Monday, December 7, 2015

New means to understand old languages

Memories lie encrypted in the flickering of these stars in my mind. Testaments that nothing is ever truly erased, everything exists… somehow, somewhere. Though something is escaping this psyche, fading into nothingness… I guess that’s the poverty of my melancholy.

I may be many things, I may be less than thing… but I’m always happy when receiving a new pencil. The pleasure I have when I sharpen him for the first time, the eagerness him and I both share in that mutual fresh beginning, the mysterious ways which need to be described, new means to understand old languages. All those secrets which must be discovered, in this life… a life worth every living. Philosopher’s Stone in my midst, unforgotten truth of a beauty existing in all petite things; that which we strive to diminish and take only for granted. I guess now we all witness a ray of sunshine in my melancholy… melancholy translating itself into elation.

So I breathe out pleasure, and I inhale some more of this good old red wine. Dry and old, unlike me... crafted only to be drank with nothing less than a full occult satisfaction, just like me:)

Shadow tells stories of madness and crimes devouring my youth.

Thousand years would never be enough…

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