Still Searching

I’m still chasing ghosts – perhaps in fear.  Perhaps in love.  Perhaps in loathing.  I’m still searching, though I don’t know what I’ve lost, or what I yearn to find – though I’ve long been petrified by the glare of phantoms.

I’d rather be guided by these demons than wander alone.  I’d rather be preyed upon by illusions than strive for the nihilism of truth.  I’d rather succumb to this affliction than hope for the frailty of a cure.

I’d rather burn than wade into these tides, only to be assailed and cast back to the shore with scorn.

As The Storm Unfolds

Plants once thrived here, in resplendent bloom – infused with such wonder and vitality, bearing ambrosial fruits and flowering in a myriad of effulgent hues and virginal colours.  The rain bathed the soil in which they were sown – and yet did not besiege in deluge or flurry.  The winds bore forth their seeds, preserving their majesty beyond the throes of demise, and yet did not wrest their roots from the earth in tempest.  The sun nurtured their thriving, and yet did not desiccate or scorch, united in harmony with the rain.  Demons did not brandish their claws, nor rend the soil in their malice.  The sea surged not in frenzy, but soothed these crops with its tranquil hymn, rising with the falsetto of the wind and the whisper of rain as it kissed the earth.  Birdsong resonated, weaving its own euphonious melody into the symphony of nature.  Life blossomed boundlessly.

Then man encroached upon this isle, and brought forth with him his corruption.  They hewed the trees with their chainsaws and machinery, for the promise of gold bound in its rare wood. With fertilizer they sought to encourage further growth, surfeited not by the already flourishing multitude of fruits and crops.  Yet the soil was infected, and the taint diffused throughout the island – for all the roots were interconnected, weaving and intertwining infinitely as veins of the earth.  The roots withered, and the plants blackened, and the fruits decayed.  In desperation they kindled the isle – not in remorse, but rather to veil their sin in smog.  They forsook the isle, after they had marauded all vestige of life.

Yet these flames blaze still, charring the grace which once blossomed here.  The spirits imbuing these plants were released, and their purity was defiled by fury and the rancour of vengeance and love.  They haunt this isle, and persecute the shipwrecked.

The storm then unfolded.

What It Is To Burn

Maybe these shards don’t fit together any more.  Maybe they never did.  Maybe some fragments were lost to sea – or maybe I was the very one who cast them into the flames.

I know what it is to burn, enslaved by the light.  I know what it is to smoulder, and never flare.  I know what it is to be extinguished.

The seas rage still.  I am paralysed by this poison.  This twilight will break not in star-bathed night – for this fire is my conviction.   An eternity of fear binds this incendiary sun.  This perdition is my sanctuary – my home.  There is security in this cell of flame.

I grasp still at lightning and spectres.  I burn, to find salvation.  I suffer, to find convalescence.  I condemn myself, to find absolution.  These infernos will cauterize my wounds.  They will temper my fragile soul.

In searching, I lost myself.  I imprison myself in that which I cannot change.  I await still this flood.


Immobilised in twilight, I search the remnants of this shipwreck.  I treasure these serrated fragments of hope.  Blind I strive to piece them together, aware of and oblivious to its vanity, enthralled by the spell of these warring melodies – the frenzied roar of tides, and the cries of phantoms.  I bleed upon these scattered relics.  The embers sear my flesh.  Heat desiccates my throat.  Fever and venom devour my soul.   The torrents sweep the remnants to which I cling away.  Sardonically they withdraw as I pursue, their roars contorted to callous laughs.  I long to explore their depths – for the waters to wash over me in fury and flood.

I long to look upon the ocean, and see my reflection there – crystalline, undiminished.  Enervated, restless – I long to dream, awakened not by the din of rainless tempests, or the howls of demons.  I long to sleep in these shallows, embraced by the waves which bludgeoned me.   I long for the ebb and flow of these tides to be my lullaby.  I long to be christened by their serenity – to be delivered from this purgatory.  Yet I damn myself to remain.  I am not worthy of their grace.

I was always broken.

The Art of Drowning

I wander the shadows cast by this light, incarcerated by that which liberated me – cursed by that which blessed me.  A spectral rhapsody sounds, plundered of cadence or harmony. I am bewitched by its necromancy.  I am poisoned by its poetry.  I am plagued by its lingering, vitiated grace.

I watch the waves crash upon each other, in savage enchantment, marooned upon this shore of embers.  I eavesdrop upon this orchestra of woe, as a solitary and veiled audience.  My own voice rises – evanescent, fragile, bereft of echo.  The tides beckon, and yet heed me not.  They surge forth and recede, in perpetual vagary. Oppressed by this sun, I yearn to plunge into their depths.  I yearn to be consumed.  I yearn to drown in their feral artistry.

Yet I am anchored by this quicksand.  I am a convict of myself.  I am entombed in these ashes.

Blessed and cursed

The lightning which irradiates this night rends the earth beneath my feet.  This inferno flares forth to thaw my frozen soul; yet it scorches and blinds me.  I am asphyxiated by its smog.

Ghosts wade through the mist, possessing me with their glacial splendour.  Shrieks rise to roars, and fall to whispers, ever shifting, jarring and intertwining in thunderous refrain.  In fleeing I pursue them.  I am deafened by their dirge.

I am blessed and cursed.


This Blog is an invocation of my soul’s odyssey; a hopeful, forlorn incantation which is both channelled by and a guide to my silent wanderings: both a medium of the darkness, and a torch illuminating its depths.  I hope that in my endeavours henceforth to discover some vestige of sense – to, indeed, find myself – amidst this chaotic existence, your soul may find company in my catharsis.  For none are alone in their strife of direction.

It is within the enchanted emptiness of the Arts that I find the harmony to dream.  My identity is bound herein, and my faith slumbers here – upon this blank canvas.  The colours may not be always resplendent, or vibrant – the strokes of despair shall weave together with those of promise, in clashing textures and broken resonance.  This maelstrom of hues and tones will resemble and defy the storm in which it was wrought.  In consummation, I hope only that its shattered symphony may conquer this sonorous cacophony of thunder – that I might capture some thread of melody amidst this dissonance, some glimmer of aurora despite the swathes of shadow, some mote of grace to endure the deluges of discord.  I hope only for fortitude.  I hope only for Clarity.