Sound of my world now.


The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
            Only this and nothing more.”
    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
    Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
    From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
            Nameless here for evermore.
    And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
    “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
            This it is and nothing more.”
    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
            Darkness there and nothing more.
    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
            Merely this and nothing more.
    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
    “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
      Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
            ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”
    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
            Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
            With such name as “Nevermore.”
    But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
    Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
            Then the bird said “Nevermore.”
    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
            Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”
    But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
            Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
    On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
    “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
    Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
    On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
    “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
    And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
    And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
            Shall be lifted—nevermore!
By Edgar Allan Poe

Poison… Always

You put everything you have in it, you throw it all for the alluring, hypnotic eyes of all the things you dream of and yearn for, embodied right in front of your eyes in one big bow tied gift wrap, you throw it all and you don’t just wish for the best, you keep grinding and digging every single day.
Until at some point you figure it out, it doesn’t matter what you want, or who you are or how hard you try there’s always a manipulative force throwing obstacles in your way as if you’re a lab rat thrown without much of a choice in a maze.

You fall, you stand again, you dust it off and you keep on trying and you drown in the love of it but then you get to the point where whatever is holding you back is this massive hand, you try to cut it off and move on, but it’s too strong and it’s so cruel and it just keeps on squishing you driving you either to the very edge of your sanity or at best to your demise, because you fucking refuse to do all that you were supposed to do and more and still it slips further and further and it tears you apart.

You refuse to give in but you’re numb and you discover how small and clueless you are in a big world that only understands paperwork and money, your words are irrelevant this is a place where we all should be talking in binary code.

This is a place of doubt and crushed dreams and absolutely no second chances.
I’m too numb to be angry and to ashamed to act, and I know that my beliefs should be beyond hindrances and self doubt, and I know that victories are never absolute I know a victory is mostly a shade of grey, I know that it doesn’t have to be exactly the way you imagined it and I know that there isn’t only one right answer, but for the moment I just can’t help but feel defeated.

I need to step back, I need to wake up and snap out of apathy, I need this fire in me once more and I need to find a different answer than the one I had my heart set on, and in case it doesn’t all actually come crumbling down on my head, I’ll just keep pushing for whether I make it or not I don’t want to regret wasting a single moment, I already have wasted enough time.

Wolves die alone.

Charlotte told me once that if I was an animal I’d have been a wolf, so did Heather, Eve, Marwa.

I used to joke about it, tell them that they probably think so because of my hairy nature. It’s not a joke anymore and if it was it’s not funny.

I’m losing track of all the failed attempts to be in a relationship, it all blends late at night when I lay on my bed, eyes wide open, and all I recall is a mixture of perfumes, skin scents, soft voices some are high pitched and some are low, some are sweet and some are sour, even the ones I got to taste at some point, it all blends into a stomach turning blend.

I love wolves for their independence and intellect, their bravery and loyalty for the few they select as friends, and their determination to bring down their enemies even if it was the last thing they’d do.

I used to remember the times I’ve been compared to a wolf with a proud flattered grin, I only forgot one thing I read about wolves a long time ago, a wolf’s senses are strong, a wolf never forgets, a wolf lives amongst the pack, but a wolf dies alone…


I wish if I could babble away just like I used to, but I think I understand now.

The more you taste real life the harder it becomes to wipe off the stupid fake grin off of your face.
All I could say now is that I’m numb, I lost the ability to dream and I lost my smile, I wish if it was my body that was all beat up, I wish if my soul remained restless, now I just don’t feel like I have one.

And yeah, growing up is by far the worst experience I’ve ever gone through, guess it’s time to shut up now, there’s nothing left to say.

Yes there is, there absolutely is, fuck that, when the hell did I lose that and why? Innocence is key when it comes to comfort of the soul even if this comfort is restlessness, I don’t think I lost it, I just think that I haven’t been feeling enough maybe, my emotions are not dead they’re just numb maybe?

I used to be angry with God, with the world, un-accepting of what is set up to be the rules, maybe it’s because I started to feel emotionally safe? Maybe because the search for comfort was over? It made me think that I’m not on the road anymore while the fact of the matter is I am still living on borrowed time and all the things around me are things I don’t own.

I love her, but I’m used to be estranged and alone, even now as the words race through my head I can feel a bit of a rush that flashes and fades just like a warning sign, a sign that could signify that I should leave things the way they are and redirect my heart to other pursuits, or it could mean that it’s time to tear it all down and throw it away once more.

What can I do when all I know is searching for new things? What can I do when familiarity is the death of and the end of my world.

When I was a little child I used to think that where the sky met the sea is the edge of the world and the end of all things as we know it and the beginning of the unknown, and I used to stare out of the car’s window, always wishing if I was “there” regardless of where I was, I always wanted to leave and go “there”.

I lost this eagerness to go “there” it’s all here and now, rent, expenses, the job, love, marriage, look for clients abe you’re broke.
No more questions, no more meditation, no more… Thought, no light bulbs floating over my head anymore, I even miss the pain and the fear believe it or not, no all it is, is just this numb anger, this half ass ability, no more joy in details, this is basically what art is, you won’t love every single thing you work on, but you must learn to love the process because the joy comes from creating the details, not the whole thing, it’s the building process brick by brick and you put yourself into the details.

I’m afraid to say that I feel better, and I don’t know what should I do next, I guess I’ll take some distance for now, maybe when I step back a little bit, maybe then I’ll be able to see “There” and wonder what’s on the other side once more, maybe then I’ll regain this eagerness to go There, “There” where my heart and mind will always belong, no more here and now, no more here and now, never again.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Robert Frost

Clutter, cold wind, and other things.

It’s been a while where I couldn’t sit still outside, smoke in silence and enjoy the cold wind without shivering or feeling this heavy load on my back, it’s been a while and I’m starting to lose track of all the definitive things in my world.

I’m being drowned in the 9 to 5 mood again, unfortunately that’s how the world works, but it’s not how my world works, I don’t want to sit on a desk and push nodes all day long, there;s nothing wrong with that at all, I just want something different, I want to create things.

I need isolation once more, comfort is only to be found in solitude and solitude alone.

Funny how even with the ones you care for the most you find yourself wearing a mask, unintentionally maybe, because you know that you have nothing to offer but silence and brooding so you come up with one lame joke after the other, you pretend you care about people you don’t care much for in order not to lose good connections, or because they’re “nice” and it would be rude if you walk away just so your train of thought wouldn’t crash and burn, and at a certain point it would be too late to be who you really were since the start.

It’s either burn bridges and go with your gut feeling or play nice cause you never know what tomorrow might bring, and I could never balance things out in that regard.

If you know me and you read this let me apologise in advance but I’m turning into someone I don’t know any longer and I can’t live in a stranger’s skin, I got used to estrangement and I believe it’s about time to go back to square one.

I want to be able to dream and envision things again without being interrupted every 5 minutes with a story that I (and I’m sorry) don’t care much for.