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

Travelogue #4

The nightmare state, where nothing makes sense and all things move way too fast and you’re too slow to react, to observe or to even think.

It’s the phase where life is several steps ahead and the punches just made you numb, the fear is buried deep inside but you still feel it before you fall asleep and right after you wake up, nothing distracts it but staying busy all day long.

I don’t even know if I’m asleep or awake right now, one hour ago all I knew was fear and numbness, the most dominant idea was that my bank account is almost empty, that I might not deliver the next assignment on time, that I might not find a roof over my head tomorrow, just one hour ago, and as I was searching for nibs for my pen I found my old sketchbooks since I came here, I did lose sight, I lost the sense of purpose, passion, all I could think about is food, assignments and rent which are basic things to keep in mind of course, but fuck this, when did I become so broken and beat up so badly? When did I start to bow down and just roll with the punches? I’m not even being hit that hard and I’m already scared one step away from retreating.

The thought made me angry, happy and passionate once more, the old sketchbooks woke me up, as I was looking through it, it was a prayer of a sort, I need to make this happen, I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul and whether this ship sinks or floats it’s my duty to stay on board and just fucking sail, I am afraid yeah and I’m not ashamed of it, what’s really shameful is to let go of the things that define us.


The art of letting go.

When you’re addicted it becomes impossible to imagine life without the high of the drug, in the midst if the storm of need you turn into a vicious animal you say and do things you never thought you would ever do, you would even throw the blame around and away just for one more excuse, just for one more chance to stay hooked.
But there’s an end for everything and funny enough no matter how you fight and run away you never will truly let go unless you’re really ready and willing to let go, simply because it’s not always the drug but sometimes we get addicted to being addicted, sometimes we latch on to the very methods which leads to self destruction just because we prefer to run away to a darker place where we think we might be able to find ourselves and feel good in a way or another…
But it just never works.
When I was a little boy all the other kids and most of the teachers treated me as a freak, I don’t know why,I don’t think I’m a freak and even if I really am that wouldn’t bother me,I always say that being a freak is being unique,but I’m not different just mostly quite, so as a child I’ve chosen to isolate myself from those who don’t understand, and this state of solitude, isolation and estrangement grew with me, grew to an unbearable extent, alone in my world, alone in my work and been alone in love too.
The one I loved the most was never meant to be mine and I came to a point where I made my peace with this ut was expensive though, all the things that should have never been said were said most of it were words from an angry, self involved child who couldn’t let go if what wasn’t meant for him in the first place, so yes it was expensive but you can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs, it had to happen and the lonely child had to grow sooner or later.

When it comes to letting go, I had a good teacher, and instead of thanking her for a valuable lesson I reflected my guilt on her but the more I tried to clean my mirror the more smudged it became, so yeah she knew all along, and I knew that she wasn’t mine and yet I didn’t walk away.
And so to learn how to let go, you 1st must hold on too tight to a point where your hands bleed and your bones shatter as life pulls back in this endless tug of war, until you see the truth and what you once believed in the most shatters withe the remains of your bones and leaks away with the last drops of your blood.

After all there’s only one route to true freedom it’s full of pain, but it’s worth taking to the very end.

Answer is not in loneliness, not in being in love at someone and it’s not in setting a set of beliefs which contradict all that you know and feel, the only and absolute answer is in this magical moment after you finally feel liberated, after you see things for the way they really are, after you learn how to let go and after you make peace with your mistakes.
Only then you become an artist, an expert in a beautiful escape art, the art of letting go.

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