llusory Cure

 

                               llusory Cure

Dark night, silence echoing through the void, lost within myself.

My star, solitary in the sky, you shimmer with a fractured light — so faint it barely reaches me, a veil of longing that does not warm, only wraps around me.
There is a beautiful ache in the stillness that settles in the twilight of my thoughts.
There you are, free and translucent, escaping the abysses that hold me captive.

Your presence lifts the shadows from my wounded soul and soothes, with untamed gentleness, a yearning for peace that never fully arrives.
Your light, brief and quiet, heals storms, softens inner battles, yet cannot conquer the war that lives within me.

Dark night, silence that screams inside me — my star, you still shine, but your broken light is only the reflection of a cure that does not remain.

Solitude

 

                                   

                                      Solitude

I breathe as someone trying not to drown in a sea of people — human waves passing by me, yet none ever stop.

I am an island in the middle of the crowd, surrounded by voices that never reach me, by gazes that cut through me like cold blades, judging without knowing the weight I carry in my chest.
The pain that lives inside me is a scream trapped in my throat, a thunder that never breaks the sky.

And in this silence that wraps around me like a heavy cloak, I wish only that someone — just one — would notice that I still exist, that I am still here.
What use are words, if the world has forgotten how to listen?

Everything feels out of place, like a shattered mirror that no longer reflects who I am.
I try to understand this world, but it speaks a language my heart no longer recognizes.
The gazes keep judging, blind to the truth that bleeds within.

And I, prisoner of silence, walk on invisible — wishing only that someone would see, truly see, that I am still here.

He Unnameable

 

                           He Unnameable 

They say we harvest what we sow…

Yet I scattered seeds of love and reaped shadows.
I planted joy and gathered silence.
I planted presence and received only the echo of absence.
Yes — we always harvest something,
but destiny reveals its fruits in its own unfathomable time.

Madness, ancient phantom of the unseen realms,
I flee from you as one flees from a fire
that burns not the flesh, but the essence.

Allow me to dwell within my own inner cosmos,
where I still command the constellations,
where storms obey my breath,
where I remain sovereign over the chaos that crowns me.

With trembling hands and a spirit laid bare,
this is no plea —
this is a summoning cry,
resonating through the chambers of my chest
where confusion has woven its roots
like spectral vines hungry for light.

You — absence with form, silence with gravity,
riddle without cipher —
entered me without words,
yet leaving echoes heavy as stone.
Reality and illusion swirl before me
like twin flames performing a sacred dance,
and I, wandering between worlds,
seek to discern what is dream
and what is decree.

Despair cloaks me in a mantle of thorns,
each thought a battlefield,
each memory a fallen temple.
And still,
I walk.

Across mountains carved from sorrow
and valleys sculpted from uncertainty — I walk.
For within me dwells a warrior made of starlight,
a fire that no shadow can extinguish.

I reach out —
but you are forged of stone and mist,
a labyrinth without center,
a manuscript written in vanished ink.
Yet I search for you in the margins of the impossible,
believing that my eyes may still reflect
a future where you take shape —
whole, present, luminous.

I sowed hope and harvested quiet.
I sowed tenderness and received thorns.
Still, I sow —
for hearts woven of persistence
continue even when the cosmos whispers to stop.

Madness,
that ancient temptress of forgetting,
calls to me with the promise of oblivion.
But I retreat inward,
into the sanctum where my will still reigns,
where I am empress of my own abyss.

And if one day
someone reads this message — even with the eyes of the soul —they will know:

I fought.
I trusted.
I loved.
And even on the brink of collapse,
I chose to walk toward the dawn,
carrying the ache of a thousand absences
and the fire of a thousand rebirths.

Dementia

 

                                                    Dementia 

Dementia, silent tyrant, invades me like a dense mist that seeps into the very bones of the soul.
It steals my reasoning with invisible fingers, and memory fades like ink dissolving in the rain of time.
Emotions, once mine, now belong to you — shadowed vines winding around my chest, dimming clarity with the sweet poison of illusion.

Reality and fantasy blend like molten metal in the forge of an uncertain destiny.

Despair, that cruel arcane force, lays itself over me like a mantle of thorns, wounding the essence that still dares to fight.
I am a warrior of flesh and spirit, and even before the phantom of madness, I seek the shores of certainty — a place where the sun still remembers my name.

Resilience: the word that pulses in my blood.
The key that opens portals to realms where peace reigns, where the horizons are made of light and silence, and the spirit dances freely among forgotten constellations.

The wind, accomplice to my sorrow, brushes my face like jasmine petals scattered at twilight.
I walk across mountains of stone and shadow, yet I do not break —
for my core is made of fire and truth.
With an uncovered heart, I confront this incoherence that torments me, allowing truth to embrace me like butterflies resting upon the soul and lifting it toward the heavens.

The abstract runs through my veins like molten fire — anger, longing, remembrance.
I reach for you, yet you remain a sealed enigma, pragmatic, distant, owner of nothing, colored by none.

Still, I believe this:
my eyes will mirror the future, even if the present lies as an inert body on the verge of implosion.

Illusion shatters.
Reality, bare and unyielding, rises before me like an oracle of uncertainties.
Yet I trust the divine.
I believe that triumph belongs to the bold,
while the faint‑hearted merely dream within the shadows of fear.

Chapters

 

                                              Chapters

There comes a moment when the heart gets lost in a fog of emotions — when one cannot tell whether it cries in sadness, burns in anger, or bleeds in disappointment.
All that remains is the muted echo that something, somewhere, is irreversibly out of place.
As Shakespeare once said, with the precision of someone who has suffered:

“Everyone can master a grief except the one who has it.”

Life, that ancient storyteller, whispers in our ear that everything has a rhythm, a right time, a purpose hidden between the lines of chaos.
Nothing happens by chance — pauses are commas, not endings; and the falls, painful as they are, are rehearsals for flight.

Starting over requires more than courage: it requires patience.
Change does not knock with warnings, nor does it bring instruction manuals.
To be gentle with oneself is like lighting a candle in the dark — a small gesture, yet full of warmth.

What is true, even if lost, always finds its way back.

Life is a book made of living pages — we cannot rewrite the chapters already written, but we always hold the pen to begin a new one.
And perhaps — just perhaps — the next paragraph will be the most beautiful of them all.

Anxiety

 

                                                   Anxiety 

Anxiety is the beast that watches me from the shadows, its burning eyes fixed upon my soul.
I feel its cold breath at my neck — a worry spreading like poisonous mist, a fear that rumbles like thunder inside my chest.
Reality twists like shattered mirrors in a labyrinth with no exit.

But no — I refuse to be deceived.
It is illusion.
I must keep moving, even if my footsteps echo through the abyss.
I will not surrender to the shadows that hunt me without rest.

Sweat falls like corrosive rain, tremors coil around my ankles like thorny vines, trying to root me in the ground of despair.
But I am a warrior — breathless, yes, but standing.
My heart pounds like a war drum.

No. No. It is illusion.
I keep walking.
I do not yield to chaos; I do not accept the absence of light.
The darkness will not claim my name.

I feel danger like an invisible blade near my throat — an oppressive presence that wants me on my knees.
But I do not bow.

My hands slip, yet they cling to the jagged rocks of the mountainside.
I climb, even when the wind wounds me, even when the sky offers no sign.
I need light — not any light, but the one that warms, the one that heals.
I need to breathe, to escape this dark void that wants to consume me.

I must take the helm, tame the creature that roars within.
You are illusion, nothing more.
And I will fight with every breath so you never become the ruler of me.

Anxiety, anguish, restlessness — I am the commander of my soul.
You are only a shadow that dissolves at dawn.
And when the angelic light breaks across the horizon, I will breathe deeply, in peace, and know:

I survived another night.

Abyss

 

                                                  Abyss

Slowly, like a petal releasing itself from its own destiny, I sink into the depths of the vast ocean within me.
The light — once the guardian of my steps — dissolves like an ancient echo, leaving the world wrapped in a veil of liquid shadows.
I try to rise, to break through the invisible weight that binds me, to weave strength where there is only silence.
But I remain suspended, between longing and infinity.

Time stretches, malleable, as if pouring out of itself.
Thoughts, fragile as broken wings, scatter in directions I cannot understand.

I descend.
I unravel.
I am welcomed by the primordial womb of the sea — a hidden temple where ancestral mysteries move like living constellations.
Something approaches. Not with haste, nor with fear — but with the serenity of a presence forgotten for ages.
And then, I awaken.

I stand at the edge of the world, between earth and sea, as if an ancient guardian had left me there, renewed and still wrapped in the breath of the unknown.
I rise, unsteady, intoxicated by a force I cannot name.
The softness of that other realm still dances upon my skin like a murmur that refuses to depart.

The moonlight, eternal accomplice, beckons with a silent power.
I feel myself pulled forward — by a deep, ancestral force — toward a living, pulsating forest whispering promises of revelation.

I walk, guided by a sweet enigma, until the world opens into an endless abyss.
And I yield — not out of impulse, but by calling.
I throw myself forward as one who trusts the invisible wisdom of the forces that rule the cosmos.

The sensations rise, ancient as the universe’s first sound.
An embrace made of light and mystery surrounds me.
My doubts dissolve like mist in the newborn sun.

I surrender completely to the abyss —not as a fall,but as a return.

The abyss that calls my name…and reveals what I have always been.

Deep Friendship

 

                                                          Deep Friendship

Deep friendship, with all its complexities and contradictions, is an emotional journey many face in silence.

I love the impossible and remain unshaken, like a ship that defies storms without drifting.
I weep because I long, like a river that overflows in search of the sea.
I condemn myself by impulse, like a prisoner yearning for freedom.
Ideas shipwrecked by modest aspirations, like dreams drowning in seas of uncertainty.

I keep unexplored feelings hidden out of fear and apprehension, like an explorer who trembles before the unknown.
Scrupulous uncertainties, gentle notions — deep friendship is living on a false tonic, like a melody that never finds its harmony.
Impetuous and piercing with sharp vitality, tears fall for the unknown born from what remains contained within, like a volcano guarding its lava.

Without the courage to shout what is devouring me, like a lion roaring in silence.
Strange sensations rise from my depths, like roots spreading through the fertile soil of the soul.
Fear of rejection, of speaking from the heart with eyes closed — thus we live sealed affections, like a bird afraid to open its wings.

Platonic love, a false tonic, always spiritual, pure in its unparalleled sorrow, like a flower that never blooms.
Disappointments felt, always hidden, lived in shadows without delight or solace, like a sun that never rises.
With closed eyes we live forbidden loves, without the courage to scream what consumes us, like a secret that is never revealed.
Tears for the unknown born from what remains confined inside — I love the impossible and remain unmoved, like a warrior who fights without hope.

Reverie

 

                                                                          Reverie

Dreaming is like a silent reverie, a light that shines through dense darkness, illuminating a slumbering mind suspended between reality and fantasy.
It is an intimate moment, unique in its own rhythm — unsettling yet enchanting — defying seriousness with its captivating dissonance.

Far from familiar horizons, the dream deceives the faint‑hearted and shakes the bold, fragmenting reality into shimmering shards of infinite possibilities.

Lone Wolf

 

                                                               Lone Wolf

In the deep, dark‑blue ocean of the night, he glides through the forest trails like a silent phantom.
He seeks the unknown, attempting to decipher the arcane mysteries that dwell in the depths of his soul.
His mind — a complex and enigmatic labyrinth — shrouds his majestic stride and his gaze, a mixture of ice and honey, at once merciless and gentle, whispering like the night wind.

Beneath the moonlight, he howls laments that reverberate through valleys and mountains, shattering invisible emotions like broken glass.
Beyond the cliffs, another kindred spirit hears the chilling melody — a unique symphony of tone and rhythm — and, breathless, yearns to meet the unspoken desire to discover who he will be and what he may bring.

Lone wolf, the determination of destiny can grant us all things.

Forest of Shadows

 

                                                        Forest of Shadows

I run without looking back through a blackened forest, where the light of relief is nothing more than a distant dream.
My bare, aching feet feel every stone, every branch, every wound, as if the earth itself were conspiring against me.
Chills race down my spine like poisoned arrows shot from the depths of hell, each one bringing a new wave of terror.

I run as if my life depends on escaping the uncertainty and the unknown that relentlessly pursues me.
Around me, nothing makes sense; reality and illusion intertwine in a deadly embrace.
My veins freeze like burning webs, and though I am exhausted, I refuse to succumb to the malevolent forces surrounding me.

I climb hills with bloodied hands, my soul barefoot and filled with a fierce desire to rise again.
Every step is a battle against despair, every breath a silent cry of resistance.

Finally, I awaken from my unrest.
Was it a dream or reality?
I am still not fully myself, lost among the echoes of a nightmare that refuses to fade.

Limits

 

                                                                            Limits 

No one truly knows who they are, nor the boundaries of their own existence — believing otherwise is an illusion woven from ego.
At each heartbeat, with every breath that brushes the veil of time, something within us shifts.

We are beings of perpetual metamorphosis — wanderers in a silent cosmic dance where the ancient self dissolves like dust of forgotten stars, and a new essence awakens, rising from the depths as if summoned by the universe itself.
In this sacred cycle of endings and awakenings, the hidden beauty of transformation reveals itself, subtle yet profound.

The greatest mistake of humankind is to find an uncut diamond within their path and fear the radiance that might emerge once it is shaped.
For every soul carries a dormant brilliance — a mystery waiting to be unveiled, if only we dare to face the light it may become.

Emotions

 

                                                                  Emotions

Forbidden are warm emotions, anxieties, futile thoughts, morbid fantasies, and useless memories.
I am an untamable flame, immune to trivialities.

Do not imprison thought — let it soar freely, like a bird carried by the wind.
Connections are like bonds of fire: intense and powerful, while everything else dissolves into insignificance.

Sometimes we must throw ourselves blindly into the abyss of the unknown, for what the future holds is a mystery the present cannot unravel.

To embark on this journey is to witness each moment become a revelation, and each step, a new emotion.

Madness

 

                                                                           Madness

True madness is living imprisoned by so many obligations.
You may call me mad because I am free in my own mind, but the truly mad are those who spend their whole lives without following their desires.

Life is far too short not to be lived intensely, not to feel every moment, every emotion.
May freedom be our greatest madness, and may our dreams always become our reality.