“To all those who dare to dream, continue dreaming, perhaps I might find you, in between those times that suspend.”

I close my eyes and the night veil behind my eyes seems cold and lone; so I shut them a little bit more, letting my eyelids stretch out their skin. And right there, behind this curtainless path, phosphenes start to dance, dotting the night, drawing the forms.

Something behind seems to push my mind towards a screen inwards, where whom is observing seems like an alien wavelength of 10-millions-and-billions of endless light-years.

Phosphenes and darkness are designs of immaterial images, formed from the essence of my own experience.

Something spurs out of my mind — an abstract idea filled with the imagination of what seems to be, and of these stories that write themselves on a night canvas filled of excited phophenes, which joyfully run away from a galaxy cluster, to become shooting stars in a mind that blossoms from nebula-dews.

Evasion, always evasion that partakes my mind — too imprisoned inside of these clusters of unfilled brains and nightmarish dreams of conquer and freedom.

My imagination flies onto wishing-wells to mingle with pen-ink and digital-codes, morphing into writings that fill my heart with happiness and beauties.

The first alphabet sets the playground for my imagination, where the stories become concrete, where my words become the witness of my existence, where everything for once seems to be under my control.

“Imagination is the only weapon against the war of reality”, and as in Alice in wonderland, my mind keeps pathing its way deeper, far away from this cold void, more and more towards the warming light, coming to me, shading those black mirrors that fake eternal spins.

I unwrap from self to become myself, far away from those judging eyes and hearts — inside a sphere made of self-love there can’t be hate for the others, so I back-end my way and continue towards further and farther into my stretched imagination.

At night I often dream that I am phosphenes dancing inside other worlds, morphing nightmares into papers, weaving forms and shapes into stories through which I escape — only for some minutes, only for some hours.