I Am Blankness And Emptiness Personified. Everything Falls, Flows, Into The Empty Recesses Of The Soul

As punishment for his sins, a human is sentenced to battle endlessly against hordes of demons with nothing but a knife. Satan’s court laughs at him for a few thousand years… until he starts winning the battles. Then they start screaming in terror.

Loneliness sometimes takes strange shapes I suppose, there is a kind that the fervently wants recorded in word or image every thought and deed, an underlying fear of being forgotten, afraid of never being truly known. Perhaps the feverish words scrawled in the middle of the night are just intended to be a reaffirmation of your existence, even though no one might read it.

Nights in Winter Smell Pretty Great

I got a shivering hand and wet

Hugs from the clothes still hung

On the wind-up clothesline.

And it's night under the lamps,

And the moths are beating

Themselves up against the stars.

Three verses and I've run out of smoke.

Three verses and it still ain't been told.

We're tripping over each other,

Waiting for the other all the time

To ask for a light and to dig in.

There's not enough air for crickets

To bite into, so the chill bites into them

And me, always me. Watching

Them live from the window.

Yesterday evening they cut a cake

And someone brought a wreath.

It bled into the white-washed walls

Like my month would for some days,

And the baby was there when

The plates crashed and the sobs broke

After the party curled up to leave.

See, it unrolls like a film or a die

With the edges cut lose from hinges.

Tell me a number, gypsy, and I'll tell you

Why I would still see you snaked into it.

In the crook of seven, in the curve of two,

And a laced soixante neuf printed with

Brilliant blue - the sodium pricks

Like chalk in eyes when you close them

And an ultramarine demon is the halo I have

Beside me when I walk the path that

Is never there at daytime. Even though

Little squirrels have left mud-paw prints,

I doubt they trod the ground alive.

Tell me again, a line this time and I

Will roll it up and give you a light -

The smoke will incense the moon

So eat it up dear, served with the basalt

Hanging over the ravine.

I thought I could go through it like one

Slips to the bottom of a cumulonimbus.

And eventually there will be the earth,

Ready to take your bones and skin

And swallow you whole, as if they'd been

Starved of the seed a lover plants

To carve up another Matryoshka doll.

Empty to the very last case and cold

Where the tired paint flaked off.

Tell me a word and I will make a cloud

In the night with your breath.

- pollosky-in-blue

I have come to a conclusion, after mulling it over for a while, that happiness has been been cast off and melancholy embraced perhaps not because of the evil and dark being more beckoning, nor is it because of the naivety associated with joy, though perhaps this might be one, for effervescence is so often confused with gladness that it is no surprise that it is seen to be foolish, but because it has become now that stillness and silence are symbolic of melancholy, while happiness is characterised by permanent high-spirits. Contemplation and reflection are few things that bring inner tranquility, for many it is the source of peace. Thus for some any absence of continuous childlike behaviour becomes sadness and for the others any presence of natural laughter and to not always be lost in a maze of cluttered thoughts becomes immaturity. I’m somehow both of these people.

Literary history that happened on 8 July

who needs a social life when you have followers who don’t talk to you and you run a blog no one cares about

*hints at eternally vague intentions*