So where does the time go? I humbly ask the Universe With a slightly trembling voice. I wonder patiently - is there a choice? No doubt, our memories are lies Designed by our cunning minds. Whatever happened once in the past Lies crumbled, buried in the dust. Illusions: future dreams and plans, They won't exist, they'll turn into a haze, Like clouds they will merge and phase, Unstable to their core, fuzzed and erased. What are they but the road signs? The history is also a surmise Composed by those who won and thrived. Each second, every day we die only to rise Again. And our paths are densely paved With memories of what's long dead. We change with every move or breath Thus shedding our skins, we burn to ashes Step closer to the truth or passing flashes Of our hopes. Whereas the time… Time flows! Time passes like a river shaping stones. Its very pace chips off and hones Illusionary sand from our hearts. Each change is a Universal form of art.
DISCLAIMER: the events and the characters mentioned in this story are the product of the author’s imagination.
‘It’s hot as in Rogterr’s fire palace,’ Agenit muttered wearily, lazily untying his scarlet ceremonial robe, embroidered with golden patterns and the speckles of the sun stone, and carelessly throwing it on the floor. Such a simple gesture, but it expressed all that he thought or felt about the priesthood. Dressed in simple pants and a linen shirt now, no one would ever discern him from some potter or carpenter from the town. The man wiped his forehead with a relieved sigh. He was himself at last.
The room’s air was motionless and stuffy, and the heat intensified with each second. Slanting sun rays fell through the narrow window, as if burning through the floor and the opposite wall in brilliant torrents of smoldering light.
Agenit was a gifted and skilled fire priest, so heat was but a temporary nuisance for him, as he knew how to adjust his body to high temperatures. He could absorb the blazing heat and replenish his depleted magical reserves, which he hastened to do.
The priest sat down in a pool of light, with his eyes closed, and took several deep breaths. He could shift his state of consciousness almost instantaneously, and in a few minutes, his mind became entirely entranced.
Agenit’s inner fire was burning strong. What was the outer elemental flame flame, but a reflection of his inner one? What was his inner blaze if not part of the universal one? The scorching heat grew more intense, burning and causing pain, until it ceased to exist. Now, only one fire remained, just oneness, unity, and connection. And it became expressed in blazing, dynamic, smoldering brilliance, which was engulfing his mind, and eliminating all idle thoughts, his separate sense of “Self.”
As soon as it was achieved, the energy from the larger, natural element replenished his inner reserves, cleansing, reviving, and incinerating his doubts and fatigue. And then only the loud pounds of the heart remained, and as soon as they went silent, the priest opened his eyes.
It was much better now, and after a while the man jumped to his feet. Sure thing, he was a child of fire, a son of mighty Rogterr… At least all priests of this deity called themselves so.
Nonetheless… As a human being, he appreciated the mild coolness of the wind and soothing touch of the water, their delicate, soft caresses… Sometimes, Agenit simply missed the sea, the cold, repeating rhythm of waves crashing at the shore, the thick, mysterious, dark passages of the pine wood that always gave him shelter and a place to play when he was a boy… Before they brought him to the temple and made him accept these wretched vows…
The birds’ melodic chirping and the relaxing stillness of the room suddenly became shattered, drowned in the sound of a passionate foreign song coming from the town’s central square. String music was electrified with drama and expressiveness, full of intensive and clear power. It was so distinct and overwhelming, as if it were everywhere, ubiquitous and entrancing.
The female voice seemed to reach out to him, imploring, seducing, and enchanting him to leave this life behind to follow this mysterious temptress from overseas wherever she might go.
Awe-stricken, the hypnotized man looked out of the window.
He could observe from afar the crowd gathering around the musicians, swaying, gazing, mesmerized, bound to every word, every sound of this pure sorcery… And he found himself as if anchored by the window, looking, hoping, longing… Until the sudden silence filled the space again.
The crowd cheered, clapping. The whole commotion was so contrastingly unrhyming, rude… even primitive in comparison to the melodic wonder he experienced a second ago, that he felt deceived and all at once irritated.
‘Don’t they have any other work to do?’ the man winced, slightly envious.
Anyway, this musical magic disrupted the natural rhythm of his day. Agenit shook his head, trying to concentrate on his thoughts.
Even from a distance, he could discern the figure of the singer: a slender woman with darker complexion, her long dark hair flapping against the wind. She resembled a vivid, colorful tropical bird, strayed away from the forest by some awful mistake and now cornered by a gaping, cheering, dancing crowd, as if caught in a vibrant net…
What wouldn’t he give to stroll among them in broad daylight, to be free, released from the solemn walls of the sacred temple, unrestrained by the dogmas and oaths? To escape the pretenses and make-beliefs of the priesthood, which always lost their power as quickly as no one seemed to be watching. Lies charged with idle glances and contemptuous talks.
At least, why should he pretend? Agenit often ran away disguised at night, when all other priests seemed firmly asleep in their beds. He climbed down the quarters’ wall, then usually jumped over the fence – thin, delicately wrought, interlaced with golden ivy that burned like hell when touched with bare skin…
Come on! Could this southern stinging plant prevent him from escaping? It only scared nine-year-old neophytes just accepted into the temple, still believing, full of shock and wonder.
Later on, the man normally hastened down the crowded streets, drinking the finest wines, savoring delicious food in the company of music and laughter in some shady corner taverns. And he enjoyed life there until soft haziness overcame him.
In addition, he always found reason to fight with a drunken opponent, victoriously showing off his sword skills and magical excellence. The round of applause and shiny female glances were fitting rewards in dangerous endeavors. And then… The pale moons, glistening stars, and whispering sea waves kept their secrets well.
In short, Agenit had blazing, scorching blood in his veins; the flames of passion surged through his soul, making it simply impossible for him to be pacified, restrained, and confined within the paper-rolls of sacred texts and dusty temple walls. He wanted, craved, and was obsessed with freedom. A true child of fire was he…
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Ok, I did it! This story is based on my novel, which currently exists in my head only 😀
I decided to give it a try; otherwise, I guess I’ll never write it. Let me know what you think, and whether it is better with pictures (all generated by me in WP AI Picture generator) or without.
DISCLAIMER: the events and the characters mentioned in this story are the product of the author’s imagination
And all of a sudden, the alarm went off. I was so astonished I sat up straight in an instant, looking around with incredulity: I was home! Could it all have been just a vivid nightmare then? Somehow, I seriously doubted that. I didn’t remember going to sleep; quite the opposite, I could perfectly recall every bitter detail of yesterday’s quarrel. I sneezed – exactly. I also had no doubts that I was drenched by rain while parading the night streets in shorts and unzipped. Still, I was in my bed, in pajamas, my yesterday’s clothes hanging on the chairs’ back.
In addition to all that, I got a splitting headache. The light – even this murky tender morning light which happens only right before dawn – seemed to be dazzling. I was completely disoriented. I stood up with a moan, and the whole world became blurred and shaky. Besides, my feet were still in pain. I sat down again.
The light was a problem here; I knew that it somehow affected the way I feel, so I decided to pull down the curtains and think. My eyesight was distorted; I couldn’t look directly at any object: my headache immediately returned magnified one thousand times. So I closed my eyes and started retracing yesterday’s walk, or rather my escape from home.
First and foremost – we quarreled. Two adult sisters living together is… hm, a challenging task. If only we had enough money and the place we could go we’d leave each other immediately. But as for now, we had neither choice, nor sources.
We were so different: She and I. Martha was brave and charismatic, always the center of attention. The awareness of that made Her addicted to the admiration of the crowd. My Sister spent all Her time on social media, impressing the public with retouched selfies and generated quotes, forgetting that these were fabricated lies that had little to do with her real self.
DISCLAIMER: the events and the characters mentioned in this story are the product of the author’s imagination
I guess it all began the moment I slammed the door loudly, causing the tiny rivers and streams of stone dust and chalk to run down onto the floor. I quickly scrutinized the tiny crevices and cracks around the doorframe – eternal remnants of my mood swings and our bitter quarrels… I ran down the steps diving into the silver moonlight that stole all the colors of this world except for black and white…
I could discern the catlike silhouettes in the silver slits of windows. All the voices from different flats were mixed and united in one preaching chorus, and all the graffities and scribbles that casually adorned the staircase during the day now were turned into magical patterns and figures. Like cavemen, we continue on and on to mark our achievements, wishes and feelings, etching them deep into the wall.
The entrance door swung open, welcoming the wet, damp wind to fill the darkness. A few rare cool drops of rain fell on my face, mingling and mixing with tears, calming me, reviving and suddenly filling everything with a sense of hope again. I went out, looking up at the sky and breathing deeply, trying to regain composure. My jacket was unzipped carelessly, my strides were long and bold… It was an attempt to become one with the wind, one with the coming storm, to cast off all formalities, reject the laws of physics, and fly over the earth in elemental fury.
A burning array of yellow windows was outlined brightly against the gray carcasses of the buildings, almost indiscernible in the surrounding darkness… I wish I could say the same about the drunken crowd of people, who were shouting and cursing loudly, while checking out the surroundings with an immense hunger for destruction. So I halted for a moment, praying to become invisible.
The clearest and fearless reflection of infinity, There is no time, nor space within, nor remnants of proximity Only unending light and joy mingled with sadness, Enchanting rhythm of the unbounded vastness...
As if my heart leapt from the sky abruptly and exaltedly Flew far away inspired, bright, than stopping, falling haltingly. Bewildering and shocking passers-by My shadow dances in the mirrors of their eyes.
As always laughing, chanting - then... it dies! An instant and eternal burst of happiness! Awe-stricken I am looking at the sky My eyes are questioning the open heavens' emptiness.
While I am reaching out to your sacredness Begging to cleanse me from the everyday profanity... In a quick instant of my usual day insanity. Though I have tried the mead of poetry one day (Of doubtful quality anyway)
I've never drunk the finest wines of music - so you say. My words are craving for you, melody, please stay, But do you ever really need me?
I believe I’m quite a consistent person in this respect, if I pick a hobby it stays long with me. I’ve noticed that someone wrote in a daily prompt that they lost only the hobbies that were artificially endorsed by their parents… To tell you the truth, my parents didn’t care, and I was left on my own with my choices. Reading, or to be more exact, obsessive reading was my only way (except for my dreams) to get on with the life full of bullying – I was and I am strange and not really a people person. It also helped me to cope with unending family dramas constantly heated up by my relatives… I simply needed a way of escape from this difficult word, therefore I read. I was reading and reading. Reading when I woke up, eating breakfast with a book on my lap, dreaming on the road to school, hiding books during classes, diving into the narrative during recess, reading instead of doing homework, and forgetting to sleep because I must have finished this very particular book…
I am symbolically creative. I mostly express my creativity through writing, but even if I’m drawing it’s usually also full of symbols. Perhaps it is caused by the amount of books read by me, or maybe it’s just the way my head works. If I’m not mistaken it’s left-hemisphere type of creativity. This makes me a good interpreter of poetry and art, a decent translator, Tarot/Astrology reader, and also a mage. I see the world as magical and full of symbols and meaning too, I need to see sense in all that surrounds me 🙂 I can’t help it, that’s who I am, I can’t separate this way of perceiving reality 🙂 If you are curious about my ways of being creative – simply read this blog 😉 You are welcome!
The retrogrades are usually of bad repute. We often hear advice like : “don’t start anything on the Mercury retrograde, don’t reconcile with ex-loves and ex-friends. Never start anything, especially when it comes to studies or documents, or signing agreements, never argue” and lot’s and lot’s of similar stuff.
When it comes to the Mars retrogrades J. Wilson even writes that it is similar to Mars in perigee and believes that this period is associated with an increase in crime, brutal murders, and disasters (!).
The majority of people are actually afraid of the retrogrades and associate them with the worst possible times and events. The media only make the scale of this panic worse.
But is it really so frightening? Personally, I think that before starting to panic we should understand what planetary retrogrades usually are.
I created this sigil using the letters from the word “inspiration“: taking the letters nsprt after eliminating vowels and repeating consonants. As always, I combined the letters into one whole shape. Later, I looked for artistic patterns to craft an image charged with creative energy and the power of the visualization. Moreover, I always seek the additional clues to sigil activation in the artistic representation of this sign.
Coconut Doesn't Exist 