Personal Narratives

The Cure

A non-writing writer is a monster courting insanity – Franz Kafka

Today, while writing this post, the house is very calm. My mother’s-in-law radio is off, my husband has taken my sons to the barbershop, and only the chirps of different birds, the windy weather, the shuffling of the leaves of trees, and some muffled distant sounds enter my ears. I love to write within the embrace of that kind of intimate ambiance, for the things that I wanna say flow out more easily… my inspiration quadruples. The television playing loud all day, my mind that remains alert when my boys are alone in the other room, and all of these upheavals, have contributed to a drop in my energy level and inspiration. I have lost my writing cadence, thus write less, thus feel miserable and irritated, I feel that there’s something missing in my life. I guess that the very fact that I feel like suffocating when I am not writing, and that I need it just like I need to breathe, is a sign that writing is this one thing that I want to keep doing forever. After all, it’s writing that has taken me out of the depression that I was suffering from. It gave me a purpose that makes me happy, and I guess that’s why I don’t feel well when everyday I am not writing.

If I haven’t written a poem or a paragraph for more than two days, I feel diminished, tired, and I feel like I am regressing, while my mind is very agitated with all of these words, voices that are stuck inside of me – they hammer the door of my mind so as to be free, they give me nightmares of all sorts, they push my boundaries, they alienate me, they torment me like ghosts, and it all stops… only after that I’ve freed my mind, only when they’ve become concrete, only when I vomit what has been choking me. And afterwards I’m free. Indeed, suppressed feelings, ideas, or any other thoughts that want to bubble up bring their load of frustrations and alienations.

The ideas are there, that’s for sure, but the lack of time (for I write turtleishly), and my fear of constantly editing my writings badly are causing inside of me a warfare between my ego (for it’s always telling me to write-and-publish-no-matter-what-I’m-good) and reasoning (I need to write very well so that readers might get a good experience), and I am there, trying to reason and tame my ego, and trying to balance reasoning with a pint of self-importance. Bringing balance to my body and mind is indeed very exhausting. But still, I need to write, no matter how difficult it is to master the English language as a non-English speaker. I make so many embarrassing writing mistakes, that’s for sure, even though unintentionally, but you know what?… I’ll keep doing it, because writing simply makes me happy.

I know that I still have a long way to go. I need to practice more so that I can get better at writing; practice and learn from my mistakes so that I don’t make those same mistakes again; learn and practice until that my writing process becomes so easy that I am able to gain the necessary confidence that will help me naturally write more everyday, thus, relieve my mind and heart of all these worlds that haunt my imagination and cause my alienation.

Writing. Writing. Writing. In the end, this method of artistic expression has been the only medium through which I had been able to express myself when I was choking on destructive feelings, when my truth couldn’t flow towards your sea, or when the repressed words and my repressed thoughts were strangling me until I couldn’t breathe, until I was losing my mind. And then writing opened its benevolent arms so as to welcome me, and my life changed completely. It was my cure from hysteria. I have to take it out or else I accumulate a poison that slowly kills me from the inside. So yes, a non-writing writer is really a monster courting insanity, I confirm.


Mother’s Day Mini Poems

If you’ve enjoyed the pieces that I have written for Mother’s Day, here are two links to poems that I wrote so as to celebrate motherhood:


Poetry Shower

My soul only craves poetry lately. Writing fiction takes a lot of my time – re-writes, re-reads, and re-edits… lots of struggle, only to find that I don’t bring anything new to the table; that what I write has already been written by others; that my ideas are not at all ingenious. So I guess that it is time for me to quit writing stories, and to focus more on writing poems.

Poetry Shower

It has been raining all day today
And the gray clouds paint the sky,
In the South, flash floods
In our heart, it's blue and morose

It has been raining all day today
But all I really wanna do
Is to shower you with poetry
So that you might stay warm
Inside words made of sunlight

It has been raining in my heart lately
And water erased all of my words,
My creativity became destructive
My body, a vessel of pain

It has been raining in my heart lately
But all I really wanna do
Is to touch this water image
And to carry us towards the sunlight
Towards warmth and towards what's gold

It has been raining today
Water droplets dot the plants
While the birds continue to sing
Safe within the leaves of trees

It has been raining today
And all I wanna do
Is to write of what I see and feel
So as to shower you with poetry
While Sunday eclipses away the rain.


What Calms Me

There are those sceneries, people, and actions that naturally appease my mind when things go wrong, or when life seem so frightening. And in the end, I’ll tell to myself that no matter what, the beauty of nature remains there for us all to appreciate existence.

Windy full moon night. Palma. I love night gazing.
What Calms Me 

The scenery of Little birds fledling
And of heightened waves gliding
The sounds of winds during a tempest
And of creatures going on a quest -
They abate my heart on a windy day

The little children playing
Of their little eyes shimmering
At the least object that falls
And of the tree that's so tall -
They abate my heart on a windy day

Of lonesome journeying couples
With peculiar allure, who mumble
Of secrets that I wanna hear, and
About how they became to each other so dear -
They abate my heart on a windy day

Of the one who passionately sings
And of the other one who paints things
While another writes a poem a story
The immortal artist's work that frees -
They abate my heart on a windy day

Of the hands that compose
And those that dance close,
Passionately, breathlessly, heavenly
And of all souls that make a city -
They abate my heart on a windy day.

Personal Narratives

A Period Of Intense Reflection

Last year I wrote this ‘essay’ to submit to a writing competition that was organised around the theme ‘personal Covid-19 lockdown experience’. Perhaps too flowery and too difficult to read and badly written; or even not at all prosaic, which is how an essay should be written — this piece was not chosen. Nevermind, I am posting it here on my blog, which is a personal ‘essay’ that describes the emotions that I went through during that tough and frightening time, where perhaps you’ll find it scarry how the feelings described seem vivid and palpable here.

A Period Of Intense Reflection

Perhaps I felt it since months ago — that strange feeling that something bad was about to happen. I felt disaster creeping through my veins, while my mind carried dreams of bad omens. Even the rain, the wind, and the chant of birds seemed then to me ferocious, ill at eased, with bruised voices whispering in my head that gloomy days were hungrily approaching. There was even a heavy weight weighing on my habitual feathery heart, but I just couldn’t put words on it. Now thinking about it all, I should have seen it coming . . . the tears, the blues, these emotional disasters, the fear, the paranoia, the lock down, and all these deaths — oh so many deaths. I should have learned to read the signs — all of these changes that operated in our field of aliveness, and perhaps, forced myself to conceive the inconceivable. But my mind couldn’t make sense of these augural molecules that fluttered around. But then, what could I have done, beside trying to survive amidst the hurts, the aches, and the paranoiac state of mind, which most of us went through at the news of Covid-19 extending its deathly shadow till our vibrant island.
During these first days of lockdown something in me started to shift, where I went through a radical change. Dark thoughts often took over, and I found myself drowning within a sea of stressful moments. You know, the mind endures so much, yet this heart of us tries its best to hold on to something that looks like hope. At least, that’s what helped me to keep going, to remain on track and not break down. I also tried to occupy my mind by continuing to make plans for the future, as I would have in normal time; to mold the future in my head so as to not be distracted by the tumbling down of it all, or even succumb to general panic.

In my head I kept preciously the imagery of a healthy tree with its colorful leaves clinging themselves tightly to their branches; though I knew that the leaves were infested and were infecting, and falling down to the ground, I resisted and fought with the gloomy ambiance that clouded my thoughts — with the death chambers and the catacombs, with the grim reaper and other angels of death, with the virulence of the virus and the fright, for in my head, I wanted it all to be beautiful. Beautiful like everything that I have ever known in my life.

Then, it was not the virus that I feared — not anymore. It was just the tension in me that aroused due to the fact that we were matchsticks stuck in a matchbox. Again, another issue that I needed to take care of. Again, another internal emotional disaster that I needed to overcome — those disagreements, those annoyances, my anxiousness everytime my husband had to go out to buy food, and everything else that got on my nerves like needles pricking my skin, my head, my whole body. And this time again, I was about to let the sickness, the ugliness, and the weariness take full control of my mind… however, my heart got in the way.

My habits changed during that lockdown period. It had to. Particularly in the areas of my life that demanded time and organizational management. All of my heartaches of yesterday were soon forgotten, leaving space to only the curiosity of knowing about what tomorrow would reveal, mainly after that destiny gave us such a harsh blow. And again, anxious questions began to trot their way in my head, such as, what about my children and their studies, and food and of other necessities; and how would our existence look like when it will all be over. I wanted my life back. I wished that everything returned back to normal, right before Covid-19 struck the world, before it all collapsed, before the awakening, before it all drowned under water, before it all cracked, before the fires, before the deaths, before angriness burst out, before the heartaches, before the confusion, before the fright. Before everything else went wrong . . . before everything else went oh so wrong. And I kept asking everyone around me why such horrible circumstances had to happen in our existing time-line. I couldn’t wrap my head around it all, and even made horrible nightmares where people were coming after me, extending their hands to reach my neck. These nightmares were so strange and horrific that once I even woke up screaming while in tears . . . I guess that our dreadful circumstances affected me more deeply than I thought.

However, I was able to overcome it. Always through doing those activities I like; indulging my mind into things I am most passionate about, like writing poems and stories, blogging, listening to music, watching movies, reading a lot — doing and thinking only about beautiful and aesthetic things. Always walking straight on that path, though how dark it is, and though how rocky it is; always walking straight, taking care to avoid looking in Medusa’s eyes, fearing that I might be turned into stone if ever I caught her gaze, or if ever hers caught mine; also, taking care of not looking back, fearing that I might remain frozen in the past. So I walked straight. And slowly, but surely, I regained self-control.
Fortunately, not everything about those days of lockdown had been about interior battles. It has also been a very enlightening period for me. I realised that I was running after impossible dreams, for the oasis I thought I saw was only a mirage. The moment I made peace with that truth, casting away those silly elusive thoughts, I started to move on to other things. New doors of possibilities unlocked and I started to dream again of paving my way through.
It seems crazy to have come to all of these realizations, and made all of these hasty decisions during these past two months of being under lockdown. Yet, I am happy with the choices I made, and even feel more relaxed than before.

Thus I wrote a short story to submit to the local collection of short stories — and while writing it, inspiration struck my mind with new ideas for my next book. During that period of time I was more than ever drawn towards the want to write poems too, and to explore the artistic world more deeply. Have to say that my wish to become an independent fictionist-poet-blogger has doubled — though I realised that the road will be a long and difficult one. But despite all of that I must trust that time is on my side. I need to.

I also had the time to learn some cooking and baking tricks with my co-sisters-in-law. We shared lots of cakes and other little pastries. I even baked a chocolate cake for my elder son’s birthday when in normal times we would have bought it. However, because I had put too much cocoa in the mix, the chocolate cake had a bitter flavor, while the buttercream icing was a total disaster. But I’ve learned about the importance of balancing the right ingredients for baking a delicious cake. Next time, I am sure that it will taste better.

As a consequence of the pandemic, and because we were all under lockdown, my co-sisters-in-law and I learned how to assist and take care of my 94 years old mother-in-law. Touched by our personal care, I guess, my mother-in-law then insisted that she didn’t want strangers to assist her. Thus, while still trying to pave my way as an autodidact writer — which proves to be difficult, with many hardships, errors and trials and the lot, I accepted the responsibility to assist my mother-in-law while still continuing trying to get there where I intend to be. And this time, I decided that I will be less pushy with myself, trusting much more my gut feelings, all the while learning to live in serenity and acceptance. Furthermore, I also took the decision to stop complicating things more than I should; trusting that everything is working out fine for me.

Thus, the Covid-19 experience has proved to be quite positive for me, a period of intense reflection where I’ve learned to accept these things that I can’t change. For sure, if that period of pause didn’t happen, I would have never taken a break — I would have continued to bang my head against the wall. My eternal frustrations, erratic behaviors, stress, and episodic paranoia then eased magically. I saw my life under a new daylight, and found myself again. And though I am starting all over, I am confident that I will do things differently, at least I’ll try my best to do so, for new beginnings have always been the main fuel behind my motivation and enthusiasm.

PS: So that I might improve my writing skills, practical criticism about this ‘essay’ is more than welcome here. Thank you in advance.

Speculative Fiction


I know that this story has the same ending as fleece; I know that I can’t help myself from always writing about the dark and the white and polarities, but I just hope that the middle of the story is different, I always hope that the plot is different.”


The woods, being mystical and obscure places, bathed in both gentle light and sombre dark, and whose soil firmly holds the different roots of both poisonous and panacean plants, attracted peculiar and wild creatures — good and bad, mischievous and noble hearted; dark, white, and gray magick yielders. The vicinity of woods was also inhabited by many outsiders and people of strange backgrounds, those excluded by society, or people that had no other place to live. Then, there was the wood of Abracadabra, a region that was well known for its wide shiny river which streamed between two pieces of abundant woodland, whose two parts had distinct features — the left part of the wood was covered with fearsome withered trees and a dense vegetation that was always morphing with the changing shade, while hauntening creatures of the night, frightening wild and angry animals, accentuated the eeriness of this part of the wood; as for the right area of the wood of Abracadabra, it was covered with flowering trees and wonderful plants, and mostly inhabited by beautiful bioluminescent night creatures, as well as majestic and mystical animals.

But also dwelt within this wood the magick yielders — those who knew how to use magick, those that ruled the world from behind the scene. The magick yielders were always thirsty for great knowledge that brought to them greater power; and that’s why exactly they settled in the wood of Abracadabra, so as to find the legendary grimoire of the most powerful magick yielder who had ever lived — a magick yielder, they said, who was most powerful than the great Merlin himself. His name was Lepsl, and he had lived for uncountable years in the wood of Abracadabra. Legend even said that he had built a cabana that magically glided over the river, and that on those nights where Abracadabra was too dark and scary, he would have summoned countless fireflies to keep the wood dim. However, before he disappeared, he claimed that he had hidden his grimoire somewhere in the woodland of Abracadabra, and this, without even having left any map or clues, or any written testimony that certified the existence of such a grimoire. Yet, the magick yielders were certain of its existence, certain that Lepsl, the most powerful magick yielder that had ever lived, had buried his book of spells somewhere in the gut of Abracadabra. Thus everyday they searched for the famous grimoire amidst the foliage of trees, within their trunk, and beneath their roots; mined the dense vegetation, the wide river, and turned over each rock and pebble they found on their way.

But also everyday there were conflicts between the gray, white, and dark magick yielders, and where magical battles often took place in areas that everyone wanted to dig or search to find the grimoire. Sometimes these inter-battles between the magick yielders were so brutal, that terrifying thunder and lightning struck the sky, devastating gargantuan whirlwinds whirled frenetically, and even sometimes the sun was eclipsed by thick and dark clouds; rigor-mortis corpses were often dug up and buried again, while the trees were shaken bare, and where the next day, these same trees would splendidly and magically renew with all their leaves. The wood of Abracadabra was the constant witness of a magical battle for the search of Lepsl’s grimoire — a book of spells that nobody seemed to have discovered till then.

I remember that everytime I accompanied my mother to the river so as to wash our clothes, or even to fetch water for bathing and drinking, she would always tell me to stay close to her, and to never adventure far away from her eyesight. Of course, I knew about all these frightening stories about people disappearing after they wandered off too far in the wood at night, or of those that became completely insane after they had crossed the limit imposed by the magick yielders; and where even sometimes, in broad daylight, we could sense something strange eyeing at us from behind the trees. And even though at that time I was still a child who lived amidst all of this strangeness and scary encounters, as odd as it may seem, this peculiar environment satisfied my curiosity, all the while feeding my vivid imagination. I guess that’s why I became an author of fantastical fiction.

“Wait a second Miss Wild, don’t you think that you are going too far with that story? It seems that your own personal story comes out from one of these famous books you write! Excuse me… but this is not a memoir, this is something else, Miss Wild… that’s not real.”

“If you say so, dear… let’s continue recording… will you?”

Then one day while I was with my mother at the river, I suddenly noticed flashes of lights that blinked from the depth of the wood. My mother had been busy talking to the neighbours… so I tiptoed cautiously towards what was attracting me. And there, suddenly, the woods shut itself on me… and there, from the fog, a large and wide golden book appeared in front of me. Strangely, I didn’t feel an ounce of fear, for I felt the bliss of being in the presence of a good-will auric field; thus I serenely opened that book.

“Thus… you found the grimoire? It was the grimoire, isn’t it Miss Wild?”

“Oh! Now we are curious for more… didn’t you just say that it was too fantastical to be a memoir?… Of course the grimoire found me.”

“Writers, artists, and all the other creative people are so strange… you have no limit when it comes to what might trigger your inspiration… So, I guess that I will have to stay here and continue to record your ‘memoir’ Miss Wild… and perhaps afterwards you’ll surely tell me the true story of your life.”

I read: To the one that this book has chosen, here’s four rules for you:- [If ever you spell the spell of all spells, you’ll be mighty, your will will reign over everyone’s will, you will be immortal] [If ever you close the book of spell right now without saying the spell, you shall forget everything about this grimoire, about what just happened to you, it will disappear until it finds the one worthy of the power it has to offer] [You should never talk about the book of spell, about the source of your power, or else you shall forget about everything, you shall wake up with amnesia, and everything you’ve acquired with time shall disappear too] [The moment you unjustly use your power, you shall forget about everything, wake up with amnesia, and everything you’ve acquired with time shall disappear too]

Too enthusiastic, I thrillingly formulated the words loudly: “I, which the book has chosen so as to bestow the power contained through this spell, accept heartedly the power of being powerful.”

Then an old bearded man appeared — and as you might have guessed, he told me that his name was Lepsl, who was none other than the famous magick yielder to whom the legendary grimoire belonged. I was thrilled and out of pace, though I didn’t feel that anything had changed in my life after that I formulated the spell. And you know what? Lepsl already knew what questions were simmering in my head.

“You mean that Lepsl was still alive?”

“Oh dear Encey, the spirit of great magick yielders never disappears, even though their physical mortal body does. They only go to sleep or rest, and wake up only when brutally disturbed, or if ever they’ve set up a magical alarm… let’s continue the record, will you? I feel that I don’t have much time left.”

Lepsl said that it didn’t matter the type, the kind, or the category, for the only criterion was that of the heart, precisely, the depth of heart, there where only magick could pierce through to see. Concerning my fear over the fact that the other magick yielders would come after me, he told me not worry, for they will continue to think that the grimoire has not been found; and as for what I needed to do, Lepsl said that instructions and information would appear in form of night-dreams and day-visions.

“Wow! Miss Wild, I guess that you already have your book, now all you have to do is get to your desk and write… and as I’ve been a very inspiring muse, I think that you’ll need to give me a percentage of the sales you make on that book, Miss Wild.”

“So, you don’t think that this is all true? You don’t think that what i’ve been telling you till now didn’t really happen to me?”

“Honestly!… Not at all Miss Wild, as I said, I know how writers or any other artists have odd ways of summoning the muse that might inspire their creativity… Also, wouldn’t have you forgotten everything by now? Knowingly that you’ve openly talked about the source of your power.”

“I, too, can’t understand why I am still here! You know, I’ve lived for so many years, I’ve seen all the corners of the world, I’ve seen it all… I would have been more than happy to continue… but recently something strange happened… I feel that a powerful magick yielder has come into power. I can feel the intensity of their energy that’s starting to wrap up the world, and I can feel the weight of their power annihilating mine. They’ve even found me, for their eyes loom inside my night-dreams and day-visions, just like the eye of Sauron… I feel that their darkness is starting to consume me, and I fear that I won’t be able to resist their force of gravity that’s pulling me towards them. Thus, before my heart gets corrupted, before they engulf my all so as to become massively powerful, I want to quietly recede like the waves… for the grimoire must never fall in their hand. I’ve even written a new formula in the grimoire for the next one that it would come to choose… with hope that this spell might help.”

“You mean that he is pulling you towards him like that?” Encey’s arms were suddenly around her.

Shocked, she yelled. “So, it was you… back off you dark magick yielder… you’ll never have me, nor the book. It ends here…”

He laughed cynically, then talked seriously. “Do you think that I need such an outdated book to impose my power… things evolve, and magick changes… but you, my very dear Miss Wild… but you…”

“Enough…” she then yelled.

“Encey, you know what, passers-by have discovered on 96th street corner an amnesic woman who was naked and completely lost.”

“Oh! Really. I should go on site, perhaps it might be one of these eccentric artists that I interview… who knows what type of danger they’ve put themselves in again,” Encey said, with a ravishing smile on his face.

Personal Narratives

Confinement – Day 11

I think that I have recently been able to synchronize with my intuitions; my exercises about listening to these personal information have finally paid off. I have been able to isolate the loud buzzing sounds of information that arise from the collective consciousness, so as to be able to access more easily, and to understand more clearly those personal informational guides (yep, writing these sentences as if the whole was a speculative story👽👾👻🔮). And you know what came through?… Well, since my last confinement log entry, I have been busy working on the technical side of my digital devices, reorganizing contents and files, reediting and recycling old, and badly written pieces, and finally, I have decided that I will try to stick with learning about how to organically optimize this site. Thus in the end, things are not as dramatic as I would have expected them to be, if I may say so… for my stress level was at its highest peak during last year’s lock down, where I was surely very tense, and frighteningly depressed. But I guess that this time I have been able to shoo away these anxieties, by finally accepting to trust the grand design of life, by stopping fighting with what I am unable to change, and to take it easy, to take it as it comes — and believe me, it feels more liberating than I would have ever thought. I now even wish that I had trained my mind earlier, for I know that I would have attained that level of understanding which surely would have saved me from all that mental stress and depression. 

Life goes on; existence is a permeable matter — and what to do more than to wait and see, to trust that life can resolve and repair the wrong that we’ve caused. To wait and see; to wait and occupy my mind with beautiful thoughts and ideas, while doing things that I am passionate about; to focus my attention on continuing to build the future I want, to simply continue existing, to continue living my life, to continue blooming out until I reach complete fulfillment… and perhaps… perhaps if ever the Reaper or any other negative types come peering through the keyhole of my door, perhaps… my too much light will chase away negativity, while the Lord of death will want to wait a little bit more, knowingly that I am trying to do my best to acquire the necessary knowledge, within the enclosure of a world that’s agonizing.

Anyway, I choose zenitude over anxieties, letting go over tension, all the while immersing myself in things like reorganizing, digital cleaning, learning basic optimization, practice edit-on-the-go, reformat the books and prepare the booklets. And that’s all what I’ve been doing recently, knowingly that I am now ready for the next level; for I think that I have attained a level of writing style that I like (exotic, reflection of my bilingualism, seeded with my own essence and wild heart, beautifully imperfect); I also think that I have been able to train my mind to come up rapidly with writing ideas, and to focus while writing; I am now certain that creative writing is my passion, and that I want to keep doing it forever… though what’s separating me from attaining excellence are those grammatical errors, bad syntaxes, my turtleish writing habits, and my limited English vocabulary — I still continue to practice and learn, with hope that someday I’ll overcome all of these writing weaknesses. 

I choose to continue; to trust that everything is being taken care of, and that everything is falling into place. Till then, I hope we all stay safe, and that our mental health and heart might endure the weight of this tentaculous crisis. 


The Colours Of Our Dream

That’s the second year that our children won’t chant and glorify in unison our national anthem for the independence day of Mauritius. Things have worsened here, the coronavirus has suddenly spread, and everyday there are more people that are being tested positive. We’ve got the vaccines, but not many people did it in time. So, even though we’re in the middle of a tumult, I hope that we don’t forget that we are facing this pandemic together – as one people, as one nation, and I pray that we all make it safe.

Dreamed Colours

Red, blue, yellow, green
Colours of our dream
A dream about unity
While hand in hand we go
As to make that dream a reality

My skin tone, your skin tone
As we watch the sky at dawn,
And it seems that our skin
Is of same nuance under our sky
That Mauritian sky where we all fly

The grandeur of our exotic spirit
Our fervency and hearty wit
That smile that welcomes
Our arms that joyfully open
Our eternal love for our motherland

Our fall, our rise, our defeat
Our song, our dance, all these deeds
But always together, in group we go
Towards the sunrise and the ocean flow
And coconut, mangoes, letchis as feast

Sega dance and songs, bhojpuri dance and songs
Langaze madam serré, Tialbert
Lacaze tôle, race mélanzé
Proud, proud nation we are
Happy, a happy nation we remain
Mixed roots that grow wildly
On a little island called Mauritius.

Personal Narratives

Confinement – Day 1

Some of them say that gloomy and destructive feelings breed the most fascinating creative work, but that’s not at all the case for me. When bad news or any other stressful factors pound on my heart and mind, I instantly creep towards my bed, to slip inside a cocoon where I feel safe from any type of anxieties and fright, while shutting tightly the door of my imagination… as at the same time the light bulb that’s over my head turns off. I am unable to think properly when chaos, disorder, bad news, stressful factors strike. I guess that I am a happy writer – a writer who feels more productive and inspired when things are going well around, when crazy humorous things and people make me laugh, or when I feel immersed, or surrounded by bountiful and mystical beauty that instantly arouse a feeling of epiphany in me. Simply put, I need to dwell inside that field of positive energy so as to be more creative and enthusiastic.

Since I heard the bad news that covid is again spreading its deadly spores all over our island, I can’t seem to get the necessary inspiration to write, or I have all the pain in the world to do so, for the words seem stuck somewhere in between my chaotic feelings, imprisoned tightly inside of that ribcage of mine. Mauritius is a small island, and hearing that more than ten people have already been infected by covid makes my anxiety peak. Hasn’t the reaper had enough? Haven’t we suffered enough? Haven’t we paid back enough for all the sins that have remained clogged in our blood since Pandora opened that box? How many more souls is to be devoured so as to heal earth? Why this automatic upgrade of our universe? Why did it have to happen in our lifetime?… All of these absurd questions that float in my mind instead of inspiration and creativity; while, closing my eyes so as to go deep to clear my head, only the spread of colour red appears and persists, instead of the usual dark of my emptied head. I don’t know if it’s a bad omen, or if it’s my anxieties that make pressure on my mind, but I know that’s not how I usually function.

I am trying to write a poem for the independence day of Mauritius… but the words won’t settle in my head; where all I want to do is lay on my bed to read or scroll through those social feeds that might summon the necessary inspiration and enthusiasm in me. A heavy weight glooms my heart right now, and if the thought of writing poems and fiction isn’t easing that feeling of uneasiness, if the very fact of putting myself in the creative mode so as to annihilate those destructive and negative feelings doesn’t work… then what other activity would? I don’t want to write this type of journal entry; I don’t want to release in blog posts these thoughts on which I am choking on. I don’t want my fear to transpire in my writings.

Today is our first day of lockdown. We entered confinement in the same month as last year. And on Friday and Saturday, Mauritian authors have been invited to a book festival – I would have signed autographs, I would have asked for autographs, I would have bought books I like, I would have finally connected with the other authors and the publishing world. Finally I would have got the necessary advice or help to finally get my books published, I would have finally stepped out of my comfort zone (for I want to believe the quote that says ‘change begins at the end of your comfort zone’), for I am unable to do it online, and I don’t want to try more than I ever have. Same as this World, the Internet will never unfurl for me… and yet, I know that I have a lot to give to this medium. But well, they’ll never know the immensity of my floating body and the power of my influencing mind… how the invisible world has unfurled for me. Yep, I am secretly megalomaniac😅😂🤣.

See, I guess there’s some hope that I might recover from writing block. It remains to see how long it will take for me to recover from this sudden eruption of anxieties, and from there, rush to writing again.


That’s What Women Are

Happy Women’s day. I hope that all women secretly thinks alike, and that this poem – compared to women, I compare thee, and brave womanhood – drools with the quintessence of women’s sensuality, and as well as women’s yearnings.

That's What Women Are

Big bright stars in space
A large shinny crown on our head
Sitting, on the highest of all chairs
Adored, loved, all time long

Women, always our star rises
We are, the turn on symbol
The milky way, in between our legs
A wild blue diamond, in space

Our woumb, a curving dome
Inside, that egg of yours,
The yolk, of this existence
That soil, which welcomes your root

We are, fermented sweet fruits
That keep them, oh so drunk
And with our mouth, we devour the space
And with our teeth, we tear up the sky

Women, always oh so misunderstood
Afflicted, by those hormones
These chemicals, that burn inside us
Morph us, into the women we are

That's what women are
Wild wide stretching skins
Who cloth, this infinite body
Staring down, at what's earthly

Our love, is locked in our breast
That we open, when love's needed
Our lovely bosom, is so warm
That just one night, in our arms
Can instantly, melt your heart

That's what, a woman is,
The deep jar, of your heart
The one, who waits patiently
The one, who forgives everything
The one, who loves abundantly.

Personal Narratives

Whimsies – womanly thoughts

In the night, over the ground, I dreamt that I flew over a nest of women who were drunk with happiness and insouciance, who spinned and danced wildly, singing and laughing joyfully, and I, I had a pen and paper in my hand, writing about what I saw during that womanhood festival. And when I remembered that strange dream the next day, I had to ask myself the question about why I write obsessively, but yet unconsciously about stories filled with women endowed with such power and strength, when I myself am prone to regular fits of anxieties.

Lately I’ve been answering through a written piece the question ‘from where precisely stem my interest for writing?’, and where recollecting all of these memories that stem from infancy, so as to compress them in a blog post, has automatically ungraved from my being some things that need thinking. And believe me or not, suddenly I was facing a personal crisis, as each minute of these recent past days plunged me in welcoming reflective moments that concerned my behaviours and attitudes. I now have to admit that I’ve been a pathetic-paranoid-stupid- ungrateful-fanciful-tocqé little whimsical whiner. I have been very immature all along the way. But don’t worry, I surely assume all of those facets that make up my individuality, and never ever feel an ounce of shame for being myself😂. Nevertheless, this little exercise of introspection has helped me to be aware of some of my behaviours, and to once and for all work on the unfounded fears and paranoia that I go through on a regular basis.

When I go through those introspections, I automatically disconnect from writing, from the world; I halfly function, because the work I do on myself at this point sends me into a whirlpool of doubts; and surely I wouldn’t have written this blog post if I had not healed some of my ongoing issues.

In that other dream, I was devouring grapes with Bacchus, all the while enchantresses and witches danced ecstatically, and gossiped loudly, as an opened laptop floated on the geyser of a water fountain. “Take it cool, take it slow, take it happily, take it wildly, take it magically,” I guess that’s the significance behind that dream; I guess that’s the message streaming through internal channels by the spectres of my ancestors – all of these strong women on whose shoulders I stand today. Have to say that I am very proud of the blood that runs through my veins, proud of my unbiased upbringing, proud that I was raised with such a degree of liberty, within a free space that was proper to the growth of my understanding and self-knowledge.

Recollecting all of these memories has shaken me up, and forcefully stirred my emotions upside down… it was the writing therapy that I needed right now, at this point in time where doubts about my writings, but also matters concerning my personal life have been torturing me. I think that I have reached the step of acceptance, I finally made peace with my choices. And I have even been able to find the right answer to the famous question often asked to authors about “why do I write?”, and where the answer to that question has helped me to overcome my sadness concerning my ineptitude and incompetence to publish Darcocyte, or my book of poems… anyway, they are just some random obscure books amidst a lit constellation of other much more interesting and gripping books. I made peace with the fact that I am not ready, that my books are not ready, that the world will never unfurl for me. But now, in spite of all, more than ever before I want to write, simply because after rewinding my mind, I now know exactly what attracts me to this medium. Thus I write because writing itself evokes in me that ocean of freedom in which I’ve always swam in. I feel like I embrace that same degree of liberty, of expansion, of fancy, and of happiness. This illusion of freedom disappears when I write fiction and poems. I feel like a feather that’s carried away by a breeze… will I fall on a lawn filled with dry leaves, or end up on your skin, on your head, your lips, on your desk, in your phone, on a shelf?… Who cares, I am something free that writes wholeheartedly, I am someone who escapes in self-created fictions and poems. I am a woman who equilibrates my days with writing, and fills up the cusp of my soul with the beauty of words.

“You are always birthing me out of that indescribable chasm, that womb floating in deep dark space, always putting me high up in your sky, I, woman of confused feelings and fragile state of mind”…Was that dream-made, self-made, or just some rambling poetic thoughts? Is the discovery of that little me person in a shadow concrete box disturbed me to the point that I had to make up that phantastical world – where I am woman clothed of an elastic skin that deteriorates with time…? But in that absurd dream… in that dreamworld filled of unknown faces and morphing spaces with ghosts, a womb without flowers births me out, a strong hand pulls me out from its belly.

So, women, I hope that through creative writing, or while doing any other type of creative activities, you’ll find that which you have always been searching for; that you find your answers, that you are able to break the illusion of freedom so as to be instantaneously free – free to roam the cosmos in red bed sheets and flowers blooming out of your head.

Happy women’s day in advance. I hope that you’ll visit tomorrow, for I’ll be posting a poem for women’s day. Thank you.


Of Belonging

“I wanted to embody the emotions I feel about ‘abandonment’, the word that I’ve chosen so as to write this poem.”

Of Belonging

Abandonment, what a sad word
For the living and this world
Everyday something is tossed away
Without chance of returning someday

Winds blow and rivers stream
While every creature dreams
Of belonging, of being cared for
And most, without wanting more

I want my whole self to be cherished
All of my thoughts unleashed
Living that good life unchained
Not a single piece of me thrown in a drain

We are a species born without furs
Our skin heated during summers
We can’t be abandoned creatures
For death awaits our fragile nature

How come we need to be dearly loved
To be wanted and be the beloved
And die in the hands of abandonment
Becoming monsters without good guidance

Somewhere someday we will remember
That we all need to be treasured
That we are connected through woumbs and oceans
And that the cries of those abandoned
Are achingly felt through our emotions.

Speculative Fiction


“The original book cover of the Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? a Science-Fiction by Philip k. Dick inspired me to write Fleece. The theme for this story was the word ‘abattoir’, and this sheep simply inspired me.”

Lolly quickly took her habitual notebook and recorder, engulfed a piece of coconut bun, sipped a mug of warm sweetened milk tea, before rushing till her car to drive for about three hours till the next town found on the other island. She was already very late, and she didn’t like crossing the bridge on these moonless and starless nights, for all of that dark and wide space that surrounded this lighted passageway gave her terrible anxieties… because deep inside, she knew that this horrible gigantic creature of the night eyed at all passers-by.

Lolly was a successful worldwide blogger of the paranormal realm; also the author of Dancing With Ghosts and Fiona The Sad Spirit. Having herself witnessed and experienced many strange phenomena since she was very little, Lolly decided to become a private investigator who deals with all things paranormal, and created a blog with articles about her investigations. She also wrote two best-selling horror books that were inspired by the supernatural she encountered in her everyday life. Her paranormal blog Uncanny World was one among the most read website of the Internet, and she poured all her heart and soul in every article she wrote about all of these strange and frightening phenomena that some people witnessed and experienced – where most of them, Lolly often thought, lived a strange life too.

Recently, when she was investigating on site about a talking bird that the inhabitants of SD Town witnessed, she met Ranpal, a burgeoning mystic who often filmed some of the paranormal phenomena he was drawn to. Instantly these two clicked, and both decided to associate as to investigate on the various paranormal activities that people informed them about. Lolly mainly interrogated witnesses, wrote and posted on Uncanny World, while Ranpal examined the area or subject that was under their loop; did the necessary research, filmed and edited the videos to accompany Lolly’s blog posts.

Thus on that day Lolly was going to the small village of Ini so as to investigate on a series of slaughtering that took place after woolen domestic and reared animals strangely disappeared from their shelter at night. The day before Oley called Lolly for help as soon as she noticed that her cuddle pet that slept on her bed strangely disappeared in the middle of the night. The disappearance of her sheep Woolley affected her badly. At the end of the line she wailed and screamed, seemed confused and was worried sick. There was so much heartache in her voice, that Lolly decided to help her right away.

“Your hair looks like Woolley. Can I touch?” Oley asked Lolly.

Not at all estranged by the situation Lolly said yes.

“Yes… your hair is sheepskin, wool and fleece… curly black fleece… just like my friendly bud Woolley… you need to find her Lolly… please, find her,” Oley said as she achingly sobbed.

“I will,” Lolly said, intrigued by all these strange disappearances.

“You will never guess what happened last year in this little village, Lolly,” Ranpal said enthusiastically.

“No… I am unable to play the guess game right now… I am way too touched… that girl is an emotional wreck,” Lolly sighed.

“Well, in the local journal archives I read that a small meteorite fell around here… and the man that found the rock speculated insanely about this event, and I thought that it would be a good idea to go visit the guy.”

“Let’s take my car, and while I drive you’ll continue the story,” Lolly said.

“The guy’s name is Ulder, and one night while walking his dog Ully, strangely a poodle, a rock of the size of a fist fell from the sky right in front of him. The next day he told everyone what he discovered, but nobody took him seriously. Only a local newspaper covered the story, partly, and while they interviewed him three weeks later, it seemed, as detailed by the newspaper, that he was another man – he seemed tensed and paranoid every time his dog ran in the room… he insanely said that it was spying on them… that a parasite came with that rock, and professed that we were all doomed… and you know what? They wrote the article as if it was a humorous speculative fiction.”

“Well… very interesting finds… I’ve never worked on alien things, only on ghost-like things… spectral and ectoplasmic, untouchable and translucent. It’s a little village, and everyone knows everything about everyone, and are even perhaps very close to each other… so I guess that they lightened the story so as to make the guy seem less crazy.”

The front yard of Ulder’s house was in a very neglected state, as if nobody lived there anymore. The front door was not locked, and inside it did not smell of roses. On the table lay notes filled of nonsensical scribbles and newspapers from other parts of the world, all opened on the miscellaneous section with the same date that this meteorite fell down from the sky. On one of the newspapers Lolly and Ranpal read an article about people that witnessed a bright flare in the sky, on another one speculators talked about the explosion of a secret space lab, and the last one they read talked about an unknown organism that could have been released during the explosion of that space laboratory.

“Of course, this is all speculation… made up stories from insane minds… denial upon no proof,” Ranpal said.

“That’s why we are the fact-finding committee who tries to shed light on these shady issues… though we are much more incline towards what’s paranormal, I guess we could also help lift the veil upon these conspiracy theories.”

Suddenly a panicked black sheep ran inside the room, followed by a hysterical man with a saw. Immediately Lolly gently caught the frightened sheep, Ranpal took out his electroshock weapon and shot an electric charge on the man’s arm. He fell down, and Ranpal instantly took his saw and threw it away.

“No…” the man said painfully, “don’t touch that sheep… don’t touch it… your hair… your tuft curled woolen short hair…”

“Who are you? Are you Ulder? Are you the one that slaughters all of these innocent animals? Are you crazily insane or what?” Ranpal asked calmly.

“Yes, I am Ulder… I killed all of these animals so as to protect us all… they were all infected by something that only lives on living things that have tuft curled woolen coat or hair… it’s the first time that it will inhabit a human hair… I don’t know what it will do… we can’t let it leave the village.”

“I have already called the cops, Ranpal. Our work here is over. Just lock him up in the other room. We need to return the sheep, and then I have to write, and then you have to edit the film,” Lolly said as she walked the sheep till the car.

“Look! Have you seen that? She is not the same anymore… this is not your friend… it’s that thing… listen to me, there is another meteorite that fell from the sky that same day… this, is a she, because she only takes on females, so, there is a possibility that the other one that fell is a male… and if they mate, we are all doomed. They feed on iron things, but also on human and animal blood.”

“Surely we will find a right explanation for all that you claim… and know that my friend is not anybody else… she is Lolly, she is tough, she fought a demonic entity so as to set herself free from its possession… so don’t think that an alien species bred on a space lab can make her cower, nor make her lose her mind… she’ll fight till her last breath, she’ll fight that thing with all her might.”

Lolly stopped the car on the well lit bridge and stared for a long time at the void.

“He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you. An interesting quote by the philosophical man called Nietzsche… what do you think about that miss?” Asked the man who suddenly appeared from nowhere, and who strangely had the same type of hair as Lolly.

She smiled, and said, “I do think that the man was right, because from his point of view it seems that we are all puppets on a string that are unable to think from the bottom of our heart.”

“Yes. Little houses and hosts and strings.”

“Tell me, do you like coconut buns and sweet tea with milk?”

He strangely and confusedly stared at Lolly, trying to discern the depth of her eyes.

But Lolly immediately said, “O! Let me rephrase my question. Would you like a glass of thick red wine and a piece of juicy raw meat? And I’ll also invite a dear friend of mine.”

He nodded with a satirical smirk on his face, knowingly that they were both going to eat the world.

And Lolly smiled on the inside, knowingly that she was going to give to her readers one of her best articles.

Personal Narratives

Romantic Words Matter

Happy Valentine’s Day 

Human heart is an exquisite soft red organ that beats intrepidly when one reads romantic poems and stories. Instantly our brain is fired up thanks to the chemical reaction that automatically takes place when lovely words overwhelm our senses. Romantic words tickle our fancy, and other organs too, and our want to love and be loved passionately, to cherish and be cherished ardently becomes irresistible. 

I like to think that the world could be a more peaceful and understandable place if all of us read romantic pieces that make us feel thrilling and exciting emotions creeping throughout our body. Love is a kinetic energy, a feeling that can be transferred to the other so as to make them, but also the giver, feel better and happier, where reading romantic stuff can instantly put us in a better and positive state. 

I also think that healthy romance is something universal, that our cosmic nature is love, and that our higher-self radiates meta love. Each one of us is free to love whoever we want, free to express our love in every format and form that we like; love likely finds all of us in one way or the other, in this lifetime or another. 

I don’t think that reading love poems or books of romance turn you into a stupid person, or is a waste of time, nor that it induce us in error by plunging our mind in a world of confabulation and phantasm; instead, I think that reading romance mellow the heart to transform you into a softer person – you wait for it patiently knowingly that the romance you’ll experience shall make your heart race and set your feeling ablaze, same as when you read these romantic poems and stories.

Flowers, box of chocolates, coffret❤️

Romantic words is a necessity in this particular time where loveless degrading brutal sex, drowns significant passionate love making in a sea of barbarism. Yes, loveless act of copulation lower your vibration, to afterwards leave you in the gutter of despair and darkness and addiction. The pure electrical orgasmic energy that goes from the tip of your toes till the crown of your head when selfless love abounds can’t be compared to any other type of emotional experience, as you are positively energized by the love frequency which makes you vibrate higher, that restructure your whole body. And wetting your pillow every night or crying forever over the partner that left you is a sign that you haven’t really learned to love yourself first. And all this heartache and anger you feel attracts negative entities that suck your life and energy, your health, leaving you in a gloomy and deprival state. What if I told you that sadness, anger, jealousy, and all these other negative feelings turn you into a magnet that attracts bad times, experiences, and things to you… would you learn to let go, to accept that this person was only one of the many that you’ve met on your path of life, while everyday people are grieving someone that they will never see again in this lifetime. You let the other go, knowingly that you’ve loved them as you’ve loved yourself, and the love they give to another is like a chain letter that started with you, and you’re ready to love again and again and again, until your high positive energy naturally attracts your soulmate. See, you’ve read these loving words, hasn’t it somehow changed your feelings about love? Haven’t you felt a shift in your level of energy? Haven’t you vibrated a little bit higher than that in whichever negative state you were? 

In a world where many of us are unable to communicate clearly our feelings of love, romantic words matter, for the writer pours all the love they have in their heart in these poems and stories, and this love-wave transforms into a kinetic positive energy that reach the reader’s eyes and mind, so that instantly they might vibrate higher to the frequency of love, which is the most positive of all feelings that exist. To read love poems or books of romance is a blissful act that entertains the mind and inspires our own being to be more caring, soft, and loveable to the other, but also to our own self. 

The act of writing love poems is in itself an act of beauty. It comes so naturally when you are in love, or when you simply love. You feel the heat of positivity, the warmth in your heart, and you are amazed by all the love that your heart contains, and to which degree it beats each time you write the word love and romance. I myself when I wrote these love notes made for romantics, meant to be used as you wish, I felt a great deal of joy, something that’s close to what’s ethereal. I’ve also wrote twenty new mini love notes, but I was unable to upload the PDF version I made…

Romantic writings are soul soothers, a bridge that connects two hearts and mind, a link towards that infinite vessel that contains the light of love, and all you have to do, is just grab the warmness of the language of love, its softness, and this dreamful cotton candy feeling.  

Speculative Fiction

Paradise Echo

To write this story, for which ‘deserting’ is the main theme, I inspired myself from the book catch-22 by Joseph Heller. I tried to imagine why the author described war as being absurd, or even, why he wrote an absurdist fiction.

“24 January: I am still looking for it – for that hidden paradise where streams pure water; where grows trees and plants that give abundant fruits and seeds, while the sea that surrounds it is forever replenished with seafood. There are also many grottos on which creeps morning glories whose leaves and flowers are as large as a hand. It’s all stated in this carnet I found buried under a large rock. Since I read this notebook, my night dreams are filled with things of great beauty instead of ruby red nightmare. Everything seems so splendid. I know that it exists. I am sure that true paradise exists…”

Suddenly the echo of atomic waves blasted the surrounding. Pace grabbed the old leather notebook, entered his craft, and flew away as quickly as possible. The scenery offered was a desolate and bleak one; of death and misery. He knew that he had to save his life; deep inside he felt that this war was not his, that he had been enrolled by force. And then he coincidentally discovered the notebook that had been written in another time by two other soldiers like him – two different handwritings, two different epochs, one began and the other one finished. They were both like him, asking the same questions, wanting to desert that cursed place, this hopeless area of war. And this serendipitous finding he made amidst the chaos, the incomprehension, and the absurdity of war, strengthened his want to set himself free from such horrible duties, and confirmed his belief about the existence of a peaceful place.

He wrote, and Pace read: “I am not a lesser man if I refuse to make war on other men like me. Instead, I am more of a man, with a heart and empathy… I am the novel man, a civilized man.” Everyday Pace read some lines, and everyday he dreamt of evasion.

“That’s so strange, Pace, we have technological advanced devices that talk directly to our mind, and you are still doing that outdated activity. How do we call that again?… O yes… reading.” But Pace did not reply, instead he watched the sky, the only place that was not stained with blood.

“6 April: I think I know where it is, paradise. I found a strange man who had only large dried leaves on. He seemed in a neglected state, but seemed healthy. I think when he saw the carnet in my hand he knew then. I followed him till the vast cemetery of old combat vehicles… this infertile land of weaponry. But suddenly buzzing drones appeared in the sky, right above my head, and they ordered me to leave immediately this restricted area. Fortunately they didn’t search me, for they would have found the notebook, the inkwell, and the quill pen. That’s where I think that this strange wild man disappeared amidst this vast ocean of dead vehicles that lounge the horizon. Paradise is there. I know it’s there, I know that my last records will close the final chapter of this notebook. Has the previous soldier been able to reach Elysium? Perhaps… and I won’t stop writing for you to find.”

That night, intrigued and thrilled by what he had read, Pace quietly went to the restricted area, that sinistered cemetery of dead vehicles. He wanted to see that place with his own eyes.

But suddenly the buzzing drones appeared. “Name and grade, soldier,” commanded the robotic voice.

“Pace Paze, soldier Pace Paze,” he replied nervously.

“And what are you doing in a restricted area, soldier Pace Paze?”

“I thought that I saw the enemy, thus followed them quietly till this area. But apparently it was only my imagination… I think that I had a delusional moment,” Pace replied, though he never saw who they were really fighting, and why this war has been going on for fifty years.

“Okay then, soldier. But don’t forget to go see the doctor tomorrow morning.”

“26th of July: to go there you need to wear dark clothes and dark glasses, and don’t forget to pour antistatic oil on your body, so that the drones won’t be able to perceive you. I found it, I am writing this last part from here. I made it, so shall you too. This story is such a strange one. This war is only an absurd thing, a joke, a trompe l’œil. When this war started sixteen years ago, many soldiers didn’t want to form part of this war. Amidst, there were many great thinkers and builders who have set up a plan to forever live in peace and harmony some miles away from the area where war raged. That place was still untouched by evilness… it was an area of purity, and they did everything that was possible to keep it so. They created a barrier with the loads of destroyed vehicles, and also created automated drones that stopped fighters from approaching the paradise they made. But they also made sure that there were always invisible enemies that attacked this side, so that they could remain safe at the other side. And as time went by, the cemetery of vehicles became denser, it became a vast ocean that stretched till horizon, and automated machines created automated drones, while people didn’t even question why there was a war going on, they just went to war.”

On the same night Pace read those lines, he headed valiantly till the restricted area. The drones did not notice him, for he followed the instructions faithfully. He walked on a seabed of dried bones that cracked and became dust; crossed large vehicles that were riddled with holes, stained with dried blood and destroyed in the worst ways. And suddenly a dreadful feeling of guilt overwhelmed his senses. He stopped and questioned his deed. “Shouldn’t I tell them what I found? Shouldn’t I help to cease this hoax, this war that makes no sense at all… will I be able to live in paradise when I have a guilty conscience?” He had walked for eight hours and the sun was going to rise soon, he needed to make a quick decision. Thus he continued his way, but promised to himself that he will make the others change their mind. He was going to tell the truth.

At daybreak he arrived at a very high wall that lengthily stretched as far as his eyes could see. “It’s all true. Paradise is just behind this wall,” he said out loud. Keenly, he pressed the bricks of the wall in a set of specific sequences, same as instructed in the notebook, and instantly there was an opening in the wall. He entered a wide shady noisy factory that was automatically making drones – lots of them, piles of them, there was not a single human in view. He continued walking, eager to pass that door that would lead him towards the freedom from war. But that’s where he made a horrible discovery. There, in a small dusty corner filled with cobwebs, he saw a skeleton. Its hand was on the operating motherboard, and a large hole could be seen through his head. Panic-stricken and filled with dread, he ran for his life blindly, until he arrived in front of a forest. He continued to run through that wild realm of various trees and plants while shouting insanely: “where are you all… I found the notebook… at last I found your community… I am in paradise.”

But unfortunately he cried in vain; nobody answered his desperate calls. The area was completely desert, only nature subsisted. And there, suddenly, at the foot of a grotto, the imagery of sheer horror sent an immense shock-wave throughout his whole body. It was a mountain of dried bones imprisoned in the strangling embrace of morning glories.

Pace Paze had his final answer. He knew then that this war would soon be over, and that finally, after so many years of conflict, life would surely look like the paradise described in this notebook.

Personal Narratives

My Desertion From The Webhosphere

But nothing remains stable or sustaining in life; and after lockdown everything changed for me

2020 has been very challenging for me, I guess it has been the case for many of you. Before the outbreak of the pandemic or whatever else, I was always stuck on my PC and smartphone; always hunting down for ideas online, while trying to improve my writing skills; always going through the necessary learnings of leveling up my knowledge of the internet and its devices, of the technology-based services that I use. Have to say that before Covid-19, every morning I had enough time to write poems, fiction, think about what to blog, think about what to write; read books I borrow at the library and as well read e-books online, learn more about the services I use, learn about online marketing, be present on social media, have the time to daydream, take naps when too tired, and watch one hour of television. I guess that I’ve been quite productive during these years; I feel that I’ve been able to reach my main goals, I am satisfied with myself.

But nothing remains stable or sustaining in life; and after lockdown everything changed for me. I am now a carer, and my time is very limited. I have to juggle between many things, but I am learning about how to effectively organize my life and time. And though my writings have not been able to spread their wings as to fly away, or even if I haven’t been able to turn this passionate creative activity into a career, I realized that I need to write everyday as to equilibrate my life, to do an activity that is self-satisfactory and where I feel free, something that’s good for my soul. Perhaps I’ll be drawn to another activity that’s more rewarding, work on projects that will stir my passion so much that I’ll consider doing it for a very long time – that’s all I hope for, to get caught up in an interesting activity, something to really focus on, something that will make my life more beautiful than it is.

That’s why I need to focus deeply and in silence on what I’ll be doing, desert the web for it is too noisy for my empathic mind.

Writing, blogging, or even social media aren’t getting me anywhere, and I guess that the economic crisis we are facing because of Covid-19 makes it worse for an amateur writer like me. I am trying not to look pessimistic here, but I need to be realistic, I need to clear my mind of all the lies I tell to myself. I tried, but I can’t try harder. I don’t want to lose my mind again over matters that keep frustrating me. I need to accept the fact that I did my best. Yes, I am doing my best.

I realized that I need to practice more of my writing skills; I badly need an editor to edit my writings. Perhaps I’ve self-published too soon, thinking about all those grammatical mistakes I’ve made… I made a fool of myself somehow. All of these lies I tell to myself.

Thus I am considering another publishing route, seeking help to publish my books. I think it’s more realistic to do so than suffering from trying to self-publish, suffering from trying to understand it all, suffering from all these frustrations. Perhaps the pandemic was a whirlwind that came to adjust my sail, to push me into another direction, perhaps a better one. That’s why I need to focus deeply and in silence on what I’ll be doing, desert the web for it is too noisy for my empathic mind.

I’ve been thinking about the movie cast away lately, mainly about the end of the movie – that part where he stands in the middle of that crossroad, a metaphor for the choice that we need to make every single minute and every single day of our life, and of those signs or guides that some of us can’t ignore. And again, I had an existential crisis because of a movie😂. Again, I questioned free will, and what if… what if I was wrong again, what if writing is not for me anymore. What I need to do then? That’s what I am focusing about everyday, and yet, I keep returning to writing. Then what? THEN WHAT?😡 Silly me, cast away.

I have decided to lighten the rules of my game, to start a new writing, thinking, and creative process, with a new time schedule and new ways of doing things

While trying to replicate my writing process and online presence, I discovered that I had been doing it all wrong since the beginning; I realized that I didn’t manage my time well and balanced my life during the course of practicing writing and learning online marketing. Of course I’ve been able to write blog articles, stories, poems, or books, but unfortunately to the detriment of neglecting my house chores, which accumulated a lot, which meant more time spent on catching up with my chores, exhaustion and stress added to the mix, need of long rest, writings and learning were delayed. I am sure that I could have done more, better, I could have been more healthier. I was way too obsessed, too deep in it; I poured my energy into too many things at the same time, I thought that I was rushing towards a greater future for me, some type of freedom, a reward, to get noticed by people of the literary circle or a potential employer, or that even I could have made a living online. But it’s difficult, mainly for someone like me that is not at all tech savvy, one who does not well understand informatics. Thus, as soon as an idea spurred in my mind I had to write it down or type it, go straight on the web to research the subject, log-in my social accounts to check other feeds and comment or like on what interests me – I was all in it for organic traffic. But there was no balance, no time routine, I hadn’t imposed on myself a time to start and a time to finish. I have taken all of that too seriously, and in the end, though I worked towards my goals with a professional mindset and an entrepreneurial work ethic, I ended up with deceptions, being unhealthy, unbalanced, alienated, unenthusiastic.

That’s why after nine years (I think!) of being on-line everyday, I have decided to lighten the rules of my game, to start a new writing, thinking, and creative process, with a new time schedule and new ways of doing things. Of course, I still need the web to do research for my stories, to learn, to write, to read; I will also continue to post on my blog and post on my social feeds, but I don’t think that I’ll be able to be present everyday on the internet to read like and comment on other people’s posts, just like I did before.

My priority right now is writing, reading, and doing research about scientific, conspiracy, and pseudoscientific theories for Darcocyte II. It was not at all on my plan, especially after all the difficulties and obstacles I met, and that I am still meeting; but there’s something more personal and ethereal to it. It’s too late, I am inhabited by something that needs feeding. I also want to know what happens next in the story of Darcocyte; to write a book that I want to read. I just hope that it won’t take me four long years to finish this one too, and I also hope to write a little bit better than I did before😅.

Also there are those quotes about stepping out of my comfort zone that keeps appearing in front of my eyes. And where I have been thinking that perhaps I’ve given too much of my time and energy to the Webhosphere, where my activities were remaining too constant. It’s like I have to restart everything with learning how to get help, and to accept the fact that I do need help to get published. As I said, I think that I’ve made up things in my mind that only led me astray. That’s why I am taking it all back, recollecting all of my energy and pieces that have been taken out of me, as for me to start anew. Well, it already happened😤😅, that means I didn’t made it up🤔.


To Carry Me Away, Away

A metaphor for stubbornness – a characteristic that fits me well.

To Carry Me Away, Away 

To abandon oneself
Just for once
To give myself
To the good ones,
To close my eyes
As to be blind
And letting it and all
Carry me away, away

Why can't I let me be -
A mechanized thing
Where still the bird fly
And everything living is free,
Where we still sing
And live through a lie
With visions of strong winds
That carry me away, away

Why all my stubbornness
All are living breathing
But in my head it's merely;
I can see my heart degress
Stagnation is that one thing
That causes the fear in me,
A tension a frustration
It buries me deeply, deeply

How shall I say
How will I wave
To the world to you
That I've lost something
While I was rebelling
As to set myself free;
As to find the escape door
To carry me away, away

My inner-war made sounds
My inner-war was an exhaustion
But inside I found
Another type of dimension,
The things that unfold
While it whispered it told
A secret, a truth, a lie
To carry me away, away.
Speculative Fiction

Rooted Out

Four long years of work, of researching, of thinking what to write next – all of it buried in that thick muddy soil found next to the river bank. Why? Because he told her that she had written a miserable story that nobody would ever want to read, that it was a literary abomination, and finished his murderous speech by telling her that she should definitely smother the writer in her.

His words killed her that day.

All along the way, under the pouring rain, she achingly sobbed while holding tightly against her heart the leather bag that contained the depth of her thoughts, the realm of her imagination. She cried so much that an excruciating pain struck her heart, where suddenly everything looked broken – the pavement, the surrounding, her dreams, her self-esteem, her self-confidence as a writer. Nothing remained in her heart and head; she was empty, devoid of dreams and faith in life.

That’s where overwhelmed with disappointment and a nameless feeling of emptiness, she tore each page from her manuscript and buried them in the thickened muddy soil. Afterwards she stood under the heavy pouring rain, where her mind wandered back in time, right when she started to write that story. Her mind recollected every bits of happiness and pride she felt after she had been able to finish a chapter; and remembered as well those silent nightly hours where she only had for companion the sounds of leaves rattling with the breeze, and the sight of the moon and stars through her broad and wide window, all the while she wrote till the break of day.

As her self-confidence slowly returned, she suddenly realized that she had made a mistake. Instantly she fell down on her knees and started to dig the muddy soil with bare hands, in search of her treasured manuscripts. But unfortunately, due to the heavy rainfall that soaked the soil, all the thin papers had already dissolved in water. Shocked, she suddenly had a brutal seizure, while at the same time a strange and paranormal phenomenon happened. The rain stopped, and all the ink from the book manuscript that had dissolved in water suddenly emerged out from the thick mud as droplets that floated till her body. The ink covered her skin, and little by little it morphed into the words that made up her story. Her body from head to toe became the book that she had written, where each page she had torn to bury now tattooed her skin.

Suddenly she felt light as a feather; the rain fell again, but this time she didn’t get wet; it was as if she was surrounded by a transparent bubble. She felt the strange sensation of floating without a body, and in the blink of an eye she was in front of the house of Mr.Feith, that same vile writer that had been so rude to her earlier. He was sitting by the window, writing at the light of a large candelabra. And as soon as she wanted to know what Mr.Feith was writing, she instantly found herself perching at the back of his head, looking at what he was doing. That’s when she understood that Mr.Feith was busy copying word for word the story from a copy of her own book manuscript. He omitted nothing. Enraged and out of her, she knocked down the candelabra, whose candles set fire to the papers that were on his desk; then right after, all of the words that were on her body materialized in human shape in front of a terrorized Mr.Feith. It strangled him brutally, then released his neck right before he stopped breathing. Horrified, he ran away screaming insanely, while hungry flames devoured his house. Everything burned down quickly.

One month later Wri Wright slowly and painfully opened her eyes on the bed of a hospital. They said that passers-by found her unconscious by the river bank, soaked wet, with both her hands buried in the mud, alongside a leather bag.

“Hello Miss Wright,” said the man with a pleasant face. He sat next to her, a book manuscript in his hand. Her manuscript. “I was one among the passers-by who found you by the river, a little bit messed up you were. Anyhow, I gave myself permission to read your story… you are the one who wrote that, is it not? That book manuscript was in a leather bag beside you.”

“What! The manuscript was still in my bag? But!” She tried hard to remember what exactly happened to her on that day, but only blurry images of heavy rainfall, mud, and tears came to her. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember what happened that day, but I am the author of that story.”

“Well then, let me introduce myself, I am the chief editor of a well-known publishing house, and I can tell you that you are a very talented writer who wrote a very unique and captivating story… and I want to publish your book, and as well launch your career as an author… is that okay with you, Miss Wright?”

Wri Wright was suddenly overwhelmed with an immense feeling of joy and gratitude. “Thank you so much… thank you one thousand times. Yes, I heartily accept your proposition. You are making my dream come true.”

“I was on my way to see Mr.Feith when I stumbled on you… have you ever heard of him?”

“Yes, I heard that he could help me with the publishing of my book… I even had an appointment with him… but I don’t remember when,” she frowned, trying hard to remember.

“Luckily you didn’t put your book manuscript in his hand… he is a fraud and a crook. For years now he has been submitting to my publishing house plagiarized works. We were not aware, until recently, when an article appeared on him, and where our publishing house suddenly lost its good reputation… Anyway, that same day we found you, people picked him up in the street… he seemed terrorized, they said, raving mad about the devil being after him… he even burned his house.”

“Well, that would have made a good horror story,” she said dreamily.

“You bet,” he responded keenly.


P.S: It has taken me two weeks to write and edit this story, so practical and constructive criticism are welcomed.

Personal Narratives

The abandonment of a piece of writing is inconceivable to me

The abandonment of a draft is inconceivable to me, for it’s like abandoning a piece of myself; where this fear can even lead me towards obsessiveness. I don’t want to tuck away an idea that birthed out of my mind under piles of sheets and notebooks, to forget it in a dark corner, or even for that piece to remain untouched or unopened in the word processor. I want it to have a life, to have a chance to become concrete, to be touched by the heart and mind of others. Isn’t existence filled with objects, things, creatures, and beings that had the chance to exist, a chance to form part of reality? I know that I might seem too fanciful here while describing my fear of abandoning a piece of writing; but you know, creatively speaking about something isn’t at all superlative. 

Thus, I try as much as possible to not let unfinished writings sit for too long in my notebooks and word processor; I always try my best to finish them, to give them a life, to embellish them with the needed words so as for them to exist in the dimension of books and blogs. I think that’s why my mind is constantly busy with thinking and imagining, always trying to envision how the story unwinds. My head is a busy corner, an ant hill. 

Due to my fear of putting away an idea, a draft, or a piece of unfinished writing, I take time to create content, for I am unable to move on to another piece, to come up with the next story, poem, or blog post, not until I have finished the writing at hand. 

I made it a rule of thumb to finish what I have started, and this even though another idea arises in my mind, tempting me to abandon the work at hand. I try as much as possible to resist the urge to move on to the next writing project, because that next idea might as well remain in an unfinished state, and in the end, everything that I would ever get, is, an accumulation of unfinished drafts. 

I won’t tell you that my notebooks and online documents aren’t filled with unfinished writings, of scribbles scattered here and there, of jotted down words that beg to become sentences, of writings that I am too lazy to edit – nope, but most of them will form part of a bigger writing project, or will end up on this blog, or even as pieces added to my stories and poems. They are all mapped in my head and online files, and when needed, all that I will have to do is retrieve them. 

I prefer let something die in me instead of birthing it out from my mind to then afterwards let it in a state of abandonment; to toss it away and and let it die, to forget it, for, they come to haunt my dreams, insert themselves in my daydreams, and I just can’t stop thinking about them; they constantly arise in my mind. Thus the principle I’ve imposed on myself: to always finish what I have started, and this, no matter how hard it might be, or even, how much I want to work on another writing project. 

I have to constantly remind myself that it’s easy to imagine things and stories; but that to be able to concretize an abstract idea that only me can envision, and to unwind stories, poems, and my thoughts logically, in the universal language that most of us understand, I have to do the hard work of weaving my words together in a comprehensive and beautiful way. And it’s the fact that I have to go through the pain of all these re-writings that makes me want to abandon a draft that I have enthusiastically written; but then, it always happen that during the process of re-writings and re-edits, which I always think will be boring and not at all exciting for my mind, something else happens – that piece of writing always take a new shape, there is always a new passage that unfolds, which is always different from what I’ve imagined it to be. That’s how I always convince myself to finish the work, knowingly that I will end up with a different copy than that of my first draft, which in itself is a great reward for the reader that I am. 

If I had abandoned my writings, today I wouldn’t have written two books (well, though one is still at the unpublished state and the other had to be unpublished because it was filled with errors… but soon I’ll rectify everything), one of my short stories wouldn’t have been published in an anthology, and this blog would have been empty. To me, every single word, thought, sentence that comes out from my mind are worthy of being concretized and seen and read by other minds than mine – that is to say, to expand the field of this reality, while making it a little bit understandable, a little bit less boring, saved from the hands of abandonment. 

PS: as I am still learning the skill of editing effectively my own writings, all constructive criticism about this post are welcomed.


Twenty Twenty One

It’s a bright new year🎉

Exactly, twenty twenty-one

It came out from twenty twenty

A year that we shall forever remember

A year of transition, of shift

The point in time the door opened

For the future to creep in deep

Without us even realizing the deed

Too busy with pandemics and threats

Apocalyptic hues burning the sky

Might be the universe upgrading

Who will ever know about the scheme

Perhaps a spell, perhaps a curse

A strange type of madness that took over.

Hence, to all that silently departed

On that spaceship that had been waiting

That hovered silently, being on standby

To all that have collapsed on the ground

And hurt themselves so badly, achingly

My heart follows them, they carry me.

It’s a bright new year

Exactly, twenty twenty-one

Perhaps we leaped in time

To erase from our fragile memory

The traumatism of twenty twenty

All of the scars it left on us

When Pandora opened her jar.

It’s a bright new year

Exactly, twenty twenty-one

And I hope, we all make it safely.

Firecrackers in the night sky

This time, compared to my former New Year’s poems, I tried to dig within the speculation realm as to come up with this poem, for it seems that all of the bad energies, from every plane and every dimension, crossed/converged/synergised at that point in time, which was 2020. How strange, beautiful, but also frightening to find these lone stars/planets/light or whatever else travel such long distances as to meet, to intersect, to harmonise, to unite, as on their way they shackle and trouble us, little mere mortals (I love me some astrology🔮).