I did some creative writing for fun as well if that counts?
A cold yet hot white moon rests in contradiction upon an empty sky. Amongst the ceaseless crashing of brainwaves, the tides begin to still, like the quality of the moon itself. imparting a brief moment of reverie, enchanting all who would gaze upon it, if not only for a fleeting collection of moments. Thoughts of the orphic, a vague yet familiar feeling of knowing, an untennable but welcome shift to a state of introspection. Thoughts that excite the neurons and invigorate the malnourished soul. It’s almost as if it threatens to break the bounds of the temporal and trivial.
In it’s own gravitational pull, a hedonistic intertia, insidiouslly comforting and enthralling. It saps the will in trade for the promise of a fleeting respite of pleasures. The neurons light up yet the home is unoccupied, the more is given the more is taken. The harder path is tempting yet it’s difficult to shake the blanket and adjust to the cold. Outside, streets like veins, bloodcells pumping through it’s vascular system, a soft psutherism blowing through the trees juxtaposed by the stillness of concrete. The living and the unliving coalescing into one amorphic entity, the unliving walls speak only the reverberations of the living, and in this strange emanation of duality there is a sense of connection between your place within this breathing, writhing organisim.
Looking towards the coast, the marmoris shine balters upon the ocean surface, fleeting crystals of light phase in and out of existence. The sounds cascade upon you like the torrent of a river, you feel an existential discomfort creep through your aura seemingly seeping into the space around you, internalising you into a strange isolating detachment. How can this chasm be so deep yet unnoticed by the world around it? you wonder as you attempt to shake yourself from your reverie. Approximately two seconds have passed as senses return, the penumbra of your focus expanding until it envelops your albeit subjective reality and the lens comes into a crisp clarity. A deep breath, ecclesiastic elysium, life itself levied by the dysphoria of the waking world, consciousness elusive in it’s definition, ever changing like the cosmos seemingly in it’s own REM state slumbering through a long forgotten lucid dream.
· Reply · Translate · Jun 4, 2022 
· Reply · Translate · Jun 4, 2022 
· Reply · Translate · Jun 4, 2022 
