Theme: the folly of loss
Tagline: The sentiment of losing someone, or even something, can cause the kind of torment that’s hard to surpass. And everyone deals with tragedy in their own way, even those from the paranormal side.

He left her, in silence, in the midst of a deadening night; a dark and cold night that only her heart could feel. Yet there was thunder and lightning that covered the sound of her devastating pain and loud cries. She sat in the chair that faced a print art by the famous painter, Toulouse Lautrec — which he always professed as his first existential love at first sight. And she felt more sadness and ache crushing her poor little heart. That night, her tears were unstoppable.
“Why he covers their eyes?” He once asked her, fascinated by that painted silhouette. “Strange, who will ever know what’s germinating inside of a restless mind, same as you… same as when you brought me back to life on that night.”
She had no answer for him. She couldn’t even remember what was the catalyst to her own folly, all that she remembered about that night, was only the feeling of need to cut through her pain of loss. She sat there, in silence, with the rain pouring hard. The spell was not for him, not for that stranger that came back from the dead, but the spell was to bring back the one she dearly loved, and still did.
What went wrong. Where was her heart back then. Could heartbreaks lead to a folly of that extent. These were all the questions that kept her awake in the middle of these sleepless nights, where still, no answers whispered back to her.
“He seems good where he is, he didn’t even heard your call, but I did, and I am here… why are you crying, because he didn’t come back for you? He is good where he is, much better than around, and when we find better, we never want to go back to what’s downgraded… so dry your tears now, for he is good where he is.” Since that day all of her was ruined. It was an evil thing that took possession of that dead body — his body, the now empty vessel of the one that cared for her. A silly and unconscious action that she utterly regretted.
“Only servants bring back what’s lost. Thus, you are my servant from now on, and you will do whatever I’ll say. I am your master, and you will always address me as such. Before, I was a powerful imperator, before being beheaded by a horde of my own people… after all that I did for them… all, ungrateful.” But what she wanted to tell him that day, was that he really was a tyrant, a heartless tyrant, a spectre that sprouted from the realm of nightmares.
She had served him, staying quiet all along, pitying her own self for shaping her own tragedy. Then, it happened, his body started to decompose. His skin peeled off like leaflets, his hair fell down, even his bones became flask. “What are you waiting, prepare the spell for my rejuvenation.”
“Yes, master, I am working on it.” She bandaged his whole body like a mummy, and patiently waited. He, became weaker and weaker, where he couldn’t even emit any sound, imprisoned into thick cloth from head to toe — she, became stronger and stronger, where she could feel life again, freed from her own spell.


Log Entry: My sister sent me a documentary video about the negative side of the web; and as always, I was inspired to write my thoughts in a creative way.

When the web becomes an inspiring tool

I sit in front of my screen and wait. I wait for the likes and for the shares and for the positive comments. I had uploaded a selfie of mine earlier — perhaps to show my joy, or perhaps to have some celebrity love, or perhaps . . . I don’t even know why I do that! It became so mechanical over the time . . . now that I think about it . . .

The trees and the flowers they change colours and withers through the changes of the seasons, and I, I don’t even bother to look at their beauty anymore. The book covers on my shelves are clothed of smoky dust with aesthetic words that seem to get lost through the days, and I, I don’t even bother to read the pages. My pen . . . oh! you should see my pen, it sits lonely into the dusty pot with dried ink on its tip, and I, I don’t even care to let my words flee into the world. And the papers . . . well, they are all wrinkled now, and I, I don’t even bother embellishing them.

But still, I sit here and wait for the likes and the comments that will shatter my heart to pieces and hostage my mind for the days to come — or perhaps . . . thrill me with joy. But what kind of joy? Not natural, not true, fake, not mine . . . not mine.

Who sees me through my mirror? A mirror through which I can’t seem to look at myself anymore, and a mirror that my eyes skip so that others might give me value. What have I become? . . . Instead of valuing my self-worth I let others rate my own likes and dislikes. I have assassinated my own being and left my body and my own existence into the hands of others . . . careless, and not even being able to know their own self-worth through their own mirror. My soul, it cries — it cries for it has been scattered into every places and spaces where time seem to alleviate everything.

Was it loneliness? Was it a feeling of being misunderstood? Was it for frenziness? Or was it for escapism? But why and for what? And I wonder, I wonder why I wandered into this virtual space and lost my balance into this process of wandering into a web area where everything seemed new to my eyes, and where walking on web threads to reach a stranger nest for exchange seemed so thrilling, and I blame myself for my stupidity and ignorance, for no perfection exists. Chaos . . . chaos through my own ignorance.
But what if . . . what if I write about it into an online carnet . . . how do they call that again? . . . a blog, I think so . . . I love to write and I love to read, and I love everything visually aesthetic that triggers positive vibes in me . . . Oh these good vibes, how bad I miss these inspirational ambience. I think that perhaps I haven’t done it the right way, I was not enough balanced and mature, perhaps a broken piece lost into space and ghostly floating without purpose and meaning . . . ignorance. It hates chaos and likes order, sequence, process. But do I process . . . do I.
Look at the shadows of light dancing upon the ground as the wind blows away the window curtain. And the birds, hear how their singing echoes right straight to your heart. Oh the sun upon my skin . . . it warms me up. What are we without the beauty of nature? I have always wondered.

Process, sequence, action, reward.

But wait a second . . . just wait there, what if I created my own little creative webspace — there I will use the tools given, so as to show things of inspirational essence, things to inspire others to tap into the show off of their skills and purposes, and thus, we will all step into a winning system far away from the regression effect. I better invest myself into designations that will level me up towards higher purposes.

I will shed this horrible feeling of dissecting myself so as to make sense of who I really am. I will use this space wisely and integrate my own system to it so as to collide into a digital synergy on which I will be able to focalise positively.

. . . How uneasy it is to think of an idea, not saying difficult. However, it has to take place into mind . . . everything starts in the mind. Well now, let’s stop the daydreams and start the process of gestation, because if the subject of eternity can wait on its own, here, concrete time would prefer to devour us, so to speak.