and the bomb threat that ended my parents' marriage forever.

I am in the middle between these polar opposite bloodlines. It's a curious place to be. The pressure to conform, worship God, maintain close bonds, sacrifice oneself through hard labour, and please others is resisted by its opposite. The rebellion. My father felt that pressure himself. He couldn't be what his wife's family wanted him to be, no matter how much he wanted. He felt they looked down on him. He felt insecure, intimidated by their expectations of him. He was like a trapped animal.

Somehow, despite it all, I understand exactly how he must have felt. It's almost tragic.

Before this family reunion tour I decided to embark on (at an auspicious time, I might add) I regarded the whole thing as my opportunity to say goodbye to everyone, in my own way, forever. I wanted to leave no exceptions. I looked forward to cutting myself off from that stream, reinventing myself completely. Visiting my old stomping ground today and the total absence of emotional attachment to what once meant everything proved to me that cleanly moving on is possible. I do not have to hold on to feelings and memories which I do not want anymore, even if they're happy ones.

Oddly enough, I couldn't help but wonder what all of this would mean if I ever had children of my own. What would I tell them about their ancestry? Would I bring them to all the places? Would I show them photos from the past? Would I share my memories with them, tell stories the way they're being told to me now?

I don't think so.

Not because there is shame or something to hide but because I want to start a new bloodline full of possibility. A family attitude that is individualistic, cosmopolitan, ambitious, innovative, and possibly even revolutionary. But unlike my paternal side, I want this hypothetical family to stick close. I admire the trope of dynasties or family business, surnames that carry weight, like the Borgias or Rothchilds. Families that have their eyes looking beyond tribe or religion, for better or worse. Not because I hate those things but because I believe this era calls for something else. The past may inform but it may not guide. Not anymore. We must not be afraid to break limits.

Current Mood: calm

The past few days have slowed down.

Not in the way that time slows down - nothing quite so mathematical. What I have experienced - and am experiencing right now - is I imagine much like a fallen leaf that began its journey floating down a rushing mountain stream and proceeded into a wide, meandering river.

There have been instances of something real - presence and connection. The temperatures are starting to shift, the wind now carries the fragrance of petrichor, and the clouds crowd the sun more confidently, diffusing its light into milky mist. I have never looked forward to autumn so much in my life - it is the time when I come alive (or as alive as I can be), my favourite time of the year.

I have disconnected from social media. It's deeply repulsive to me now. There was a short time Substack seemed like an alternative, but now it just seems like X for intellectuals, and while there are some genuinely accomplished and talented writers, most of it deeply pisses me off.

I find myself returning to the very few corners of the internet where I can be spared from the copycats, the pseudo-intellectuals, the aesthetes, bite-sized philosophy quotes accompanied by ugly AI portraits of Nietzsche or Jung.

I tried an experiment a few months ago where instead of writing about my thoughts and feelings and circling the same ideas I'd transform them into stories and metaphors, much like writing poetry. It was satisfying and interesting activity for a while, but ultimately it was nothing more than a vanity project. Maybe most things I do are.

But back here, on this website, I feel at home. This is my little space, but it is a welcome space. There is no pretense. I'm not showing off. I'm not trying to sell anything. I'm not performing depth or complexity or emotions.

I am old enough to remember when being online was niche. Most people had no interest nor knowledge in using websites. They thought having friends online was weird and they're "not real friends", and the idea of online dating was straight up crazy.

The internet back then had ONLY interesting people. The vast majority of them used aliases and rarely shared pictures of themselves. No one was trying to seem a certain way, everyone was just there to have fun.

Now those same interesting people are logging off. Quitting social media. I admit I want nothing more than to do this but a certain anxiety grips my heart. Exposure equals clicks equals currency. I have to completely change how I wish to operate my business in the future. Because the idea of marketing myself disgusts me. I cringe every time I post a selfie, I only do it every once in a while just to remind people what I look like, I don't want people to think I'm shy or self-conscious. It's a weird reason to do it. I don't know why other women do it, but I always thought there's something sick about the selfie phenomena.

Amidst all this hatred towards the current online cacophany, the only other choice I have is focus on real life.

This morning I watched "House on Haunted Hill" (1959) the first time I got to see the iconic Vincent Price on film. It reminded me of my roots, of where my soul truly rests and finds its home. Somewhere over the past year I lost my way.

It's Gothic philosophy.

Not fashion or lifestyle, but the joy and sublime beauty I find in the macabre, grotesque and frightening - especially if it's cheap, melodramatic and old. Some of my happiest & most peaceful times in the past few years were spent listening to bands like The Sisters of Mercy, Bathory, Black Sabbath and Joy Division, dissonant black metal artists with the most appalling sound quality and watching videos on YouTube exploring abandoned buildings and old cemeteries. The rest of the time I researched life in the UK in the 70s and 80s. I existed in a bubble of niche interests that I was able to share with one friend of mine - a friend who has since gone offline almost entirely and we only occasionally catch up or watch a film together. I no longer had anyone to share my very specific interests with and I suppose I never figured out how to keep going on my own. I'd get so excited and she'd happily talk to me, and I knew her particular interests too and share anything I'd find that I know she'd like...

Now it's different. I'm not sad or disappointed, not at all, but I am realising that long-distance relationships are probably not what they used to be because so much of online existence is exhausting, annoying and painfully boring. There is no fun or pleasure or benefit in logging on anymore. But I am still me. Like the kid back in school, I still struggle to find belonging or any kind of comfort in society, the local community. Maybe that will change soon. I hope.

That being said, I do not have the words to explain to my mother why taking photos with a film camera is a completely different experience from taking pictures with a smartphone. Why a photo NOT shared on social media is more precious. Why my refusal to get my picture taken has nothing to do with me being self-conscious and more about a sense of control - because when someone else takes a photo of me, I lose something. In an age where visibility is one of the main tenets of the digital world, refusing to participate is an act of defiance I cannot deny myself.

So I won't act contrary to my nature; I will stick to the obscure corners of the internet, untainted by agents of consumerist pseudo-intellectual aesthetics. I will return to my niche interests, whether or not anyone cares to share in their discovery. I will find my own way in the world, without wasting my precious awareness on vile internet slop that isn't even as addictive like it used to be. I retreat to my inner citadel, to be a sovereign unto myself once more 🩶

Current Mood: discontent

"You shall not remain on earth among the dead; you shall ascend into heaven among the imperishable stars." -
Pyramid Texts, 2400-2300 BC

Beta Cygni - Albireo - ἐρύσιμον

2nd century AD. Egypt.

In his candlelit study, the famed astronomer Claudius Ptolemy of Alexandria scribbled down the names and celestial coordinates of forty-eight constellations: Cepheus, Draco, Pegasus, Lyra and Cygnus were among the most prominent.
For thousands of years, human beings have been gazing up at the firmament, connecting the bone-white dots, and inventing stories beneath their infinities. Meanwhile, in the verdant Vedic world, the stars were believed to be a cosmic ocean upon which the god Vishnu floated while Brahman dreamed reality into existence. The night sky wasn't just empty space - it was the source of universal consciousness itself, a reminder of where all life on Earth truly came from.

Alpha Cygni - Deneb - ذنب الدجاجة

24th century AD. Lyra.

I want to tell you about the first time I woke up.
I was eight months old, suspended in warm water and peaceful darkness. I couldn't yet open my eyes but I knew I was awake because I sensed another presence moving beyond the power of my dreams. I remember the way the vibrations of their voices entered my cosy little space. I couldn't know what they were saying, of course. Some might say I shouldn't have even been able to process their tones or the meaning behind them as it pertained to me, but there was no mistaking how I felt in my body - and contrary to popular assumption, I did feel. This has since been verified by modern science.
They were curious voices. Not cold, maybe a little proud. Their voices were low, gentle and melodic. They soon lulled me back into blissful unconsciousness, in which I remained for another month.

Back in my day, ectogenes like me still had names given to us by our guardians. Names which carried legacy and meanings that echoed throughout the history books. In legends, poems, songs, stories, in heroes and villains. Names were torches shining in the dark shadows of corporate domination gone galactic, they were little reminders that we were more than this once.

My name is Silas, by the way. I never had a mother, nor a father - I developed inside an artificial womb and took my first breath in 2402, aboard the mothership GENETRIX, whose main purpose was to serve the rapid colonisation of the planet Amunet. I was raised in the military wing. My genetic ancestry is primarily Nilotic. Every sinew of my physical vessel is designed for athletic perfection, woven with efficiency, pride, and even aesthetics. Lithe, tall, melanistic - mine was the body of an Olympic marathon runner.
Normally, a biological organism is at the mercy of nature's chance machinations; but I was carefully designed by a team of world-renowned scientists, doctors, industrialists, psychologists and even artists. Artificial intelligence had no hand in my creation, only my incubation period. I was one of hundreds - and thus, I have hundreds of brothers and sisters, all taken from the same gene pool with some variations. I belong to the collective of the present, not an ancestral lineage of the past. So, why did they name me Silas?

Gamma Cygni - Sadr - صدر

"You're not allowed to vape in here, ectogene." A self-important teenage boy's voice penetrated through the narration inside his airpods.

In response; long, dark fingers lifted the vape up to a pair of thick lips, through which a deep inhale produced a cherry-cola flavoured mist upon exhale; it momentarily obscured the smug boy that decided to pester the passenger. Begone, the man mentally banished him, but when the smoke cleared he saw that two new kids appeared instead. Meanwhile, the pleasant female narrator continued speaking in his ears.

"... Waves of dusky light pierce its atmosphere, like copper arrows saturated with infrared, filtered through the canopy of the alien planet's charcoal-blue vegetation..."

The boy swiped hard at the passenger's hand, knocking his vape down to the metallic ground with a dull clank. The man did not react.

A girl with a blonde braided hairstyle spat on his right eye which was ice blue with indifference. The boy and his other friend laughed, complimenting the punk girl's aim.

A skinhead boy tapped on his smart-watch screen. "You're reported now." He announced gleefully. "Enjoy the clink, ectogene."

Satisfied with their good deed for the day, the youths walked away, their happy voices fading out.

"... about how terrestrial astrology finally fell apart when the first cry of an infant was heard on Luna's surface, how that event chased away the prehistoric shadows of humanity's cosmic uncertainties - and awakened new ones. Chapter Two, Ectogenesis-"

He shut the audiobook off with a tap-and-hold at his audio ear-insert. Sighing quietly, he leaned forward and focused on the slimy texture of cooling spit slowly sliding down his cheek. It could be worse, he reminded himself. There are planets he was banned from entering. There was even a whole colony that actively hunted his kind like stray animals who are caught, transported and auctioned off as cheap labour across the galaxy. If Amunet was a danger to him, his contractor wouldn't have sent him here. He was safe; his rights are protected.

Regardless of the facts - panic simmered somewhere deep within his psyche, like magma churning underneath the hard crust.

He hadn't noticed the little girl who had approached him, white tissue in her extended hand, waiting for his acceptance.

"Here you go, mister." She encouraged the man when she sensed his hesitation. She couldn't have been more than nine years old; small, almond-eyed, with silky black hair gathered up in several bouncy pigtails. The man flicked his gaze behind her where an elderly passenger nodded at him with aproval.

He opened his palm and the little girl placed the tissue on it - along with his vape.

"Oh?" The man blinked with surprise. "Thank you. I appreciate the kindness."

"You're welcome." The girl politely responded and turned on her heel to return to her seat next to her grandfather. Or great-grabdfather, by the looks of it.

He wiped his face with the tissue, focusing on its moist texture and antiseptic smell. His skin cooled, purified.

The elder across from him didn't seem like an ordinary traveller; on his lap he cradled a glass box inside of which was a miniature Japanese maple tree - a bonsai with russet leaves. The old man himself had long, silver hair and a smooth beard, and he wore an intricately decorated pearlescent robe made from colours that seemed to shift depending on the light. The subtly purplish tone of his pale skin and the rudimentary breathing apparatus hanging unused around his neck could only mean one thing - he was an Amn native, and therefore very likely an ectogene himself along with the little girl. Why else would there be such kindness from a stranger?

The muffled internal humming of the drifter's engine was slowing down to a distinct whirring and the scenery outside had become dark and murky, as though they were moving underwater. Not navy blue, but like the waters of the womb; fleshy and warm, as is typical for this solar system.

The man had retreated back into the solace of his mind - he reined in his heart that had awakened like a startled bird, he breathed in the sterile oxygen and exhaled imagined cortisol - all filtered through the discreet apparatus plugged into his nose. The tribal tattoos on his exposed scalp glistened with beads of perspiration; white serpents coiled on black flesh, entangled like jungle vines.

"Welcome to New Luxor." The robotic intercom announced. "This is the final stop. Please ensure your equipment is activate before exiting the drifter. Thank you for traveling with IC-Line."

The drifter cabin was almost empty - all that remained was the dark ectogene, the elder, the little girl, and the three youths on the far end, who had already stepped outside one of the doors without a second glance.

The man sighed heavily, knowing his short reverie was coming to a close - his mission awaits outside, and possibly the auxilliary patrol too.

The colourful advertisements lining the cabin ceiling flickered and paused. The man narrowed his eyes at the small anomaly, hesitating to leave for the moment. He heard the elder and the little girl shuffling to the exit doors behind him, followed by a beep for opening doors.

"Welcome to New Luxor," the intercom repeated. "This is the final stop-"

Suddenly a deafening roar reverberated all around - chaos of noise, wind, heat and flying metal. The ectogene immediately fell to the floor, covering his head and ears from the sudden explosion. The ground beneath him vibrated in tandem with his disturbed nerves, and he could just make out the shrill sound of alarms pushing through the fallen debris. He stayed lying still for a while, playing dead, for whatever had happened might happen again. Then a call signal came through his X-COSMO gear. He slowly and carefully moved his hand around his neck, searching for his pair of yellow Kepler glasses. He affixed them around his eyes - the left lens was cracked, but he could still make out the called on the screen; a woman with a mane of red hair and wide, bloodshot eyes.

"Silas! Thank God you're alive," Jude's worried voice flooded into his ringing ears. "What the hell happened out there? Are you hurt?"

"Give me a second, will you?" Silas groaned. Adrenaline was pumping throughout his body, obscuring whatever pain he should have been feeling. Slowly, he pushed himself to sit up and examine himself for injuries.

"Well?" Jude prodded impatiently, "what do you see?"

"My limbs appear to be intact." He responded dryly. "There's a tear on my left shin but I don't think it pierced the skin. My ears are ringing as well - I can barely hear you even on full volume."

"What do you see?" She asked again, more clearly.

Silas stood up, hoping to get a better view of his surroundings. The ground was broken and uneven - metal was torn like flesh and there were neon shards of self-sustaining purple lights peeking from the rubble. All the rest was obscured by grey and black smoke and pockets of fire.

"Not much." Silas coughed, cautiously moving towards a ray of copper light, assuming it to be an exit or at least a lookout. "Debris, smoke. Something is on fire, I'm going to check it out."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." Jude responded quietly. "You know there's only one thing that's flammable around there."

Silas didn't hear exactly what she said but her sombre tone did manage to reach him. Of course, he already knew what he'd see as he stepped through the bent doors of the damaged drifter.

There on the ground, not two feet away and beyond, were the burning corpses of innocent civilians. The little girl lay dead next to her grandfather, her legs crushed by a fallen plasma screen which was sparking with electric charge. Her eyes were open - soulless and doll-like - staring ahead into nothing. Her grandfather was almost entirely trapped underneath the screen. The only thing that survived them both was the potted bonsai, sequestered a few feet away inside its thick glass cube. Silas felt nothing about the scene - he was utterly desensitised to tragedy, though he knew that the images will come back to haunt him sooner or later, in his nightmares.

"Can you determine the source of the explosion? I want to send our guys to get you out but I need you to start a private stream first. The official reports don't know jack shit right now, all they can do is assume it's another AFR terror attack. Yeah, right..."

"Hold that thought, Jude, somethin' ain't right." Silas began scanning the area for signs of life when a warning message popped up inside the screen of his glasses. "Well, shit."

"What's wrong? Spit it out."

"I just got a radiation warning. This was some kind of RDD explosion."

"RDD? That makes no sense, why..."

"Whatever, man. I'm getting the fuck out of here." Said Silas. "I've sent you the link to my livestream, see what you make of this yourself."

"Got it. Are you sure you can make it out on your own?"

"Remember who you're talking to, kid."

"I haven't forgotten, Silas." There was a tinge of warmth in her voice, and worry.

Before he could actually start leaving the scene there was something unexpected tugging at his heart; an unwanted splinter lodged inside him. Turn around, it said, go back and take it with you. Don't let it die.

Makes sense, Silas remembered as his eyes fixed on the glass cube sticking out of the rubble. Amunet was a planet that extolled organic matter, especially with Earth origins, even as trivial as a bonsai. It may be used as a ticket to get to places where ectogenes are otherwise unwelcome.

"That has to be a GMO, right?" Jude perked up with curiosity as she watched his live footage.

"Seems to be a real bonsai tree to me." Silas examined it up close as he picked it up. "These babies aren't genetically modified, despite their appearance. Look it up yourself."

"I will, actually. The red leaves are so beautiful. Suits my hair."

"It's yours if I make it through in one piece."

"Good idea - I bet it's worth a lot of credits."

Silas made no further comment - he saw something moving up ahead, dark ghostly figures emerging out of the smoke, quickly moving towards his direction then splitting up in a uniform fashion, their movements were smooth and silent. Then he heard them - their artificial voices interspersed with a wailing alarm - all familiar to Silas' ear.

He contracted his lips and whistled at them as if they were dogs. Four of them turned their heads in unison, lights flashed inside their shiny black heads. They decided that one among them will approach Silas.

The robot moved quietly and gracefully over the debris; smoke cleared and Silas noted the familiar logo stamped in the middle of the automaton's chrome chest.

"Hello, citizen." It waved three feet away. "This is a radioactive area, please follow me to a designated safe area."

"Lead the way." Silas shrugged calmly, holding fast to the glass box.

"Thank you for your co-operation." The robot replied, giving him a small bow. It slowly turned around and proceeded forward.

Kepler-168 was sinking down to the horizon, bruising the sky an ominous red. Deep, monstrous shadows were cast by skyscrapers and bridges - some of them toppled over, cracked like eggs, snapped in half - and smoking. They looked like fallen giants. Alarms wailed throughout the city, but there was no living human was to be seen. Beneath his feet, Silas felt vibration - an aftershock, no doubt, from the explosions and gunfire he could hear kicking off somewhere in the bowels of the fallen city. A fleet of fighter jets flew across the sky, above the buildings. It was all so eerie and apocalyptic.

Normally, the city's shadows would be lit by neon signs and flashing screens, advertisements, general reminders, news updates or even warnings, but now every screen and every light was snuffed out. There were vehicles toppled upside down like toys after a giant's rampage. However, the more he observed, the more suspicious Silas was becoming. There was simply too much damage around the place for it to have occurred just moments after his arrival. Did he fly right into a combat zone no one warned him about? He was not beyond questioning Jude herself, whom he had never even met in person.

Silas and the robot passed by a luxury car; behind the wheel was a man in a leopard-print suit and Kepler goggles. The man looked like he was passed out drunk - mouth agape. Silas might've thought he was alive, if it weren't for the blood rushing down his head, the glistening piece of brain matter peeking through the slicked-back hair, and the red smear on the front window.

Silas had several questions - none that he would waste on his artificial companion, of course.

"Help!" There was a man crying to the left, behind a pile of debris leading into a wide road under the shadow of a massive highway bridge. "Somebody please! Over here!"

The robot sped off without hesitation, while Silas stayed behind and watched what happened next.

The robot disappeared from view, muttering some reassuring words as it did so, then BANG! Its mechanical head shattered into a thousand glittering pieces, its limbs twitched with electrical discharge as it dropped on the ground with a dull clank.

A large man in a neon-coloured XCOSMO suit, Kepler goggles, and carrying a makeshift chromium pistol emerged to meet Silas.

"I'll never get tired of wasting them clankers." He chuckled and extended his arm towards Silas in a habitual greeting.

"Sorry, Isaac, my hands are full of precious cargo." Silas felt a little awkward at his inability to properly meet his colleague.

"So I see, brother." Isaac slapped Silas' shoulder amicably. "Let's get you out of here ASAP. My wheels right there."

"Did Jude send you?"

"I send myself, man, you ought to already know that! I'm not waiting for no green light and I sure as hell don't answer to her."

Silas hesitated a moment when they reached Isaac's two-seater motor car. "I assume you will explain everything later." It was not a request. The men locked eyes; the corner of Isaac's busted lip twitched.
"Yeah, you bet. There's a lot we need to cover." He responded seriously. "Now get your ass in the car before the clankers notice one of their own has been prematurely de-comissioned."

Delta Cygni - Fawaris - الفوارس

Current Mood: disappointed

Is uncertainty the same as the unknown?
I do not think so.
But one thing is for certain - I embrace the unknown, sometimes I even run towards it like an old friend. Uncertainty, meanwhile, horrifies me. Tortures me. I am almost paralysed by it. It is anxiety incarnate.

The Unknown is exciting, alluring, fascinating. Exotic, even. What comes to mind is the cosmos and the depths of the ocean. Stars, secrets, legends. Mystery. The unknown is much like a dream and to unveil it is to awaken. For this reason, I have never feared death. Cemeteries are immensely peaceful to me, beautiful and sombre. I am a taphophile.

Uncertainty is a knot in the stomach. It differs from the Unknown because some things are known, but the knowledge is fragmented or incomplete. The picture is like a corrupted file, and the future is looming and imminent. The Unknown is alive, almost serene, undemanding. It reveals itself in time, sooner or later - sometimes even to only the chosen few.

Uncertainty is a fast-moving train that cannot be stopped. It demands preparation, focus, and speed. Blink and you'll miss it. Daydream and you'll forget it. Miss the flow and you'll mix up the steps.

Oh, how I hate it.

Uncertainty is like trying to grasp running water or catch the wind. It is the thief of peace. It is dependent on too many factors. It is a game whose rules shift without announcement.

And yet both the Unknown and the Uncertain give the same reward at the end - Knowledge.

My anxiety is chained to Uncertainty - and every time I lose that game, like it's rigged against me. No amount of stress or overthinking spares me from blunder and bad surprises.

I am addicted to one specific aspect of anxiety though - the sweet relief when things do go well, unexpectedly so. Because of course there is another aspect of Uncertainty - good luck, smooth processes, ease. That part is pushed aside by my mind. Because when something good happens, I am elevated by it.

Perhaps it is the classic manic/depressive states I swing to and fro. The jury is still out on that one.

I wonder though - is it possible to hold both the Unknown and the Uncertain in one space?

I cannot deny that there is a certain mystery underlying reality, my life. There are things that are simply too strange to be coincidences. These belong to the realm of the Unknown.

Let me ask further - can the Unknown replace the Uncertain? Is that what the pious do, what secular society is missing, why anxiety has spiked globally? Leave the Uncertain to God. Let God handle it. Listen to the voice within, let calm wisdom guide. Flow.

A few days ago I cried so much because of anxiety that I'm pretty sure I purged myself of any trace of it. Now I feel incapable of anxiety. A little stress, sure, everyone feels it. But no more debilitating anxiety. No more tears, knots in the stomach, sleepless nights... God - even my appetite is back. When I am anxious I have no desire for food and when I do eat I barely taste anything. But since I cried every tear I had, even humble food has tasted pretty phenomenal. And I have a mad craving for a homemade lasagna. I actually keep thinking about it with anticipation - I know exactly where to get a good one...

It is now or never - I need to consciously rewire my brain and moreover, embrace the Unknown, the mysterious, perhaps even the divine.

Because the truth is - I see angels around me. If there is one thing I am blessed with is meeting beautiful, good souls. Without the kinship of other human beings, life in modern society is empty and not worth living.

Current Mood: calm
Current Location: Liverpool, UK

I tore out the second page of the Psychotherapy manual my psychologist gave to me to read last night. I shredded it, crushed it into a ball, shoved it into my mouth, chewed on it and then spat it out. What I did in a fit of rage was crazy - even for me - but the animal inside me felt empowered and justified.

Are we as a society better off since psychologists replaced priests? Was Carl Jung correct when he lamented the psychic trauma that would result upon a civilization that no longer believes in Alpha and Omega and the supernatural realm? Is this why neopaganism has seen a resurgance the more materialistic we have become?

Psychology is as mechanical, outdated and misguided as late-stage capitalism is. Those who are not well-adjusted to a fundamentally dysfunctional society become "patients" to be treated and medicated, rather than mirrors to be listened to and to be moved by. The mind is a biochemical computer, their memo says, spot the patterns and triggers and a roadmap will emerge out of the fog.

I cannot speak for others, but for me, there is nothing to predict.

They divide emotions into positive and negative. That alone is violent as it is dehumanising. The utilitarians and the communists believed that utopias could be reached by minimising pain and maximising pleasure. Or minimising sadness and maximising joy. Look at where that has brought us - look at all the distractions, the lack of silence and peace - even fear of such things - the incessant sounds, notifications, images, events, activities. Joy is nothing but an empty promise, an addiction to distract from very real existential and identity crises.

Here's something radical - what if your illness is awareness? What if you suffer because you see more than others? What if you're so deeply aware that no system exists to measure the awareness, let alone adequately express it? All religions are false, all cults are predictable, all philosophies are hypocritical, all psychology is soulless. There is still art, there is music, yet the unrestricted over-abundance of it all is too overwhelming and has been swallowed up by aesthetes and wannabes who are convinced that seeming and being are the same thing. Nothing feels intimate or special - such things are a luxury - because everything is curated neatly into lists and recommendations. The internet has made everything seem infinite, and the awareness that there will always be something better and "truer" dampens every spark of inspiration that wants to take flight.

I think the reason why I am so miserable is not as personal as I am lead to believe. The more inward and self-critical I became, the worse it got. I got it all wrong.

I am miserable because the world has gotten worse, not better, overall. There is a virulent indignation I feel for having been brought into this world, forced to be part of society and expected to be another cog in its system. Not that there's anything wrong with cogs, but "we are trapped in the belly of this horrible machine, and the machine is bleeding to death."

The sense of profound helplessness some of us feel every day may be less about the lack of control over our own lives and more about the inability to do something impactful in the world, to make a difference, to take charge because all of our world leaders are either incompetent or disturbed or both. There's this sense as if we're on the Titanic and we have rats for cabin crew.

Some of us are lucky to figure out our path, to overcome the inertia of feeling smaller than a dust mite, and to do something anyway - take action, create, make a petition, raise awareness. Assasinate a CEO in broad daylight... And yet the forces we're up against are too massive, too numerous. We can no longer blame the king and behead him. We are told that we are the problem. From recycling myths to pollution to overconsumption, climate change, to political instability, the average person bears the blame - inherits it, even, from the moment a child is born it is a consumer. Corporations are more powerful than governments. Laws are pushed not because they're just or moral but because the rich lobby for them. We know this. We're at the bottom of the foodchain - dystopia is literally here - and when we're neurotic the flaw is with us, our history, our genetics. Nothing to say for a system that only rewards the most simple, easily entertained, conformist individuals who have kids so they have no time to risk their livelihoods to fight for justice, to protest, to go on strikes, to spark a revolution. The only ones who care are college students but of course no one takes them seriously, and their lack of real world experience makes them susceptible to herd mentality. Normal, everyday people who won't cause a fuss suit our oligarchs very well. We're flies for them to swat.

I was told growing up that the way to change the world is to look at yourself in the mirror first. Be the change you wish to see in the world, as Mahatma Gandhi famously said. I believe that once upon a time it really was as elegant and true as that. But no amount of looking at myself has done the world good. I think we can no longer afford to look in the mirror because the world is literally run by people who are ignorant of themselves, literal hypocrites, frauds, and spiritually lobotomised automatons made of wrinkly flesh. And now they want us to let their AI "improve" our systems, to deliver us from our imperfection, ineffectiveness and limitation. Naming this kind of tech "smart" has always sounded like a sick joke to me. In every field of expertise there are human beings greater than any machine that can possibly be manufactured.

I wish I had the answer but the only thing I have right now is a gut feeling - a feeling that my understanding of myself has been completely misdirected this whole time. The suspicion that, in fact, there is nothing broken in me. Nothing wrong. No illness present. That the only reason I feel worse is because I have fallen for the ill-usion. To blame the self, parents, lovers, or just the very nature of a human life - that's an easy thing to point at, to dissect, to reframe in your head. But to blame whole systems - that's on par with challenging laws of physics or God Himself. People have done this; feminists, communists, revolutionaries, civil rights activists, and so on. But then the martyrs became law-givers themselves, new systems were created out of thr ashes of the old. The Bolshevik dream was radical, new, complete. They sought, like French revolutionaries, to restart civilization, to destroy the old and build something pure from the ashes, to lift the weight historical legacy and worship the future instead. It sounded almost divine on paper. Then communism became more destructive and dehumanising than life under Tsarist Russia could ever even conceive.

And so, here I am, as wrathful as ever. No religion, no philosophy, no psychology, no pill, no life-coach, no diet, no exercise, no relationship, no nothing will fix me, save me make me well. Because I'm not the sick one - I am only a tiny part of something that has infected the light, happy, healthy, free parts of my soul. The source of the sickness is out there, not within, which I've been gaslit to believe, it seems. Then again, I never wanted to be one of those people that victimise themselves and blame the world for their problems. It's why I completely rejected the feminist label until very recently. The idea that the patriarchy is real and is oppressing women in developed countries while girls in Africa are literally having their genitals mutilated is a misdirection of rage that's extremely disturbing to me. The patriarchy, unfortunately, is still very real, still a threat to every girl and woman, with various levels of danger and oppression across the globe. But there are women who are suffering so much worse, who can't even dream of complaining about wage gaps or lack of legal access to abortion. And this is one tiny, tiny example of how fragmented activism in core issues is. They are fragmented because they are in a system which prevents real unity. I really do think it's something like class. But I need more information. I want to study these things with the same obsession, criticism and wisdom as I have studied myself over the years. Finding the cure begins with understanding the disease, and to narrow down the disease we need to examine the symptoms. I don't claim to be a healer, of course, but maybe I can heal or "inoculate" myself through this somehow?

Current Mood: discontent
Current Music: Two nights in a row

Self-acceptance is a virtue.

Once you accept yourself, no one's approval matters. But there's a catch. To have the strength to accept yourself as you are requires someone to do it first. Someone you trust. Someone who reads between the lines. Who can hear what is left unsaid. Such connections are rare. I have such a connection. I couldn't have guessed it would be her in the end, but we've known each other for so long. In past lives and astral planes, surely. It took me 31 years to finally trust someone this deeply. To be seen while you're hiding - that frightens and intimidates most people. But to me it was miraculous.

I spent so much energy making sense of myself, explaining myself, trying to describe what I was going through. Always caught up in webs, knots, weeds. This all stems from the deep-seated desire to control myself, to solve myself like some kind of a crime. I longed to succeed, to overcome myself - my own biggest enemy.

She didn't need any of that. She knew. And she knew exactly what to do to make me smile, even for a moment. What she did was a tiny thing, but it felt like the world itself. I was carried as if on the wings of an angel. I knew I would be okay as long as she is in my life and I know without a shadow of a doubt that she's what they call a "best friend", an intimacy that can only exist between women, between soul sisters.

We are very alike and very different - it's funny. The differences used to piss me off but then I remember I'm an only child. I never knew what it was like to have a brother or a sister. Someone you love with all your heart, someone you've shared so much with, yet someone who still gets on your nerves. But even when you're angry you cannot be cruel, it never corrupts the love you have for them.

All my life I was the nurturer to everyone around me, even adults. The one who showed up, went above and beyond. I knew what loneliness felt like. What alienation, misunderstanding and isolation does to a person. I sought to rescue everyone from the same feelings I recognised in myself. Silently. Secretly. I suffered.

Last week was... different.

Something collapsed inside me. I no longer had the energy or desire to struggle, to think, to search, to make sense of the perpetual waves of chaos and order that have scuplted my inner world the way floodwater shaped the Grand Canyon. I just want to finally accept what I had been fighting against since my early 20s, but for some reason it felt like I was giving up on myself. A nauseating concoction of emotions washed over me. Disgust. Anger. Despair. Hope. Curiosity, even. Fear.

I stopped taking prozac last week as well. Although I trust medicine and I genuinely want help, every fibre of my body suddely rejected the very thought of putting something in my body to "manage" myself. It felt profoundly wrong, like self-rejection and therefore alienation in the deepest sense. I could not make myself do it. I cannot, even now. There is no harm at all yet the very thought of taking a pill now makes me sick.

I do not want to "manage" myself anymore. Likewise, I cannot afford to give into the chaos either. I don't know where that leaves me, but all I can think about is self-acceptance. My dear friends accepted me, and I accept them unconditionally. My heart is swollen with the most tender compassion. I allowed them inside my world and they did not even flinch... It is time I accept myself because without love we are doomed.

Current Mood: grateful
Current Location: Underdark

Why did I become who I am now instead of who I might have been? This may be the next phase of my journey, to wonder about that. There's just something strange about it to me, especially since I've been talking to psychology & therapy professionals. The concept of being a "survivor" has been planted in my head. I have never seen myself as such, nor even as a victim. I've always seen myself as a kind of rebel, in the internal sense. Resisting the systems and the people not by challenging them openly, but by developing my mind and my dreams, my inner world of desires and hopes. I created a secret self that nobody knew, and this created a palpable and oftentimes painful barrier between myself and other people.

And this brings me to the reason why my journal has been taken over by my relationships and reactions to other people. Because something shifted since last year or so. Maybe around December of 2024. Maybe a little earlier.

I started merging the two worlds - the internal one with the external one. Gradually I allowed myself to become the person I have been developing into all these years, the self I have been hiding since I was sixteen. This merging affected how I relate to people and thus it became my fixation - to make sense of feelings and thoughts I never held for anyone. I never truly cared about anyone. I never got attached. I had friends out of convenience and boredom. My family meant nothing to me. Though in the back of my mind I knew this wasn't right. I was aware that I was cut off from something - from meaningful friendships, from connections that last years, from love that's worth fighting for and sacrificing for. I didn't blame others for not living up to my desires. I vaguely blamed myself more for wanting "too much", a yearning for true connection that I'm sure many people are missing in their lives, particularly the generations that grew up with internet technology.

But the connections I have made are not exclusively online or offline; they're a mix of the two. And they feel equally important, physical proximity aside.

I am beginning to slowly realise that the barrier I have built between my heart and the world has become more pliable. This has resulted in an intense mixture of anxiety, desire and fantasy. Strong emotions I was unaccustomed to because I never get attached. I never truly WANT things or people. It's because I don't particularly care about life, where everything is transient, everything decays, and everything is easily lost. Since early childhood I had to learn the harsh lesson of nothingness, emptiness. Not even letting go - but never holding on in the first place. Not to anything or anyone.

In a few months time I will relocate to another country. I was planning to sell my car for a pretty penny and using that money to stabilise myself while I settle, get a job, rent, documentation, new health insurance etc. But I realised with surprise that I actually became attached to my car. I actually feel sad about selling it. My family are trying to talk me out of it since they think the car is extremely valuable as well. My grandmother even offered to fund my emigration in exchange for keeping my car back home for another year or so. I hate relying on her money though. It's a matter of principle. I want to say "it's just a car" but I truly got lucky with it. Even the mechanic who checked it a few days ago was impressed with it, couldn't find a single tiny fault in a 2014 vehicle that's "like new". This made me so happy but that happiness became bittersweet when I realised I had succumbed to materialism, which is unlike me. I attached memories, experiences and emotions to my vehicle in a way I never expected.

I worry about the same happening with people.

That's the shift I've been processing since the start of 2025. I have only been attached to only one person in my life - my biological father. I have gotten over him years ago though, he means nothing to me now, just another lesson in detachment. The shift in me was the permission I gave myself to want, to be honest about wanting, even taking action in alignment with desire. This was a new way of being for me and it happened without me realising it. It started with small things, then it moved to people, now to life-defining decisions. But I was mostly fixated on people...

To want someone deeply is dangerous. All I've known is loss, loneliness and misunderstandings. Often there was a sense I might be from a different dimension, the emotional & intellectual distance between myself and others was too great. I've been trying to acclimate myself to this conscious attachment. The awareness that I can always leave. I can simply decide to be alone, because that's something I am very familiar with and have long ago made my peace with. Being alone is not something that worries me. So why would choose to get attached? Is it even a choice or an illusion of it?

It's not an illusion.

But I'm not sure what doors have yet to be opened. I don't know what it is like to live life as though anything matters. I only remember the agony of loss - the agony of losing meaning, not meaninglessness itself.

And now I return outward, to this deep ache, fear and empathy I have for the world and the future of humanity. A pain that I avoid acknowledging because of how helpless and angry and sad and overwhelmed it makes me feel. But something triggered these feelings yesterday and it feels only right to address it, it feels right to re-center myself, shift my focus from my own internal landscape and issues to the dying world I was brought into. Dying.

I read an article and watched a video about the current state of El Niño, the current in the Pacific Ocean that regulates climate. If anything goes wrong with it it sets off a devastating chain reaction across the globe. We're already experiencing oil shortages - the reserves are drying up. Prices are rising for various products and services, creating a larger divide between the rich and poor. This year and next year - 2026 and 2027 are set to be the hottest and most devastating on record due to what's happening with El Niño right now. Drought, heatwaves and wildfires are going to affect crops which will raise costs even more. Data centres are springing up like tumours, drying up precious clean water resources. Global security is getting worse, alliances like NATO and EU are being tested by wars and ideological disagreements. New "brownshirts" in Belfast are terrorising immigrants, destroying businesses, homes, cars because a mentally unstable Sudanese man slashed an Irish man, who survived and lived to condemn the violent riots. The man was apprehended and put on trial but because he is Sudanese, anti-immigrant and racist rhetoric from loyalists have reached unprecedented levels of unhinged violence and destruction. On the other side of Europe, Russian and Ukrainian military drones are regularly falling out of the sky in EU territories, causing damage to houses and even injured two people in Romania recently. Baltic States are encouraging extreme russophobia and sound eager for any excuse to enter open war with Russia, while Germans are building weapons in anticipation of war. America and Iran continue to fight. Palestinians are still suffering from Israeli attempts at genocide. Meanwhile the rich keep getting richer, racism is intensifying, AI is replacing people's jobs and ruining entertainment and social media, rural Indians are mass migrating to USA and EU to take advantage of cheap labour while young graduates can't find a job with a livable wage or afford housing. There's a threat of another virus outbreak. Abortion and LGBTQ laws are going backwards in developed countries, and I have never been more worried about the future for young women and girls and Epstein Files and social media have revealed there are more degenerate pedophiles than I ever imagined could exist. It turns out some of my own ex-friends were pedophiles or pedophile apologists. It became so commonplace I became paranoid about it like it's a disease I might catch, disgusted about the kind of person I am if I feel attracted to someone who is barely a legal adult, even though my entire life I have only been drawn to people much older than me. It's a fine line - this fear of being impure, corrupted by diseased mind and ideas just because they're so common now, just because the world has become worse in the past 20-30 years I've known, not better.

I was born into a dying world, into a civilization that is on its last breath, I always was acutely aware of this even as a child. And that's one of many reasons it feels morally wrong to me to have children, knowing we live on borrowed time; depleting resources, rising social and political tensions and rise of unethical AI and everything else I've mentioned and more I didn't - like ocean deadzones, deforestation of the Amazon rainforest for the production of palm oil, soy for animal agriculture and everything else that meat & dairy industry does as the number one biggest polluter worldwide and the cause of heart disease, high blood pressure, cholesterol and various cancers...

I think about all of this and my own current life goals seem so trivial. I always wanted to change the world, make an impact. There was this fantasy I held onto since childhood that there's a deeper reason I was born into this world, at the turn of the millennium. There's so much going on, so much corruption, ignorance, incompetence and abuse. How can I just live a normal life, ignoring all these issues? Yet what can I do? I wish I was part of something greater, like a movement or a revolution. Something radical and new. Although the Bolsheviks were extreme, their initial vision was admirable and unique, inspired by the Communist Manifesto and, no doubt in some sense, the French Revolution which is another fascinating chapter of European history. I truly feel like we're on the cusp of something. Maybe not now, not even in five years, but within my lifetime something will snap. People have already noticed patterns between now and a century ago, that we're due for a World War, though some say it has already begun but the war is about information. The war of minds.

Maybe I am the way I am because I was always aware I was part of something bigger. That the things that happened to me were symptoms of a dying world, a rotting system. I am neither a survivor nor a victim. I am a result. I was built this way. And someday, everything will be justified and I will know exactly what I am doing here and why.

Well, I feel almost like I'm neutered. And yet it feels good in some strange way.

My friends tell me I should be more assertive, harsh, blunt. Normally, I would. But what is truly being wounded here - is it pride, ego? I had to ask myself this. Because I have reached a point where I really care about the true source of my thoughts and feelings. What I know I want is inner peace, but that does not mean avoiding truth or discomfort. On the contrary, it's surgically removing anything that pollutes my heart and mind. It's not about being aggressive, it's about being wise. Mature, strategic. It's not about denying how I feel or pushing it down, it's about solving issues rather than reacting to them. What is left after all that is a higher truth, which is gentle but firm.
In the past few months I have found myself increasingly more motivated to choose compassion and forgiveness over resentment and judgment. It's hard some days, but choosing to let it go feels less like allowing disrespect and more like refusing to let it get to me. Not every little slight is worth criticising, not every problem needs to escalate. But it's not easy. I have always tried to show more empathy towards others, certainly more than I do towards myself. My Catholic upbringing has hardwired me to find pleasure and purpose in self-sacrifice and humility. Turn the other cheek. These are also transient states. What I find myself realising is that there is a time to be the fighter and there is a time to be the lover, and maybe even a time to be both at the same time. The best way to discern this, I believe, is to notice the way my emotions and plans feel in my gut. I am getting better at recognising when I am being pure - be it in love, wrath, despair, joy etc. - and when I am being corrupt, when there is a shadow coming over me. There were certainly times when my feelings seemed like they did not belong to me, as if I wore them like a costume to detach from myself for a while. That's why, I think, it has been historically difficult for me to know what I truly want in my life. It's much easier to know what I don't want, so in a way my life has been a series of deductions to arrive at the truth. Indeed, I have always found a certain kind of pleasure in giving up, letting go, throwing away, destroying - things, identities, information, relationships, beliefs, ideas. And now it seems I am going all the way. I'm not playing around anymore. I'm not doing it to feel alive - I'm doing it because I must. It's like a survival instinct. And it is brutal and terrifying. Spiritually, I feel like a tigress with bloodshot eyes, folded ears and bared fangs. Snarling and hissing. Threatened and threatening and poised to fight to the death for ultimate freedom. I am vigilant like I'm being hunted by an equal force, maybe another me. One will die or both will, but they will never coexist.

Some people experience ego death through psychedelic drugs or extreme spiritual devotion. I want to do it raw; tear it the fuck apart and eat its shadows for breakfast. Whenever I dislike someone or their actions, it's because I see the stupid mask veiling the truth. It sickens me. To confront it is cathartic, like applying a cure and feeling the poison dissolve - burning, then cooling. That is the change I'm turning towards - not destruction for destruction's sake, but purification. Purity is clean the way antiseptics are clean. And love burns the way fire does, burning away all that is false. Self-love included.

Current Music: Death (the band)

It's been weeks since I felt like myself - but what does that mean, exactly?

It's funny. As someone who has always struggled to identify myself with anyone or anything, who has been perpetually unstable and changeable for as long as I can remember, and as someone who has desperately sought some kind of answers about who I truly am or who I should become... I never identified myself with the world or any groups or ideologies. Sure, I tried. I envy anyone who can divorce reason or compassion just to be part of a tribe or something.

You are female. You are Caucasian. These are your parents. This is your nationality, your religion, your sexual orientation, your generation (millennial or zillennial???). This is your school, your college degree, your job, your circle of friends. This and this and this that you fell into that you were given is you. Yet something deep inside me always said "no", and that voice told me even stranger things which I argued even as a child. "You are not like everyone else. You are not here for the reasons other people are..." I said, sure literally everyone thinks that. I am not different. And how narcissitic of me to assume I have a destiny. I told no one but somehow even as a child I was already an adult. There was not a moment in childhood outside games that I ever thought or felt like a child. I was weary, convinced that I have seen all this before, that I have lived many lives on this Earth. On the outside I acted like a normal kid but I had secrets. As I got older, the voice became quieter until it stopped. To be different - truly different, forlorn, "homeless amongst family and friends" that really hurt. To be different than was not to be better than, though there was also a part of me that took pride in who I was. But even now, I struggle not to tear up because of this, because of this sense of being abandoned or lost in a world that does not feel like home, does not feel "mine" in any sense of the word.

And yet, despite this ephemeral self, whose substance is like a dream, I am free. And I find it odd when I see other people, average people, actually everyone I know, identify themselves with labels and tribes and ideologies and communities. Like how white European nationalist scream about Christian traditions and values being inherent to our culture, without stopping to think Christianity was imported from the Middle East and was spread throughout the Roman Empire thanks to Constantine's conversion. The so-called Western values are mostly based on Roman and Hellenic structures that predate Christianity. True nationalism is reviving pagan gods, everything else is sectarian rhetoric and pure tribalism... When I consider Christianity, I consider it as a whole - the histories, the peoples, cultures, the geographies. When I consider Christianity as a faith or a way of life, I keep my views as close as I can to the early Church. The many saints who were ascetics, former slaves, even nobles who gave up their riches to join the monastic life of prayer, meditation and service, many of whom were also animal lovers and vegetarians (St. Kevin, for example, who had a mostly plant-based diet). Very different from the Christians of today, except perhaps Eastern Orthodox priests, some of whom live in the remotest parts of Russia. Orthodox denomination is the one that most closely resembles the early Church before the schism. I like them a lot. I do not think about Europe or Christian holidays like Christmas and Easter, all of which were appropriated from pagan festivities. Christianity and white European identity & comservative values are not even in the same dimension to me. That's why whenever I have actually prayed to God, even as a child, I had a very very distinct sense that I was not praying to the same God all other Christians were. I felt like me and the universe had a little secret between ourselves.

That's why Gnosticism connected to me so strongly when I started studying it. But it went a little too far, it feeds into fears and anxieties of the most painful kind. Even reincarnation becomes not a path to spiritual refinement and karmic lessons to lead to eventual Nirvana as the Buddhists and Hindus believe, but to Gnostics reincarnation is a trap for the soul - a sinister recycling of souls locked far away from God who may or may not hear our plight. Gnosticism feels real because it is easier to believe in evil, loneliness and suffering as the default state of existence itself. Confronting existential pain and claiming it to be the ultimate truth might feel both liberating and horrifying - which is also what Gnostics write about. If the truth of life does not horrify you and fill you with despair, it is not the truth but a deception. But what I fear that does is validate existential dread without offering any guidance or moral values - the biggest criticism that Gnostics ever faced in their early history and continue to face into the modern era. How can you live a good life if you see yourself as a slave trapped in an evil universe presided over by a false god? What values can there be when the only salvation is in total isolation, asceticism, celibacy or even suicide? I once had a vivid dream filled with Hindu gods where I was told that a far greater deception is the perception that we are not already in Heaven. I was told that bliss is right here and that pleasure, not suffering, is the meaning of human life. Whether true or not, that alone can give rise to many ideas, thoughts, actions with moral values and alignments. This year I made it a conscious decision to align myself with peace. I may not be perfect but I have noticed myself think twice before reacting first. I sit with my feelings, process them, scrutinise their origin - is it ego? Or is it the soul? Is it valid or ignorant? Having a positive value to align with is better than believing you're God's punchbag and making a shield of stoicism out of your victimhood.

So why is it that I, unsure of who I am, do not attach myself to anything or anyone?

And yet, I do. I do attach, and it is a bit frightening when it happens, it's like being struck by lightning. It can be overwhelming, but I am being brave about it and moving forward with the kind of faith that could rival the most devout nun. There is less a sense of identifying with something solid and more like surrender to something that you're already flowing with. I believe there are energy streams, actual paths our consciousness can travel. Something like what was depicted in Donny Darko - these tunnels of energy that shoot out from the center of your body before you decide to get up and go somewhere. When a piece of art, music, literature, film etc. connects so hard to you you feel like it was written for you, or even by you in some abstract sense, because the things expressed are so particular to your innermost thoughts and feelings, the way you have never before seen... And it's not just that. It can also be places. Going to a foreign city or country and being awestruck by the strangest sense of belonging, wondering why the hell you were born somewhere totally different. Why your hometown has never felt like home despite all the memories and experiences you've had. And it can be a person. A person you have never met, like a historical figure, or someone you know. In their presence there is something real and rare. It's not that you don't like other people or can't connect to them. You can love and hate and feel strongly but there is always something missing, something deep that you cannot name. But a few times in your life, quite unexpectedly, you will meet someone with whom you feel an uncanny connection. They have that something you cannot name, and what's even more amazing, is it is mutual. You know these aren't just words - you feel it. It is something you just know will never go away. This kind of connection can feel very intense and it is imperative to handle it gently and carefully, depending on the context. I say this more about myself because the instinct to completely identify myself with a real human connection is overwhelming. It's amazing, the force with which it takes over. But the most amazing thing is that I do not lose myself - I find myself. I become deeply certain, brave, motivated, inspired. A lot happens and it can be great but this state is also very unstable. It requires an enormous amount of self-control and self-awareness. There is a strong tendency to delusion and fantasy and projection. I have no idea what my center is, how I have not been swept away by a cult, a psychotic partner, schizophrenia or some other nonsense. I actually think it's remarkable I have made this far without ruining my life or my body, no unhappy children, no addictions or dependencies. It's just me and my thoughts and vivid dreams. Progress & improvement goes at a snail's pace but I thank God I'm not going backward, not falling behind, not feeling pressured as if I'm running out of time (I used to feel like that in my early 20s, like I was gonna die soon).

I guess what I am saying overall is... along with peace, I want to invoke faith into my life. Not fantasy, not delusion, not ignorance. But trust in that quiet, inner voice I have denied so many times before. The voice that I can't hear when I'm anxious or overwhelmed or too excited. That voice is faith itself, because the things it has always told me were so strange and mysterious... I want to believe that things will be alright, to move like it already is, even if it might not be. Even if disaster is immanent, having faith is being stubborn in the belief that every single thing that happens will work out in your favour. It's all good.
There is something beyond identity. It's the soul. And it's the only thing that matters in the end. And when I love you, that is what I love.

Current Mood: good
Current Location: Under the crescent moon

I'm thinking about progress and how far I've come in the past year but it's still not good enough. I'm not good enough, not even close. It's like I'm racing against myself and I can barely catch my breath. My sense of self is unstable, it shifts whether I want it to or not, and I'll have to wait over a month before anyone can tell me why I'm like this. I focus on peace yet hatred, disgust and anger are knocking on my door again, and this virulent ache that makes me want to fucking scream.

I want to dissolve. I want to forget I exist for one damn moment. I'm so sick of myself.

Amsterdam has been on my mind. I have to go back. I have to. I want to get away. Every day I drive somewhere away, farther and farther. Filling up petrol is becoming a nuisance. For brief moments beauty and peace find me. It's like coming up for air after drowning. The way the light shifts, the fog rolls, the wind smells, the trees whisper, the crows fly. I love driving on country roads because I'm alone most of the time, but my mind is full. Full of garbage that weighs me down. I hate the chatter of the others, their questions, their awareness of me. I'm tired with humanity - the animals comfort me, relieve me. I want to run away, disappear, leave everything, sell everything, start a new life. Maybe that's it, that's the leap. It sounds so cruel and selfish when I think about my family and friends but honestly, deep inside, I can't stand it. I always hated "community" as a concept in general. I feel like I'm being pulled in so many directions, at the end of each one is a duty and an expectation. I feel things so strongly and my aching intesity is amplified in the presence of others, how much like a creature I am, not a person. How alone I feel around others. How I always feel on the verge of letting something inside me snap the chains of sensibility and coherence. How I wish to be wild, my hair windswept, my cheeks flushed, my boots dirty. I need an outlet but it's all so methodical, so mindful, I can't surrender. I weigh my heart like a pound of flesh. There is a sore spot in my mouth and my tongue keeps pressing against it, feeling its unfamiliar texture, as if expecting a hole or a tear to open up, as if I'm made of paper.

I saw a wild rabbit today. I saw a wild deer. In the ruins of Baltinglass Abbey there were signs of Morrígan about, guarding the dead. I drive a little too fast, at times recklessly. Within a year I'll probably know this country like the back of my hand. It feeds something in me I don't have a name for yet. One of these days I'll go for a drive so long I won't come back home. That's my secret fantasy.
At night, I'm going to drive to a secluded spot in the mountains far from civilization and scream until my voice fucking breaks.

I want to talk about astrology. Rant about it, more like. It's something I know a fair amount about. I know about the zodiac signs and their traits. I know about the “houses” and what areas of life they govern. I know about the planets themselves, including asteroids, and what they mean. How different placements interact. I even know that the old symbol for Scorpio was actually an eagle, which even most astrologers are unaware of. Western astrology – the twelve zodiacs we are familiar with – are literally lifted from Greek mythology, which for some reason millions of people believe in without realising it. Continuing with the Scorpio story, just for the sake of it, it was a scorpion that was sent by Gaia – the ancient Greek personification of planet Earth – to stop the warrior Orion from killing a bull (no doubt a direct connection to Taurus, the opposing sign).

In China there are also twelve zodiacs, but they're not based on constellations. They're based on the lunar year and an ancient myth about some animals racing each other. They all have elements and they rotate every turn. 2026 is the year of the Fire Horse, apparently.

I have a longtime friend. Dear, dear soul sister. But there are things she does that really piss me off, things she has no idea irritate me so much. I don't judge her for it at all. When you love someone you let them have their fun, if it's harmless, even if you don't really want to join in or understand why they're doing it. So she's really into astrology.

According to the traditional Western zodiac she's a Sagittarius (her sun sign, the zodiac everyone says they are even though it's more complex than that... it basically represents your ego or your core identity, the source of gravity that everything else revolves around and ultimately answers to). Now, I've known her for years. Almost a decade. I know she doesn't (or didn't) relate to being a Sagittarius until we came across the concept of Sidereal zodiac. This is where it gets convoluted.

Unlike the traditional system, which hasn't changed in thousands of years, “Sidereal astrology is a system that uses the actual positions of the stars and constellations to determine zodiac signs, accounting for the Earth's axial precession. This contrasts with tropical astrology, which is based on the seasons and a fixed zodiac that does not adjust for these astronomical changes.”

This configuration means that the sign you were born in is technically the one before that. So if you're born a Virgo under the tropical system, you're actually a Leo in the “more accurate” sidereal. And so my friend forced herself into one box when she couldn't fit into the other - though I see her using the two systems interchangeably so I guess it's like an expanded box.

Yet no one gives a fuck. Everyone uses the old tropical method that isn't even reading what's physically actually in the sky. They're just fixated on specific dates forever. The planets they tell you were there in the sky when you were born weren't actually there!

There's also something called the Draconic chart, which is a type of astrology that tells you what your birthchart in your past life was somehow. It's calculated on your moon sign - the zodiac and house your natal moon is was apparently your main/sun sign in your past life. Because we are so sure reincarnation can not only be calculated but described... The moon's South Node also tells you about your past life, it's always the opposite of your North Node which is interpreted as your destiny in this life, which is also your main thematic challenge or karma...

Then there's Ophiucus, the proposed thirteenth sign, also known as the Serpent Bearer, apparently situated between Scorpio and Sagittarius, but not incorporated by most astrologers for some reason. And just to be clear, the zoduac signs actually represent constellations of stars. The idea is which constellation was situated behind the planet on the day of your birth. If they were lights, for example, the planets would be casting their shadows. The deeper spiritual idea is that the signs and houses and planets are placed for you to grow into them or develop them, carrying on lessons and challenges from a past life. Or something, it's really not an exact science. People just accept what they're told without delving deeper into the why behind the how.

We are said to live in the Age of Aquarius, or transitioning into it. It's been said by the likes of famed occultist Aleister Crowley since the 19^th century.

For my part, I could never find in my birth chart what everyone else was raving about. Neither in the tropical, nor sidereal, nor Chinese. I was more focused on what was different than what was relatable, I saw so many inaccuracies and generalisations. Even as I studied it out of curiosity, even as I got into the nuance of what it means to have a moon in this sign, or what the ascendant means for how people perceive me etc. I thought I was doing something wrong. So many of my friends were so into this, swore by it, dedicated study to it, some even charged money to interpret birthcharts and got glowing reviews. I started to see how astrology related to everyone else but not me, and so I felt left out, like maybe I was born under a different star. Where is my meaning and order? It's so satisfying to see your whole identity, your life, your destiny laid out in a literal detailed chart, every nuance explained, every layer dissected from the deepest levels to the most mundane. There's synergy charts, which lets you examine how your birth chart relates to your romantic interest. They're progressed charts – which I never got to fully grasp – which basically take into account how the current planetary alignments affect your birth chart, or how your own chart has changed over the course of time? There's dozens of systems, each one claiming to be more accurate or more relatable, and when you find one you think “ah, this is it! Now I can understand everything about myself.”

I tried this experiment from 2019 for the next couple of years.

I chose to relate myself to a different date as like my “spiritual” birth, if you will. I chose a specific date for this, which was actually very symbolic and meaningful, a few months after my birth. I do genuinely have an uncanny ability to vividly recall the earliest memories, and I remember that day.

I went to check the exact planetary chart for that day (tropical) along with the exact time of “birth” et voila! For the first time I saw a chart I could connect to. It was dynamic, passionate, idealistic, deep, full of intensity and the elements of water and fire battling between themselves, which I knew was literally me. From then on I interpreted every chart, every bit of astrological insights scattered throughout the web based on this fake birthday and thought “wow yes that is so me” and it went on and on and it was so fun, finally I could play with all the other girls (because, I'm sorry, way too many women take this shit seriously it's so embarrassing). I began to believe this was my order in chaos, my meaning. And it's kind of creepy how it creeps up on you, this programming. You truly begin to believe it's real, that it was always relatable and accurate, and you start to see it everywhere like a pattern over everything. To an outsider it sounds generalised but to you – it resonates, it makes sense, it feels right.

But it's not. It's like an NPC running a script. A system which is infused with the belief of millions, who are well aware it has nothing to do with science – nothing to do with astronomy or astrophysics. Objectively, astrology makes no sense whatsoever. Planets and stars and asteroids dictating human destiny based on the specific moment they were pushed out of their mother's womb sounds like someone in an insane asylum would come up with. Someone knowing what each planet does to the psychology of humanity.

I do believe in esoteric truths, such as the “As Above So Below” motto. The direct parallels between the microcosm and the macrocosm is undeniable and can be easily observable in science and mathematics. The fact that the spiral in your morning coffee reflects the shape of the Milky Way galaxy you live in is inherently mystical and awesome without ascribing any meaning to it. Nature is full of wonder and mystery even without meaning or answers, maybe that's precisely what makes them so beautiful. It's actually an extremely fascinating area of study once you start to look at it objectively. But we are indeed fools if we do not verify this for ourselves, with our own reason, common sense and gut instinct.

Astrology is a fable. They tell you “it's just for fun” until they start adjusting behaviour, following a pattern, subconsciously aligning themselves with what they've been told they are. This is how people become boring and predictable. Yet I sincerely understand the appeal. I needed it, just like so many other beliefs I've had and tried and discarded. When your life is full of chaos and uncertainty, and your pattern-recognition and creative problem solving skills are in overdrive, you cling to these symbols that were literally designed with you in mind. I know this because I actually chose to believe in it, against my better judgment, against what I knew to be true, I started to see what they saw in everything and everyone around me like putting on a new pair of glasses. To be the odd one out who cringes every time someone talks about astrology is an alienating experience, frustrating too. They think you're the weird one, because it's so widespread and to question it is rude. It's like trying to take away someone's favourite toy when you know they're too old for it. They know you're right, that there is no logic, but when you corner their delusions they insist it's just for fun.

The Gnostics had it right. They openly blasphemed against Hellenic philosophy and religion. They considered astrology to be a prison – each planet was presided over by an archon or a lord, who ruled that planet and the destinies of humanity, nations and events (because, believe it or not, countries and events also have birth charts... USA is Cancer for example, its birth is equated with the signing of the Declaration of Independence. July 4 is Cancer season.). Each planet was a layer in the trap. They were to be defied, fought against, liberated from. The Hellenics, meanwhile, considered the cosmos to be perfect as clockwork, a harmony so exquisite that to defy it was the gravest sin one could commit. Astrology wasn't just a fashionable personality guide like it is today, it was a guide on a balanced and correct life in accordance to the cosmic order and it was taken to be as legitimate as any science or philosophical treatise. What does it mean today? When a myriad of different belief systems are wrestling for attention, where occultism is a soup of Western and Oriental traditions from chakras to Biblical angels? There are so many filters people use to experience reality in an inauthentic way. What is everyone so afraid of? Afraid of facing the unknown? Afraid of realising they have to make their own myth? That's what one of my favourite artists said, Salvador Dali. He said it was essential to mythologise your own life, your own birth. He didn't mean in it a sense of following a pre-established system which has already expired centuries ago. It's about looking deeper into your own life and starting to see patterns and symbols unique to you. That's why I never look to a dream intepreter to understand what my dreams mean, for example. Because my symbols are unique to me. They come from my waking life, and can mean something completely different to someone else's symbol. To weave your own myth, to bring your own chosen symbols into your life, that takes creativity and effort and a level of individualism that most people are incapable of. While everyone else is clinging to Greek or Chinese myths, running on neatly packaged systems, I choose to create my own archetypes, my own myths, my own stars which do not exist in the sky above me but the one within me. I seek a narrative, I enjoy patterns and things that are coherent and eventually aligned. There is a world in each one of us, so why are we always looking outward for meaning and harmony?

Yesterday Neptune entered the sign of Aries, according to mainstream astrology this is a “generational shift” now. People attribute popular disillusionment with social media on this. They point to how the last time Neptune was entered this sign there was a Civil War in the US, so they wonder if it's going to happen again. Which also reminds me how, despite the fact that the tropical astrological system runs on Greek myth, the planets themselves are named after Roman gods. Aries, for example, comes from Ares. Aries rules Mars. Ares was the Greek god of war, Mars is the Roman equivalent. So if you have Mars in Aries it's like. God of war rules god of war.

Oh, and let's not forget Pluto. Astrologers didn't even account for its existence until the 1930s yet they pretend like it was always there. Now it has the sign of Scorpio attached to it somehow (which is also associated with Mars somehow, like Aries) and Pluto rules generational shifts. So like Neptune. Yeah, the planets after Saturn are considered to have more “broad” effects, to be more social or spiritual in nature.

And you've probably heard about the Mercury retrograde craze. Every time that happens people swear every little problem is because of Mercury retrograde. They'll tell you don't travel because that's a riskier period. Watch your words because it's miscommunication season. Oh my god, shut up! What of the exceptions? What about us people who have a completely normal time? When you tell them “I don't relate to my zodiac” they'll insist it depends on the “rest of your chart” oh really? My mother and her childhood best friend were born on the same exact day in the same town yet they couldn't be more different as people. Astrologers would insist it depends on the exact hour and minute, like that can make a huge difference... my mother also dismissed astrology, it was too unrelatable even when generalised. How far are we willing to go? It's honestly Biblical at this point. Cherry-picking the Old Testament or misquoting the gospels or misinterpreting Jesus. It never ends, this cacophony of symbols and archetypes and everyone looking outward for meaning and depth. What is it costing us? Is it worth it?
The truth about astrology is that people choose to believe in it, they choose to filter their lives and live according to inherited and invented archetypes, myths and symbols. Who decided what Jupiter governs? Whoever decided the current state of astrology, there is no authority, no way to prove it like you can with the scientific method. It's a collective and they say that's proof enough, because it endured and people still believe. It boggles my mind, how in an age where the living universe is explained in detail along with the human body, where the wonders of scientific discovery are at the fingertips of every mind open to learning, people still choose to believe in made-up stories full of holes. Ancient dreams are borrowed from extinguished civilizations and passed off as spiritual truth. I am honestly so tired of "ancient wisdom" so often it's not even real.

I shall try a new experiment now. Make up my own mythos, my own seasons, my own zodiacs. It's whatever. I am already aware I have internal weather systems. Maybe one way to understand, predict and prepare for them is to turn them into symbols of my own. The only thing I worry is when is my patience with astrology gonna run out. It's so hard to avoid when your friends are into it. Ugh.

Current Mood: annoyed

The video footage appears blurry at first, pointing upwards. Cool fluorescent lights shine in the spaces between the square ceiling panels. The camera shakes a little - adjusts, steadies as if being fixed onto something like a tripod. But the vantage point is unusual.

As the camera lens focuses and clears, the view appears to be from the top of a naked female body, lying pale and motionless upon a metallic dissection table. The portable 2007 Sony camcorder is actually balanced between the nose and chin of the deceased. Her breasts are spread apart, pooling like drops of wax on either side of her chest.

A white figure glides into frame from the right side, her heels clicking on the cold tiled mortuary floor, positioning herself down by the feet of the cadaver - the vanishing point in the center.

"Have you ever felt like your life is too boring and ordinary to be considered beautiful?" The woman asks the camera in a deadpan British voice. Her hair is cut short, bleached blonde and dishevelled. Sleek rectangular shades balance on her long, narrow nose, above which pencil-thin eyebrows recall the likes of 1920s opium-smoking flappers. Her dark blood red lips would be visible even in 144p quality, deliberately bold.

"Do you find yourself spending hours scrolling through the internet," she gesticulated, "watching other people's lives YOU'VE decided are more beautiful and interesting than yours, because they're filled with high-rise apartments, the perfect "that girl" workout routine and interesting cities? You probably keep telling yourself that when you have more money, when you meet the right people, when you have a brand new apartment that you'll be beautiful and interesting too." She then procured a facemask out of her labcoat pocket and secured it over her lower face - an imprint of her lipstick was planted on the outside of the mask, right where her lips would be positioned.

Her next words were muffled and quieter; she made no effort to speak louder or use a microphone, and the effect was both amateurish and unnervingly casual given the visual context.

"You've spent so much of your time waiting for your life to begin that you're missing what's in front of you right now." She gestured her hands at the corpse, but her eyes remained fixed at the viewer, peering out from her glasses. Following an uncomfortably drawn-out pause, she momentarily left the frame and then returned with a pair of latex gloves, both of which she dramatically snapped as she put them on. "And the secret is (snap!) you don't have to keep waiting."

She spoke as if giving a tutorial on how to conduct a proper autopsy, but the content of her words did not match what she was doing or where she was.

"In this video," she said, casually gripping the leg of the dead body, "I will be giving you tips and tricks and realistic ways you can actually begin romanticising your life, start seeing yourself as the main character and stop waiting for your life to begin."

The woman then moved towards the camera and took it in her left hand to film her right hand touching and examining the cadaver's skin.

"Usually," she pointed at a small heart tattoo on the wrist, "my life is not very aesthetic. I have ADHD, so I procrastinate a lot and struggle to get out of bed in the morning - romanticising my life has literally motivated me to study, go outside and have hobbies."

The woman continued to talk as she went around the corpse, showing herself touching and checking the skin and every body part for any injuries, markings, wounds or signs of previous medical intervention.

"Now, when I talk about romanticising your life, I'm talking about how to make the little things special. As a doctor, I've seen first-hand how short life can be. We need to grab life with both hands and squeeze as much joy from every single moment as we can." Despite the things she was saying, the woman spoke without emotion - she was professional, cool, serious. Momentarily, her face flashed past the screen of the handheld camera; she was looking around, searching for somewhere to prop it up again. She opted to place the camera on a nearby table but immediately let out a quiet, displeased grunt when she realised the table wasn't high enough to give a proper view of the cadaver on the opposite side. She needed to find something better.

She continued talking.

"Don't wait for happiness. I'm a Capricorn so I'm all about being realistic here, so I'll tell you about some small, budget-friendly changes you can make that can make a huge difference in your life." The delivery of this line was irritated, she was frowning, then straightened up so her head was out of frame, only the view of her crossing her arms, thinking. "Some things shouldn't be romanticised, of course... Not everything can be perfect and within your control, so take or leave whatever you want from this video." After saying this, she walked away and appeared to have left the room entirely.

The seconds passed, which then dragged into minutes, forcing the viewer to watch the dead body lying on the dissection table opposite.

So still, so quiet.

There was no transition, no music, no special affects to distract from the raw reality. Death was waiting to be studied.

About thirteen minutes later, the doctor returned - and she wasn't alone; in tow was a young man with dark features, also in a labcoat and facemask. The video quality was too low to adequately show his expression as he followed the woman. He then went around behind the camera and took up the role of cameraman, giving a proper view of everything that was happening.

"My first tip," she said, taking up the knife for cutting into flesh - she pointed its tip upwards, like a finger, in her hand, "is waking up more peacefully. I switched out my alarm clock about a year ago into one of those that emit faux sunlight thirty minutes before I need to wake up. It sends signals to the brain or something. You can set it to, like, make bird sounds -" as she said this, she began to make a slow and careful Y-incision onto the cadaver's chest area, "you can set, like, a little tranquil song. It can make such a difference."

She proceeded to peel back the layers of the corpse - revealing musculature, abdominal wall and ribcage.

With each layer she gave advice.

"Learn to make your favourite drink at home, something that you can enjoy and kind of look forward to in the morning. It can be literally something as simple as a matcha or a tea."

The camera panned to a view of her looking down at her work, zoomed in slowly. Whatever she was doing with her hands now was not interesting to the cameraman. Or was he nervously averting his point of view away from the dissection?

"I am somebody who LOVES vision boards and Pinterest boards," the doctor continued, unaware of the shift in focus, "I love making Pinterest boards for every single season, but you don't have to use Pinterest. You can physically print out pictures you found and make a little collage dream board or write into a manifestation journal. I know this sounds silly but it made me look forward to life so much more. I live in England where it rains a lot; I dreaded going out every day it rained and it used to make me so sad, upset and mad at the rain..." She turned to look at the camera, realised it had been pointed at her for a good minute, and glared while posing with her cutting instrument as if to threaten. The cameraman was subsequently intimidated back to filming the corpse whose ribcage was now open with the organs exposed and glistening pink and red in the fluorescent light. He zoomed out a bit as the doctor continued speaking and pointing at the different organs.

"... But about three years ago I started making Pinterest boards for every single season, including our endless English rain, and I was like oh hold on a minute this is actually quite cute, and now I genuinely look forward to rain and I've fallen in love with each season."

The camera zoomed in as the doctor began removing different organs, weighing them, measuring, inspecting them and sectioning them to assess their internal structure. Liver was the first organ.

"It's not just for seasons - I make aesthetic moodboards for work too. Whenever I feel unmotivated, I will scroll through or add aesthetic images to my work moodboard. Pinterest is really good for this; sometimes it really takes seeing through another person's eyes to realise the beauty in something like the weather or a place." The liver was weighed and measured. "It can also help you create like an alter-ego to step into. When I'm feeling really unmotivated with my work, I look through my rainy weather moodboard and think about what I can romanticise about my work to trick myself into enjoying my day." The liver was sectioned and examined. "Being super medical and lobotomy chic girly for a few months really makes me look forward to getting work done." Once finished with the liver, she then proceeded to move onto the spleen and kidneys, also moving onto her next point.

"There is this mantra I use for romanticising life - find the joy in everything you do and make everything you do joyful." As she said this, the camera zoomed out and slowly panned up along the length of the cadaver. Right when the view almost revealed the face of the dissected female, the doctor swiped at the cameraman; the footage shook, and after a grainy hiss switched off to a blank blue screen.

"Make your spaces more personal to you." The doctor's voice returned abruptly as she fiddled with the camera, her voice still professional, still muffled behind the facemask as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. The mortuary and the cadaver was back in frame, and it seemed the assistant was no longer present. Unable to properly prop up the camera or rely on another person, the doctor had no choice but to continue filming the autopsy herself, awkwardly going through the organs with one hand, putting the camera down only when sectioning them off for inspection.

"I've done this in my life with all the vintage and thrifted things that cost under £5 and are also things I've collected over time. Once you start curating your own life, your space feels so much more meaningful and adds this romantic aspect to your life."

It was time to study the gastrointestinal tract and there was simply no way she could properly do it with one hand.

"For aesthetic makeup storage ideas, I love using vintage teacups and a little crystal heart to store my most used jewelry. It's all about gradually and intentionally adding the little things that are more personal to you, especially the vintage touches." She put the camera on an adjacent dissection table and adjusted the frame to show her taking out the gastrointestinal tract out of the cadaver and plopping them on the weighing scales. "My boyfriend got me this vintage jewelry box and it's my pride and joy."

There was a brief moment when she simply stared at the guts, as if almost breaking character over how absurd the whole thing was. Then like a robot with a minor refresh she resumed her work to finish off with the gastrointestinal tract.

"You can make music playlists for every season, like a soundtrack to your life..." Strangely enough, her words started to quicken and her cool manner faltered, sounding slightly nervous. "Write gratitude lists every day or once a week... Eventually, I want to make a video about discovering your personal fashion style. Life is too short to be dressing for the approval of other people. There's nothing silly about wearing an outfit that makes you happy. Finding ways to let go of perfection, I think, is key..."

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

The camera captured the doctor moving over to stand next to the corpse, leaning over to study its face for a long time but her figure obstructed the view of whatever it was she saw.

It was a long time before she spoke again.

"That's not fucking possible." She mumbled, barely audible, her character cracking from some kind of disturbance. "It can't be- this can't be real..."

Suddenly, she turned around and rushed towards the camera. The audio clicked and tapped as her hands grappled to hold onto it, to focus pointing on the cadaver.

She slowly approached the body - even her heels were barely audible, as if scared to awaken the eternal sleeper. As she approached she focused the camera on the deceased woman's head - her face zoomed in to show eerily familiar features: messy bleach blonde hair, pencil thin brows - only her lips were pale and flat. But the nose was unmistakeable.

"It, well," the doctor held her breath, mustering up whatever strength she had left to maintain composure in her voice, "it takes a fair amount of practice to laugh at - at yourself."

Her nervousness yielded to a giggle. She the put down the camera one last time and in the frame showed off the rose tattoo on her own wrist as her laughter turned hysterical.

"I love you all so much! Thank you for watching and I'll see you all on the other side!"

The rest of the video was her laughing so hard she collapsed on her knees - out of frame - and coughed several times from the force of her laugh. It sounded maniacal yet oddly infectious, as though she was reacting to the funniest joke she had ever heard in her life. She even screamed with laughter, which at times could have almost been mistaken for a pained wailing.

This went on and on.

"Know when to put the camera down." Her voice finally sounded through, exhausted but still shaking with laughter somewhere on the floor. "Some moments simply cannot be captured."

My entry this morning - which I've privated - said nothing new. I guess I only wrote because I haven't in a while. I've been researching and I thought I needed to get my thoughts together, but they didn't need to be said.

Afterwards, I decided to get in my car and go anywhere. No destination. I just wanted to go away somewhere new.

I sit here typing on my phone. My car is shaking from the raging wind outside. It's raining and massive, foamy seawaves are crashing and spraying about 25ft away from me. For nearly an hour I've been driving down windy country roads and green hills of Leinster, dotted with hedges, ancient mossy stone walls, medieval bridges, bare trees with snaking branches, farmhouses and sheep huddled together. The landscape is muted colours - dark greens, greys, browns. I am moved by this sombre beauty, this bleak January. As usual, my soul rests in the things people hate, dread and reject. This stormy, cold, watery howling - the softened outlines of every stone and blade of grass - I adore it. The sky and the seawaves are white as snow from here.

Driving through the landscape, I can almost hear history and memory murmuring from around every corner. The blood that was shed, the songs that were sung, the dreams that were lost. Éire is older than old. Before it was even called Ireland. Its myths so strange and specific, no one knows how much of it is historical account and how much a mere fable.

The huge waves crashing against the cliffs - they may as well be crashing against my soul. My mind tingles, satisfied, seeing its likeness in nature.

"These bleak skies I hail for they are kinder to me than your fellow creatures." - Frankenstein, Mary Shelley

Current Mood: happy
Current Location: Ennereilly beach

I began this research project with the intention of basically figuring it out what it means to be a woman, mainly in the Western hemisphere. To start off, I was going to look at Judeo-Christian religion, I was going to go over the sexual revolution of the 60s and 70s and how it got us to today. But my intentions did not quite go according to plan, despite my detailed notes, my neatly presented plans, my list of reading & watching material. There was about a week between Christmas of 2025 into the second week of January 2026 where I was very sick, I couldn't focus due to irritation, pain and nausea. The best I could do is let my ideas brew, the concepts turning over in my head as I turned over to sleep on the other side. As I read Sylvia Plath's poetry, I already felt like my trajectory might change, or the meaning might. Then I went looking for something, I don't know what, images. I came across images of women. Women who had something special in my eyes. Who seemed real. Not performative. I began to realise something else; the concept of the divine feminine dissolved right before my eyes. I already knew it was an illusion, and I have noticed a growing trend of other women who are realising how silly and damaging the concept is. I thought I would arrive at this revelation through rigorous study, logic, rebuttals. I thought this was something I'd have to argue and fight for, given my personal history, that I'd had to take a hitherto undiscovered side or potentially controversial take. But what I saw in these women was… Humanity. Being a person. They are attractive, alluring, beautiful and fascinating not because of what they look like or what they're wearing or how they want to seem. It's because womanhood does not define their personality, their mind, their heart. Biologically, they are female - that is a fact, not a tool nor a privilege nor a curse. It is what it is. I have struggled with my gender identity, from the extremes of dysphoria in adolescence to a simple frustration regarding social expectation. I never met any women who were like me, and I went to a girls' only Catholic school. I wasn't even a tomboy, per se. I just felt like I was the wrong shape, psychologically, to become a woman. I was obsessed with my body, my reproductive functions, my sexual organs, my psychology and whether I was privileged or disadvantaged. Was I a victim of the patriarchy or was that a false belief, a self-fullfilling prophecy? How many feminine traits I reject because of what they're associated with, how many are authentic - or is it all a psy-op to keep men and women and everyone in between separated? Was this an attempt to force social order, whose price was the sacrifice of genuine connection beyond barriers and identities?

I'm still going to go ahead with the same plan but I think I'll have to change the tone or the narrative a bit. This is not turning into an argument or a fight for "true womanhood" as I assumed. It's so much deeper than that. It's about being a natural & free human beyond social constraints, expectations, limiting beliefs and fears. This does not feel like the victory I am seeking, rather a liberation of a different caliber. Not sexual. Something I cannot yet name, but it's something that I already am and always have been, something I couldn't see about myself, how pointless it is to entangle myself in gender constructs. I am a woman but that does not mean I cannot be exactly who I want to be and how I want to be, or care about how I am perceived.

There was another major thing.

As I was looking for the sources of these artistic images, I accidentally stumbled upon a Japanese account on X and got a psychological whiplash so strong it made me nauseous (and it's not my medication this time). I was deep in my thoughts about these women I could relate to, that inspire me, that I resonate with and idolise. I was excited, on the verge of a breakthrough. And I opened X to look for more art and beauty and instead I was hit with a well-endowed woman who was publicly bouncing her tits (fully clothed though) on video, smiling, putting up a peace sign. More photos revealed her showing off her tits some more, her sweaty armpits, she was getting a lot of attention and seemed happy, but it made me sick. It seems to stand against everything that these other admirable women embody - the artists, muses, intellectuals, scientists, activists, fighters etc. it's like a slap, an insult to what it means to be a woman. Or, hell, human.

(this is made by a Chinese artist, Guta2046 or 古他里 pronounced "Gu Ta Li"... the image whose source I was looking for before being bombarded by bodacious boobzzz)

I sought to understand this sickness and I could barely keep up with the thoughts that were rushing into my consciousness.

Sexual revolution, feminism, sex-positive rhetoric - those are the things I seek to understand because of how irritating they always seemed to me. I couldn't exactly find the right words, or why they felt so wrong to me, since I'm no conservative or religious person. I knew I'd arrive at the truth during my research because that's how my brain works. I feel something I can't name and then suddenly, unpredictably, it clicks and everything makes sense. This was one such moment, and it took me off-guard.

Part of me felt pity for this woman. The other part of me thought "good for her, it's a free world, let her do what she wants if she is happy with herself" but this latter statement tasted bitter, false like an artificially flavoured gummy. That's what made me nauseous. That's what I was told over and over and over since forever. It's the same disgust I felt as a child watching women like Britney Spears and Beyonce and Lady Gaga look like hookers and strippers while dancing and singing aggressively sexual vapid songs. Something I just didn't see men doing in equal measure, something that felt deeply messed up but I could never find the words to justify my feelings since I knew my feelings have absolutely nothing to do with praising modesty or restraint or anything like that, something unnamed was disturbing me. It's been a splinter in my psyche my entire life, one of many different splinters I aim to pull out in my new series of essays - searching for answers and truth out there, not within... I always enjoyed looking through Playboy magazines and did not feel any disgust at the women I saw, and this again mystified me. Was I a hypocrite? Was I jealous or insecure? Was it "internalised misogyny"? Or was I seeing something that I hadn't yet heard any woman mention - at least not any women who were young, liberal or apolitical, non-religious.

One source of disgust I was able to describe, in the flash of revelation that it followed.

Ideologically, I believe that there is a line between erotica/sensuality and sexual appeal targeted towards the so-called "male gaze" - to extract attention, money and desperation from them purely by jiggling tits and ass. The most base, vulgar thing. And yet it is a thing that takes on an entirely different nature when this sexuality is exclusive, privatised, maybe even hidden. Maybe repression - the kind I had - has made my sexuality especially potent and difficult to control. When you are a single woman who is looking for attention or affection, walking the line between being a temptress and a woman simply secure in her own skin is a line I didn't know existed until I crossed it. I did not realise the effect this would have on the men around me. I spoke a language that wasn't mine, even if it meant what I wanted it to mean. I never blame anyone for misunderstanding me, it's my responsibility to understand myself first or nothing clear or solid will come out of me.

I was disgusted at that Japanese lady not because she was showing off her body for profit. It's the concept that such a thing can be profitable, shared, published. I still strain to explain why, tears are threatening to pool into my eyes and I don't even understand why. Because I believe that there is a line between obviously trying to arouse strangers and eroticism - which is artistic, mystical, sensual, detached, both human and transcendent. Uninhibited lust attracts perversion while sensuality invites conscious desire. They are not the same, but neither is exactly better or worse than the other, which I'll try to explain later.

This reminds me of a Chinese neighbour I once had befriended. She was engaged to an Irish photographer based in Dublin whose specialty was nude photography. Not like that. I went to his studio, I saw his work. They were art. The classical kind. He chose fit, athletic models where you could see the muscles, tendons, the shapes of peak human strength - and they were all women. He was an extremely intelligent person as well as kind, not a creep or pervert of any kind. Last summer I went to an art gallery with my uncle - there were paintings of the naked female form, stunning pieces I'd actually buy. They invite and arouse a completely different part of the mind. Not separate from animalism and lust but not bound to it, eroticism is a higher state, and it's also strangely innocent - because the naked body is not inherently sexual, only in certain contexts. A contemplation more than anything. Ultimately, what it comes down to, is my belief that eroticism and sensuality is what can and should be shared and publicised - as art, beauty, contemplation, idealism. Photographic classicism. But carnal arousal? Very obviously working to give someone a boner? That should be aimed at someone close, personal, private. No one should have easy access.

I don't have an opinion on OnlyFans, sex work, strippers etc. people who get paid. It's pointless to moralise because selling sex is known as one of the oldest, if not the oldest, professions in human history. The only thing I want to do is encourage a different kind of sexuality to be celebrated in our culture/society - the kind that feels like holding your breath while yearning for more, rather than rising heat that ends up making you lose control because it's so aggressive and in your face. It's the difference between pressing buttons and simply... stroking them.
In my teens I had a phase that pretty much changed my life. I became obsessed with Japanese geisha. They are a representation of everything I am trying to express here but struggle to. They were female artists - performers, entertainers. But the exact opposite of what you'd imagine - they were not courtesans nor prostitutes. Their bodies were not for sale (this is a myth that began spreading after WW2) but their sensuality was. Their mystique. Their otherworldly charms and playful flirtations. Men had tea and chats. They could become patrons, if they were rich, they could conceivably have a geisha as a mistress but that was not why men went to geisha houses. They went for company, entertainment, banter and beauty - I was completely gobsmacked when I found out about this, because geishas sold something that had nothing to do with sex, even though sensuality was present. Everything about geisha is designed to invite hidden desires not because of what they reveal but because of what they conceal. Even their make up - the white face paint - is carefully considered - the back of their neck is always bare, and the white make up neatly forks around natural skin. To the Japanese, this was erotic. It was erotic because geisha were not to be touched or loved, they were part of an aesthetic tradition in Buddhism known as the Floating World - they were representations of otherworldly beauty, love and desire... Now they are almost an extinct establishment and mostly exist to entertain tourists. Go back further in history and you'll find that, like so many things, being a geisha was initially a male profession. Anyway, my research into geisha as a 13-14 year old was the moment I became intensely fascinated with Japanese traditions and history. It had a profound impact on me because their modesty was not like the oppressive repression of Judeo-Christian culture I grew up in. Though modesty is not the right word either, because prostitution was legal when geishas were in operation. You could choose, as a man, which road to take. Meanwhile, wives had no reason to judge their husbands or feel jealous if they went to see geisha. It was a common understanding that geisha existed outside of mundane society and were not bound by the same rules - they were artists and they were meant to be unattainable.
This industry - of selling beauty, romance and attention - has evolved in Japan into cafes and clubs, catered to both men and women by choice. I don't have my notes with me right now, but they do have a term for it, and it's pretty popular. The concept is similar, but the spiritual aspect is swapped for materialism. They will give you a good time, of course, but they will do everything they can to keep you spending as much money as possible and get you as drunk as they can while making you feel like a king/queen. No touching or kissing, just attractive people doing their best to entertain you whether through music, performance, games, jokes, playful flirtation or stimulating conversation. Even this version is difficult to imagine in a Western country, unless you count Hooters or something.

Final note is a very dumb one.

I was once a fan of something called The Cancer Crew on YouTube circa 2016. The key members were George Miller (then known as Filthy Frank or Pink Guy), Idubbbz, Maxmoefoe, Anything4Views, How To Basic, with honourable mention of Ethan Klein. They have since all gone their own separate ways, with George Miller completely leaving his old persona behind to become a successful musician. But one member, Idubbbz, has done the opposite. He's become something called a lolcow. Why am I talking about this? In case you don't know anything about this, Idubbs - Ian - started losing the public's respect after he declared that he is "fine" with his girlfriend (later his wife) having an OnlyFans account and making money off of her sexuality. His self-respect, confidence, creativity, energy - everything that made him famous - was gradually lost and chipped away while evidence of Anisa abusing him, mocking him and controlling him became more and more obvious to the point that even trolls started feeling sorry for him. I was fascinated by his downfall being so obviously associated with his very public relationship. Anisa really did ruin his career. It's not "woman-hating" for me to say that, she's genuinely a terrible person and she humiliated Ian beyond redemption at this point. The worst thing is that he allows his humiliation, encourages it, and considers himself a feminist for doing so, for allowing her to do what she wants to him, say the most nasty things about him on stream. He's dead inside. I was obsessed, because he is nothing like he used to be before her. NOTHING alike.

You cannot love someone while selling your body to strangers. Nor can you respect yourself while your partner sells themselves to strangers. I'm sorry, but you can't. That's some kind of narcissism or humiliation fetish or something.

There is something about monogamy I want to say, but it's again difficult to describe right now because I don't want to sound conservative or traditional when I am most certainly not. I don't judge swingers or people in polygamous (consensual) relationships even those sound like chaos that never ends well imo. But there is something beautiful about mutual possession in a relationship. Having exclusive rights to your partner and their body, and them to yours. Possessiveness gets either romanticised or demonised. People say it's either a red flag or they go feral over it, especially women. I never cared for it. But now I think it's beautiful. It feels safe, like coming home. Home is where your guard comes down, when clothes become loose, words are unnecessary, energy is relaxed. That's the ideal, isn't it? This is the perfect energy in which to let loose. Strangers could never give this, no matter what they give or what they promise. To seek approval and attention from them, therefore, is to attempt to empty a cup of water into an ocean. It is self-abandonment too, because desire and confidence should always come from within first. And now I worry, parasocially, what will happen to that big-boobed Japanese lady when she gets old? Not only that, but I know for a fact that having breasts of her size is a burden no woman should ever go through. Especially the smaller than average Japanese frame - I guarantee she has back pain, can never find a comfortable sleeping position, struggles (or has struggled) to find the right bra and fitting clothes. Not to mention the harassment from men and hate from women. If those breasts are actually real and not augmented, she was absolutely bullied in school by other girls. I don't know her story, but these are the kinds of things thirsty dead-eyed men ogling at her and giving her attention wouldn't even consider. I want to know what drives a woman to do this to herself? If that's something that should be condemned or mocked, I want to be the one to do it. But I want to be sure my pity is deserved, or whether women like this deserve to be bullied a little for the shame they bring to themselves as human beings, let alone as women.

That's part of why this research project is so important to me. To see more than meets the eye. Not to reject femininity, but reject the things that blind us (or me) to the truth of what people go through. Because while our experiences in the world and society and in our bodies can shape us, I firmly believe we are more than the sum of our parts. There is a soul. There is art and intellect. There is something that separates us from animals, even though we are animals, we do not quite belong. It is within that alienation from the natural world that's at the core of my fascination with understanding what it means to be human. Eroticism and sensuality is that which transcends the mere animal - that's what should be selling, what should be revered, celebrated for and by everyone. Eroticism is literally designed to be not only artistic but enticing - inspiring curiosity and exploration, savouring. Not a "fuck and cum" urgency that a big titty or big dick nice abs or whatever hot triggers a person you don't even know personally may try to press against you. There is a time and place, I really do believe that matters. That's why porn doesn't bother me at all. Bots aside, if it stays in its lane I see nothing immoral with it. What I hate is when it seeps into places it doesn't belong, where it cheapens everything. When it thrusts itself upon me without me looking for it. I feel like the 60s and 70s crossed boundaries that we couldn't really backtrack on without sounding like prudes or align with the political right. Maybe it's time we tried. Maybe women should be mocked, if they deserve it, without being able to use their perceived victim status as a shield from criticism and accountability... Enough.

I may not have explained myself clearly. That's what I'm working on. But a thing just clicked and I had to write it down. It's so weird and exciting to explore ideas that I haven't heard expressed before. I only feel them, I see glimpses of them. I know there is something special about Sylvia Plath, the first female creator/intellectual I ever connected to. What would she think about OnlyFans, I wonder? She died in 1963, before the sexual revolution really took off but it was on its way. What would she have to say about third wave feminism? What would she say about Instagram models and filters and fillers and boob jobs? "More power to her" or "what happened to decency"?
Brigitte Bardot died recently. She was coined as the "quintessential sex kitten" and she was quite confident and aware of her sexual appeal, but she was no dumb blonde. She was an activist, who fought against racism and advocated for animal rights all her life. What I see when I look at her is sensuality, the objective perfection of female beauty, but that's because she was authentic. She has a special spark that goes beyond physical beauty. She was outspoken, brave, intelligent, kind, talented. She was more than the sum of her feminine parts and I guess this is where I can sign off. I feel like that spark isn't as celebrated as it used to be. Women used to be beautiful even if they looked "weird", especially in the 70s and 80s. It's interesting to look at how the ideal female beauty changed over the decades when you look at supermodels that graced magazine covers - where are the Grace Jones' of today? She was stunning, an ethereal, almost alien beauty. I think she was breathtaking - but she had an incredibly sharp mind, she was eloquent, elegant, piercing, even intense. I must mention a Japanese model of the 70s/80s era as well - Sayoko Yamaguchi. Her beauty was likewise not typical for the Japanese ideal, at least not the one that has dominated East Asia since sometime in the 90s. Actress Meiko Kaji is my personal muse/ideal, her whole vibe is something I resonate with heavily. They weren't "masculine" they simply represented a femininity that edged beyond easy categorisation - because they weren't soft, not "girly" or maternal or really any of the classical archetypes women can be put into. They revealed a groundedness, a strength, a courage that is more common and unifying between humans, I think; they're merely presented in a different form, the yin to yang. They were women who belonged deeply to themselves first, above anything or anyone else. That's what I see in those images and what I feel is non-existent today - or if it is, those women don't share themselves, they're out there living their best lives and staying away from social media or entertainment industry. Maybe that's what it is. Every piece of your real life displayed online seems performative, exhibitionistic, if you're under the age of 30 at least.

(Sayoko Yamaguchi)

(Sayoko in an Yves Saint Laurent photoshoot in 1977... because ofc it's YSL)

For all its "intersectionality" feminism has become a mess that does more harm than good. Feminists are afraid to be controversial so instead they come off as unhinged. They over-identify with femininity and the fucking MAGA freaks are doing the same, mocking transgender people, lecturing what a "real woman" should be. Young men thinking that saying "your body my choice" isn't horrifying as fuck, and there are women who are like "yes daddy" it's a fucking crisis waiting to happen, I swear. Women's rights are being eroded in the subconsciousness of Western culture - maybe not in my generation, but the ones after me will have to struggle to be seen as people, I already see it happening at least in America (we in Ireland know what a disease their trends can be, unfortunately). Maybe I'm wrong. I hope I am. But reducing a woman to the sum of her parts is something I feel I was born to resist. It's in the pattern of my life, in my psyche, and the reason I need to get this essay done and done well. At the end of the day it's about being human and being free to be yourself more than anything, whether that means being a hopeless romantic and horny as fuck or not.

Current Mood: determined

Can a living person become a ghost?

He was in several places at once; an airport lobby, a forest, a city street, looking over a bridge, an abandoned theatre. In all places, at all times, he felt the same - he was gazing into the distance, nodding off, daydreaming, thinking, detaching. The world passed him by, or did he pass by the world? It was moving so fast. Yesterday he was twelve, today he was eighteen, tomorrow he will be twenty six. It was all the same.

He was a just boy when his father jumped off the bridge. He would go there every day after school, listening to the breeze, waiting for something he couldn't name.

Now at eighteen he sat by himself at a closed-down theatre where his mother used to work. He remembered her as a strong, authoritative but fair woman. She was smart. Even though she tried to treat him and his younger sister equally, he noticed she was softer to him.

On his twenty-sixth birthday he will be seated in the airport departure lobby at 10:24am. The sunlight will disperse his thoughts and he will force himself to stare at it until tears will start welling up unbidden, sleepless eyes twitching, straining against the light whose heat will elude him.

It's not that he was lonely. He had friends. He even had a girlfriend. He just didn't feel like he was part of anything. Social contacts, jobs, entertainment; they were tethers. Methods of survival, an Oscar-worthy performance of presence and attachment. He held onto them only because he knew letting go was dangerous. His mother warned him about it. But she held on so tight it drove her to a breaking point.

Then he was thirty-three, in a far away country, walking through a busy city street. He hasn't spoken to his sister in almost six years. He was wearing a hat and Ray-Ban sunglasses when he saw a huge billboard advertising Égoïste by Chanel, taking up the side of a tall building.

He saw that smug image of himself staring back over the shoulder of an impossibly attractive woman who was shown leaning into his neck. He remembered her as a vulgar bitch with a grating voice, but here she was someone graceful and alluring. Nothing like herself.

Neither was he.

He was pathetically self-conscious, introverted, opinionated, moody, passive. He dedicated his life to a career in the entertainment industry - to be seen, admired, dressed and styled. The public saw his smoldering confidence, his boyish mischief, and a hint of mystique. He used stimulants and caffeine and attended social events as often as he could these days, because the moment he was left alone, his psyche would start breaking down. He often got himself into controversies and pranks in order to be seen as having something brave and true to say, even though he truly couldn't care less. He was emotionally intense and unpredictable, so he played the role of a cool guy who couldn't be fazed while the wit and wisdom effortlessly rolled off his tongue in every interview. Women wanted him and men wanted to be him, meanwhile he had done everything to run from himself, from the ghosts of the past that haunted him. Every day he thought about calling his sister, but he never did it. She didn't know his number or where he lived anymore, but at least she got to see him on television or hear him on the radio or maybe see that stupid Chanel ad.

At forty-two he will drive into a forest in the deep winter. He will get out and wander.

He didn't bring gloves because these days he had a habit of denying himself comfort and pleasure. Pain was superior - it was the only thing that truly forced him into presence, forced him into his own skin.

He found a freshwater stream and cupped his palms under the icy current. He drank from his palms and wanted to yell from the pain. His breath rose as steam as he sighed.

There was no logical reason for him to be here; he just wanted to be lost, in total silence, far away from everyone and everything. He spotted a white mink running across the snowy plane along the treeline. He had heard they were an invasive species here. Gentleness belies killers' true nature.

He stood in the middle of an open field and looked up at the sky - when did it become clear? Why was it always sunny whenever he thought about escape? Was it mockery or hope?

Could a person trick everyone they were alive and get away with it? Nobody suspected he was a ghost, but he never let anyone close enough to see through him. Not until he fell in love, truly in love this time. This was a love that threatened him and also relieved him of himself. She did not know the affect she had on him.

Vapour swirled around his head with every exhale - each one was deep and slow. He was adept at calming breaths; it was another survival tactic.

He felt his love was real but he knew that everything that was real needed to be painful or he couldn't grasp it. She needed to know.

At an unknown time and in an undisclosed location, he found heaven and he forgave.

I never considered myself a hoarder nor sentimental. I have moved more times than I can count, so I've gotten used to getting rid of stuff from an early age, whether or not I wanted to. I believed it was always my destiny to arrive while being in a state of departure in every facet of my life. The older I became, the more detrimental this belief became.

But what I never considered was that collecting digital information, files, history and bookmarks is actually a type of hoarding. I store my documents and files in at least three different emails, Dropbox, and an external drive. Every year I create a new folder on my computer, simply titled as the year, and in it I store everything I accumulate during the year, mostly images, screenshots, videos and text documents. I've been doing this since 2019 but that was just the organisational part; I've been storing digital data long since before then.

I was looking for something specific (it might be on another computer) a file where I wrote down what kind of things I wanted to photograph. The new phone I purchased doesn't take great photos compared to the cheaper old one I had which I purchased specifically for its photographic functions. Long story short, I'm planning to get back into photography. I have an old digital camera that doesn't turn on for some reason but if I can get it working I could resume my hobby without an unnecessary expense.

I haven't found the file (I don't even know if it's labelled tbh) but what I found might be more valuable. Notes from a Brazilian friend of mine I knew between 2015-2018. She was sometimes remarkably wise beyond her years, she would surprise me with advice and reassurances that seemed to come from another life, since she was otherwise quite emotional, frivolous, lost in fantasy worlds and being the biggest hopeless romantic I've ever met in my life. They say we are merely an accumulation of all the people we have ever known. I used to be nothing like her when I knew her, but now we would surely have much more in common I think. Though it still takes a lot for me to cry in front of people or even in private...

These were the contents of the simple text file, titled “to remember 2.txt”:

1. When you work hard at something you become good at it.

2. When you become good at doing something, you will enjoy it more.

3. When you enjoy doing something, there is a very good chance you will become passionate or more passionate about it.

4. When you are good at something, are passionate and work even harder to excel and be the best at it, good things happen.

naryamirie

"(...)all of these have a common problem: to reach their own illumination, they don't want to pay the price demanded by it - the price of pain.

It doesn't matter if you're a Hare Krishna, a monk or anything, the spiritual journey, in any age, has always demanded and will always demand a deep and necessary state of pain - in this case, the pain of retirement, the pai of loneliness, of the isolation within oneself."

naryamirie

"Of course I'm not talking about a 'spiritual weekend getaway', with a spirituality workshop included. I'm talking about the necessity to pass through the lonely crucible that's the process of discovery of oneself and that by itself generates pain, because it means to walk a totally unknown path, negating every and any morals, abandoning any principle coming from others, and obeying only the voice of one's own soul."

be perceptive, strive for the ugly truth, don t settle for the seemly, learn to trust in the something greater, learn to trust yourself, face your fears, journey through the loss of ego, don t tolerate less than you deserve, come to know how to transmute, the ultimate rebirth, break barriers that keep you from intimacy, understand that intimacy is not only between bodies, explore your body and trace every silver-lining, know that you are here for a reason, accept what is beyond you, recognize fault and injustice, admit your wrongs and learn your truth”

This is serendipitously relevant because it's something I've been thinking about and talking about for the past few days.

I cannot remember the exact context of our conversation, but seeing it next to steps to “making stuff” it clicks. It clicks because creating, for me, is not just about performance. It's not just about seeming impressive, intelligent, talented or like I've got something to express that hasn't been said before.

Creation is essentially spiritual and deeply existential, unconscious. To share it with others is opening your heart, your mind, to scrutiny.

There is a tactic that abused people have. You have abandonment issues so you leave before someone else leaves you first. You expect mockery so you mock yourself first, hide it with jokes. You are proud and confident but you know the fragility of your own ego, you've seen too many times how people fall victim to their own delusions of their abilities, so you act humble when praised or acting bashful when you've just shared something you know is good – but just in case it isn't, your mind says, I've already criticised you thoroughly before anyone else could do worse.

It's a sort of meat-grinder, taking a pure idea or vision, expressing it – and during the expression and sharing phase – attaching your own ego to it.

It's funny because you know better than to judge the artist by his art, whatever the case may be, but when it comes to you – to your creative impulse – suddenly you're reading what you wrote or regarding what you've sketched or photographed or filmed or whatever – and you're thinking “is this good enough? What does this say about what kind of person I am? Will anyone find this valuable?” And the questions never end.

I guess this is the closest to parenthood I can get to.

Something you created seems to be made of your own mental and emotional essence, but once it's out, once you share it, how much of it is truly yours now – copyright claims aside – now that it has entered the consciousness of other people, does it not have a life of its own now?

But even with children, people often judge parents more than the child, whether for good or bad things, even if the child has a certain level of autonomy. Even in adulthood parents can take credit or blame, even if their influence is not as ironclad as they may believe.

Taking on so much responsibility for a piece of work is a desire to control the outcome. But take a look at the greatest works, especially in modern times. Music hits, cult classics, classic literature and even poetry or plays or viral videos. How many of them were carefully constructed, poised to become great? Only the ones that had millions of dollars and promotional content pumped into them. The things that become great, once they leave the comfort of your consciousness, are not dependent on whether they're polished. There is no formula for greatness. And this void produces a peculiar kind of ache in the soul whose greatest source of despair is to be nothing. To be acutely aware of a nebulous sense of purpose, but spending a lifetime looking for it and then fading away in a miserable life of half-finished projects and halfway relationships. To break through the sea of noise is an exceptional feat. How do people do it? If there is no formula, who picks the next big thing? It seems greatness is a matter of fate. Accepting it sounds like the sensible thing to do but the fear of having something important to express, working hard at it, and never getting results is literally my worst nightmare. It sounds dramatic but it seems like my entire purpose in life is founded on this principle. My whole life I had a sense that I was meant to do something important. I knew normal life wasn't for me. Even as a child I had this weird sense of destiny. I would look at people, families, careers, hobbies, everything other people had that made life comfortable, stable, interesting, linear. I thought “I'd love that, but I'm supposed to sacrifice that in order to do what I was born to do.” It's funny remembering this now. Part of me was unconscious, but part of me knew exactly why I did what I did. Why I made the choices I did. Why I refused to follow the linear path, why I insist on existing outside the system one way or another. And maybe it's all leading to this moment right now.

I'm trying something new with my creative projects. I'm tired of these games, of nothing ever working out, yet I never give up trying. My mind is a puzzle I'm determined to figure out. I know a part of my problem is my psychological affliction which I have yet to address but this year is the year. I don't have the luxury of substance abuse to smooth out the edges of my work, though different options are on the table should things not improve.

I guess for now all I can do when creating something is do it in whatever way that distracts me from my obsession with perfection and worth. But even thinking about it frustrates me because I think, if it's not good enough and it's not worth much, why would I share it with anyone?

I swear, social media has co-opted and perverted the very concept of sharing. Everything is sharing and it seems what is more valuable is what is private and difficult to access. But as a creative person, as someone who wants to be in the public eye – to fucking contribute something – I can't be shy about it. To believe that the right people will notice what's real and what's performative, to have faith in your magnetism, because stranger things do happen. Like the time I became friends with Kristen Pfaff's nephew (she was Kurt Cobain's friend, died a few months after him, and was the bassist of Courtney Love's band Hole – I am a fan of Kristen), or was liked and followed on Instagram by the art director of a famous Japanese musician.

This reminds me of a stupid fucking problem I've been struggling for the past 10 years, but have since gotten over. I had countless social media accounts all across the web but I always deleted my accounts if they got too many followers or too much attention. I made some viral posts on Tumblr, which I will not divulge. I've gotten my tweets liked by several famous people over the years before I deleted my account. One stupid video I made on YouTube last year got 20,000 views, the most I ever got, and it's just video game footage. These things are both reassuring but there is a sort of panic that takes over me when I get what I asked for. It's the kind of person I am. I am much more comfortable dreaming and yearning and hoping. I can't handle being blessed and maybe that's my issue.

I dream of greatness yet greatness also terrifies me.

You see, there is no going back.

Greatness is transformative. And in today's age, people will be digging up your past, if you get great enough.

When I was a teenager I imagined myself getting famous and disguising myself like Daft Punk. I was intrigued by Gorillaz, Burial and Banksy. Especially Banksy, especially now that I actually went to see his genuine exhibition in Amsterdam in 2025. There were signs he had been there, he had written on the walls, made little marks among the various memorabilia. I wasn't allowed to take pictures, interestingly enough, and bags were claimed by security. Recently he made a new piece in UK, he's unpredictable and it's always special when someone recognises signs of his activity scattered throughout the world. Anonymity despite fame is a fascinating combo and a part of me believes that this may be the only real way to divorce yourself from public backlash or public worship, in case either happens. I'm on the fence about whether or not to reveal myself online in the future, whether to use my real name in a published work or some sort of pen name. I go back and forth with selfies on Instagram and X, upload them then delete them at some point. It's like I want to be seen but sometimes I wonder if that's a good idea. I envy my friends who can be all normal about it or even romanticise themselves with dreamy filters and cinematic edits. There are advantages to being unseen as well as seen. But in an age where exposure for attention is such a major trend... Maybe being a public secret would stand out more. Or maybe it will sink further into the background.

I know I'm rambling a lot, but sometimes I need to clarify some things through writing. Sometimes I don't really know what I'm thinking until I write it down.

Persist because the pain persists. Maybe, eventually, it will start to feel like pleasure. And maybe that's all that matters.

I have so many other files scattered throughout different drives and devices. It could become a new theme now, where I still talk about the past but now it's about the things I've forgotten I had or knew about? There has to be some value in all that mess. I kept it for a reason.

EDIT: Something I somehow completely forgot to mention is deepfake AI, and how especially disturbing it is. A close friend of mine already warned me about it a few years before the recent issue with Grok came to public attention - how girls and women can be undressed with a simple AI prompt. I have been relatively guarded with sharing my face online and I hate taking pictures with my family because so often they go on to publish them on Facebook, which is foolish to me. I used to think it was just me being self-conscious, and that's certainly a part of it, but the other aspect is how easy it is to catfish people, fake identities, and the pornographic deepfakes I mentioned. If you are anonymous or use an alter-ego that can't be traced back to your real identity, people might pay more attention to the work you put out, and judge you on that. Not who you are, where you're from, what you look like, what your history is. Additionally - how can you cancel someone you can't even name? I wonder how Banksy did it. How Burial did it. I'm sure there's obscure corners of the internet that have figured out who they are. Burial has a bunch of photos that were leaked of him, and people know he's from the UK, but that's about as much as I ever found out about him. But what I don't know is whether there are any women who have created something and remained relatively anonymous. A woman is more easily marketable if she is pretty and sensual, aesthetic. Maybe a little weird. Or if she has some unhinged "feminist" or socialist takes. There isn't a path for me to walk but that's okay. I can make my own. And maybe there is nothing to envy my female friends for. Social media was never a place for me to show off my appearance or my life. I want to bring something more real and meaningful. The lost art of old web anonymity brought to reality, maybe...

Current Mood: artistic
Current Music: trip-hop kinda stuff

For a moment, her eyes reflected the sky from which she had fallen. A soft, fluffy cloud passed from one eye to the other. Tears welled up as the ocean waves lapped at her broken body. She blinked, hard, and when she opened her eyes the brilliant sunset hues of the heavens faded into monochrome.
“As is thy will, Father.” The fallen angel whispered, smiling with gratitude. Even now, she received punishment like it was love. He will forgive her someday, if she was very good and pure, she believed it with her whole being. This was a lesson, not exile. Right?
A cold, salty wave crashed over her, shocking her into movement. She coughed, spat out the water, and crawled further towards the rocky shore, her tattered off-white robes dragged behind her like seaweed.
The fallen angel did not know what to do next. She was no one, all alone, on this rocky beach somewhere on God’s Earth. The wind was cold, the seagulls were loud, and the rocks were sharp on her bare feet as she tiptoed over them. Her wings were gone, her powers were stripped, yet her faith did not waver. Something must happen, someone must give me a sign, a nudge, she thought.
Then she was haunted by flashbacks, the things she had done prior to her fall. Carnal things, sinful things, selfish things, uninhibited and violent things.
She fell to her knees and threw up pink slime. It smelled sweet and floral. Brilliant sparkles could be seen in the fading light of the sunset, in her angelic vomit. There it was - and she was forced to look at it - the personification of her sins. Her dark hair was stuck in wet clumps, moved like stiff snakes in the breeze. She picked up a handful of sand and with it covered the slime, then dumped a bunch of rocks for good measure. Confronting the sight of her body ejecting sweet sin reminded her that she wasn’t entirely grateful for her punishment - she was bitter, as all fallen angels are. Do I even want to go home? What if I never belonged in Heaven? She pondered as she continued walking.
The last rays of the sun hovered over the ocean like a final goodbye, and she realised nothing was going to happen - unless she willed it. There would be no signs - she would have to find her own way. Readiness is not something you wait for - it’s something you decide.
She decided to stop walking along the shore.
There was no boardwalk, but there was a set of zigzagging stone steps leading out of the beach and up over to dry land. She listened to the wind - beyond the crashing of the waves, somewhere, there were whispering trees. She longed to touch one, to watch the leaves dance and soothe her heart. She would go there.
Each step she took was slow. Deliberate. She was familiar enough with her humanoid form but now it was her permanent vessel, and she needed to get used to that, understand it as an entity she would need to care for. Understand, too, that she was a woman with a womb, with hips and breasts that could be both a weakness and a power in ways angels do not fully comprehend.
This female form was the vessel she wore to commit sins.
This body is the vessel of shame.

The fallen angel - the woman - found a path to follow onwards from the top of the steps. There were walls on either side, a few cars, and of course - trees. Streetlights turned on, flooding the street with cool light, reminiscent of moonlight. Would anybody see her? Is that what she wanted? She was aimless again and stood in one spot, hugging herself from the cold.
“First time, huh?” A man’s voice addressed her. A match struck. She saw a little warm flame being cupped by two hands over a cigarette hanging from between his lips. The woman tilted her head uncertainly as she scanned him - he was at least six inches taller than her, with skin darker than the night. His hair was longer than hers. His bright white eyes looked back at her from the shadows as he moved toward her, holding out the burning match in his hand.
Without even thinking, she moved towards it, towards him. She was entranced by the flame - its light, its warmth. It reminded her of something she struggled to remember now. The flame progressed closer to the man’s fingers, burning them. He dropped the match and let the flame die on the ground beneath them.
Different scents mingled as they entered her nostrils - smoke, wood, tobacco, leather, and something human, something artificial but pleasant. A warm, spiced fragrance.
“You… Saw me fall?” She asked in a low, uncertain murmur. She did not yet know how quiet or loud she should be.
The man nodded. “You know, I could make a joke about this, but I doubt you’ll laugh.”
To his pleasant surprise there was a mischievous smile that flickered across her lips. She knew what he meant, she heard the joke before. It was always funny to her.
He was no mere mortal, she saw recognition in his eyes. She did not expect to see anyone so soon, let alone a fallen one like herself.
“What do I do, my brother?” She asked him.
“There’s some people staring at us. Hug me and then let me guide you to my car, or they’ll get very suspicious.”
She did as he told her and put her arms around him, feeling his body heat warm her through his clothes. It felt good to hold another body again.
The man did as he said he would, pulling her to his side as they walked away.
“You’ll feel better once you meet the others.” He assured her. “Don’t worry.”

Neon lights from storefronts and takeaways zoomed across the car’s windows and mirrors as the fallen angel relaxed in the backseat. She had opened the window, the breeze felt good, liberating. No longer salty and sad; it was alive, human, vital. In that moment she felt herself joining a new energy stream, one of new possibilities. She would no longer be merely dipping her toes into mortality. She would be just like everybody else - one of God’s beloved sinners.

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Gabrielle S.C

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