The song “Sleepwalker” by producers akiaura, LONOWN and singer STM gifts our ears with phenomenal unparalleled compositions which results in a new revolutionary genre that, yet again, creatively blends the bridges of electronic music, dark wave, witch house and phonk. It is that impactful that any time I listen to it (which happened more than 100 times for sure) it causes me to have visions and inspirations of moments, characters, stories, pictures, feelings, motions and situations. I don’t really know what all of that might mean hollistically but I highly thank the artists for gifting me another piece of the puzzle. So here I present you the short story inspired by the song Sleepwalker, perhaps even a script for a future music video project:
Lady Kathy was in trouble of coming to rest. A natural instinct teared her off her bed. She bestired herself from her bedchamber and refrained from lighting the oil lamp that was placed on her bedchamber cabinet. The midnight moonlight that shined through her whole being right at this moment was already too radiant for her to endure further lighting. Everything glowed all to much for her. “These forms, these tremendous colours utterly overwhelm my vision” escaped from her lips as she tried to get a hold of herself. In her long white nightgown she resorted to the corridors of the castle. At that exact moment she was absorbed and stricken by an enormous force that lingered in the air as if it was waiting just for her all along. These odd energies and forces in the sphere interweaved into her spine so much that Lady Kathy shuddered with sheer horror which resulted in an instant cold shock of sweat as if she had seen a demon or a ghosty creature, but this did not truly happen – it was rather the demonic that resided inside of her which awakened. Fog that creeps ever closer now swirls wavelike and S-shaped from the tip of her toe up to her face like a summoned genie in a bottle. With the most torn open eyes which made her veins throb a timelapse of all her life moments played back on the surface of her eyes. It’s as if one had granted her the gift of resolution of the worlds most profound mystery which of course hurt and was too much for a sole body to bear. Who she was, who she wasn’t, what she did, what she gave, what she learned, what she taught, what she drove, loomed in her iris like a predestined prophecy that is now forever vanished.
While all of this is being performed in the castle’s interior, the exterior rampaged altogether. Trees had to battle for their balance very suddenly, flowers for their survival, slumbering birds for their gentle shelter. But within all of this distress one thing was found: It was the most beautiful moment of the tides. Glass-clear crystals followed by numerous imminent splinters and flakes rained down from the sky and they formed eternal spinning spirals in their flights. Their synchronicity is reminiscent of a well rehearsed dance just for this exact moment that expires forever very much into the next. The crystals rain down and cut the sphere. If nature was a body it would be bleeding by now. The moon, very much delighted by this phenomenon, ablazed in new splendor and light of deep nightshade. This new flock-shaped emergence revealed a much magnificent picture of great grandeur: The crystals sparkle and shine in total radiance due to the astral moonish spotlight because the moon is an artist herself now and wants to partake in the limelight of this matchless show. To form a whole as jingling and moving parts – this is their pure existence. A monstrous howling joined the whole theatrical performance. It is uncertain if the sound belonged to a wolf or not. Considering the vibrant picture of the foreground the sound could’ve also belonged to those of Gargoyles that encircled the whole castle.
Lady Kathy seemed to be just as well captured by this sphere which drags oneself through time and space and then putting one into place, the harmony of it all.
Just as Lady Kathy figured out the mystery, she faints.
Almost a year has passed since I drafted a new entry and not a single day went by where I didn’t thought of doing so. The writer’s block seems to be nothing new or fatal in the world of a writer. However, just like debutantes are being strictly educated in matters of etiquette and morals before they enter society, I equivalently declared my own duty or obligation at minimum to meet certain requirements before I publish any scripts.
For I am weary of finding no anchors in the web. Its the era of the 2008s and 2012s that is regarded as imperative to reclaim back, a time characterized by originality. But how do I approach this sensational scheme of mine in a SEO and AI dominated architecture? I’ll have to go against the tide of the black-and-white-0-and-1 dataocean. Let’s find out what that might look like.
Immediately this standpoint is being imposed on me: How can I write without being pretentious? The methods of the masses prove themselves excellently, if my purpose was that of pure sterilisation. But it’s brighter than that.. It is a matter of taking up past questions that where long time forsaken. It is a matter of a sense8-esque connectivity of individuals and worlds in their distinct dimension of dreams and arts. Capturing, dwelling and ever roaming only to continue the cycle all over again. It is about fostering humanity with natural resources and that may not be enormous but it is enough by all means.
So I went to seek guidance of the all too often reliable helper, the library and flipped through several pages of books of journalistic nature. Thus I found formulas and recipes for the perfect blog post or the ideal review. On the face of it, a highly reasonable activity one would think to themselves! But to hell with being reasonable. Under the surface there lies the dilemma: Do I really want to distort my own free creating with premoulded thoughts and structures, since sprouting and sprinkling of hazy ideas is something very idiosyncratic to me? Yet how does one talk about things, if all spoken word is distorting everything truly real since language is just a construct, an insufficient attempt to depict reality? How can I ever write without ever losing authenticitiy? I am surprised by this literary soulperfectionism of mine. Let’ get further to the bottom..
Speak in sooth and lose the truth And it troubles me. It hardly troubles me since writers precede one: they are observers by nature. Yet the most beautiful observed phenomenons can’t be conceived in speech without losing their beautiful effect. They unfold their literal magic in the souls of the observer – and not in twodimensional letters. The highest and most beautiful things are tacit in their appeals.
It’s like anything that is being transfered from the inner to the outer is losing its intensity and originality, as if this immense perfomance costs a high price, a kind of loss or wear. Because this finite world could never allow infinity taking refuge in her arms. Perhaps its the tranformation process from the supernatural into the natural world. Comprehensible, for we prevail under her laws, mother nature. And ultimaly we don’t live in a kind of Hex of our cerebral dreams.
Science is dead.
What I really wanna achieve is originality in a world that is dead; vastness in world that is narrowed and defined; multidimensionality in a world that is so singular driven.
Glimmer of hope Words might be imperfect, yes, still even if they are never able to convey the essence of a matter, they are our bridges. They allow us to transfer magical moments into the cosmos of other natural forces called humans. Words eventually don’t need to be perfect, just sincere. If they are able to create the possibility of a beautiful impact, for that they are incredibly worth being expressed.
And even if they might be insincere, within this allowance of incompleteness there lies relative perfection. In this steadily practice and adjustment the art gets to refine itself. Eternal gathering results in a mental overload. But if those gathered ideas are being assigned to their higher structures occasionally, then one successfully escaped the tormentor entropy.
It’s not even the words themselves with tremendous impact, its the effect behind them, which matters. It’s the meanings, memories and visions, that buzz in the thoughts in the course of the sound of a word just like the ever fading gong of a standing bell persevering in the air. It’s about those catalyst moments just as they appear in nature, when nature forces collide, push off or complete each other. It’s the magic of the wonder, not that of the controlled pure outcome that should lead us. The wonderful art of synchronous sprouting.
Mastery of any art is not just a question of control. It’s equally important to let oneself fall. Surprise. Expression. Just like the dancer who moves imprecise although effortless. Where there is nothing pretended. Real motions followed by true devotion.
We can respond to the sweet doubt now with redemption: Littlest doubt, your fear, not being able to master something uniquely, that hasn’t even started yet, is understandable, humane und known, yet, to your highest luck, more than unsubstantiated. That, which we try to master, shall not be confused with what fullfills our lives with purpose. Follow the reciprocity of intuition and information. It’s the thunder, that emerges in the highs of the sky and exudes vertically trenchant onto earth. Just like the unawareness of what might come first, flash or sound, just as equal is your vast thought process, yet always uniting. Take hints of scientific knowledge and let your mind wander freely. The intuition’s correspondent part is the colossal stone which represents the solid concrete in this world unlike the dynamical flow of ever forging airs. Lucid knowledge will always remain to consume intuition and conversely trenchant truth remains to consume lucid knowledge. A pair of lovers of the tides.
Finally, one shall be mentioned – that children are miracles so be wise just as them. Be a bit like Alice and find joy in the moment of utter chaos and complexity as she dives down the rabbit hole. Everything contains a bit of joy and magic, fantasy and euphoria. Then you’ll learn to paint flowers red if you only possess white ones and then you can see a thousandfold beyond what is.
Travel Trip to Autumn – with the Girl on the other Side
📱
“Hey Su! Long time no talk. How have you been?”
📱 “Hi, I’ve missed you! I had a beautiful day today, see: . . . ” su is typing
Along the footpath
Once again it was about time to transform time into a beautiful lasting memory. Unlike Holden Caulfield, the catcher in the rye, my today’s mission as the catcher of the good, beautiful and true was to obtain the beauty of autumn before it was too late – before descent and constructionism put all obstacles in the way and monopolize autumn with their truth stealing scythes. I was competing against time. Thus, I only had to follow uniqueness and unrepeatability and everything would turn fine, I’d think to myself.
After taking solely one step outside of the house, I discovered my first catch in the name of the mission with my invisible collectors net that are my eyes and the attention of my mind. Some people would roll their eyes now and think to themselves: “Sure, I could also romanticize every of my single antsteps so far that I may notice the deceptions I’ve trapped myself into one day and how far I’ve departed myself from reality.” Okay. Maybe that’s what they think, but what does it still truly mean, if a butterfly accompanies me the whole footpath long? How can it be that this particular butterfly – when butterflies already have a very short life expectancy by nature and naturally don’t occur in autumn that often – is honouring me with its rare colourful beauty and exceptional splendour and presence on this autumn day at this exact time and place – on a day on which the uttermost personal intention was preset to capture the richness of colours, shapes and magnitudes in nature. How is it that I encounter a hiking butterfly during my own hiking trip, while butterflies are known for their migration over great distances? Isn’t all of this a hidden sign pointing at a higher truth, perhaps the embodyment of endurance, perseverance and the discovery of new horizons? How can it be that I as a natural explorer of the worlds beautiful tides am being constantly confronted with the alterations and elusiveness of nature, only to encounter a butterfly whose affirming metamorphosis is the purest form and symbolization for alteration and transformation in itself. Why are the pieces of the puzzle joining together so harmoniously, while other mysteries remain unknown? Another research question that arises. With all these impulses I was reinforced to continue the path I took for todays mission and I was excited to face further spontaneity.
Further on my path I flourished at the thought: For once I am granted to experience nature how it wants to be seen rather than how it is bluntly dealt with and generally waved aside. If one didn’t look up to the sky for a long time, one will rapidly lose themselves in its sight and find relevance in its elements. Clouds are sneaking waveringly and forging arts with their translucent shapes. Birds are conveying universal signals with their flights not only to mankind. Just like that, concrete life right before my eyes is turning into some kind of surreal ideal animation of a bigger and better timezone. I just can’t let my eyes wander off of all those things. Perplexed and beguiled at the same time by this phenomenon I move on with the path of my trip.
On the train
After getting into the train and taking a seat I quickly noticed all the dust particles on the trains window that where only being perceivable through highlights due to the vigorous rays of the sun. How can sole grains of dust sneak into my mind so vehemently? It must be their meaning that weighs heavily. Their sight, the constellation of endless grains, elicits something automating and natural inside of me. More precisely, their sight mentally catapults me into the tide of another world as if I’m gaining access to a veiled door that is so far-off from tracts we call home. Some may find it foolish, to prescribe trivial banalities this much thought and meaning but when it lies in your nature being consumed by curiosity nothing in the universe doesn’t deserve not being acknowledged. It’s as if I’m being permitted by the sun, the grain and the moment to conduct my experiments in the laboratory that is the fog.
The experiment starts and my thoughts flow – just like chemicals from one piece of glas to another: The dust particles constellation is so infinite and random that it was impossible to find structure inside of it, yet they were all the same and similiar to one another. And behind them on the cold but sun-kissed window surface flows life and therefore different imposed dimensions of the ups and downs. It is influencing them in a manner by radiating the particles’ abyss in various kinds of colours – because you are always exactly that which stands in relation to your ground, the world. Aren’t we also nothing other than random minimal matter of a dust grain on an enormous platform, while the universe is flowing all around? Everything is insignificant like million dots on a plate and yet we attribute constructed matters outside of the laws of nature more meaning than the true occurences right before our eyes.
The classic inside of the train will never get old, I smirked in thought. I again look outside of the window and see life passing by. This time I’m looking at beknown bodies that are stirr and frozen by nature but they seem to be moving by now. Who can claim that they’ve seen the magnificence of 100, 200, 300 accelerating trees within 3, 6, 9 athletic seconds? Practically everyone. And yet no one claims to have done so.
At the café
After arriving at the cafe, that was filled in patterns of concrete, life acted out in front of me supernaturally and at the same time a proportion of the in the fog residing explorer inside of me departed. Within my by now bewakened childish joy that humans usually like to wear I’m delighted by the warmth und the spicy scent of a drink that they call pumpkin spice latte. I’m delighted by the bagginess of big pompous armchairs, iridescent lights in warm inviting tones, by dark dull deep woods. I’m comforted by the textiles upon my skin that gift me gentleness and softness right at this moment. I was unwittingly pleased by all of these impressions that were pressing themselves on my being with utmost force from all edges.
Then, only then, the other explorer of lower secondary rank who resides in the hearts of others allowed herself to venture forward the more concrete humanistic possibilities and to conduct further studies in secrecy – wholly without any fog. The recognizable truth on this level is far more tangible and within reach than executing studies on the airs. She feels closer to truth more than anything else and therefore she vainly knows that this close available truth can’t be the uttermost veritable one. Yet she dives into this less sacred scenario since conditions are complied upon her chest and she was a sustainable one by nature.
She shifts her mind into the depths of the most concealed spot in her eye whereby she unlocks access to a more proficient vision. Her eye is nothing other than the consolidated form of a telescope of a humanly-detached and rather by the beauty of the stars mesmerized astronomer. Her vision reaches far more wide and profound now, almost channeling throughout the solid bodies of her objects of observation. The truths all lay here. Here the truths become clear.
While observing she’s solely ascribing and classifying in a heartbeat. A young man who asked for the young ladies hand. Both so youthfully exuding exotic joy, with the touch of a considerate gesture. A flower bouquet thats supposed to provide for a certain romantic atmosphere. In their sacred world sparks are currently sprouting into all directions and the biodiversity of over 150.000 ghosty butterflies are surrounding them in and outside of their auras. The eyes are entrapped in one anothers. If you would exhibit their eyes frames in a gallery, you could see the most beautiful portrait paintings of historical figures of their time – thats how they looked at each other. A positive assessment is the conclusion of this study. A positive progress of a possible inseperable connection. Wise lessons are what’s about to approach these individuals.
Then everything turns black. The view of the telescope obscured now. Something else, someone else demands the attention of the observer. A tender being is trying to sneak into the vast maze of my researches. Does she want to join in? Or does she only want to be the product of my art as a part of her own want, a self-affirming act in the thread of her self prescribed life. But her glance is too gentle to assert her pure desires. Her movements too soft. Her ability to withdraw from the vivid atmosphere too skilled. Being involved with such a gentle character I could easily see her hopeful eyes that were searching for mine. I could translucently detect her attempt of a visual grasp with my peripheral view only, no deeper direct see-through vision needed. Does she perhaps recognize the deep demeanor of my eye by holding the same kind of vision hidden inside of herself? Could it be that she’s another explorer whose research perhaps is specialized upon explorers of the beauty – like myself? Shouldn’t explorers unite? The urgency of her questioning but hesitant glimpse suggested an enormous cause-effect relationship that could be generated. Lightness to grasp the answers out of the sky suddenly appears so near. But in reality I could never truthfully help her research reach a higher contribution by simply intervening all by myself, destroying the naturality of a self-inflicted chance. The mechanics would simply stop spinning flawlessly. I truly can’t use the devotion of my vision for all all-purposes, they have to take place intrinsically. Thus, I held back turning the vicious untruthful possibility into reality that would’ve only led to distortion. I rather let naturality run freely amongst todays set intention and gently and content enjoyed the presence of my yet distant, however still close explorer counterpart.
here’s a visual animation of the last paragraph
If you want to listen to the full song with lyrics click here (highly recommended!)
A very rare and exceptional autumn day that I’ve gotten to experience with total intensity because all sensory and imaginative contingencies deserve to be relished to their fullest extents. May it be in the form of adrenaline releasing bungee jumping or bungee jumping in the realm of your own thoughts. There is sincerely no difference.
But all of this is not what I’m going to reply. Instead I strike through everything I just wrote and spill out fragments that would rather soothe and comfort you and bring you harmony and joy than forcing you to ever subordinate and forge yourself into the nebulous complexities of my own thought palace. I write:
📱 “Hi, I’ve missed you! It was lovely. I had a wonderful cozy day at the cafe drinking and relaxing to a cup of pumpkin spice latte. How are you? What’s been on your mind lately?”
A young woman was about to move herself out of her long slumber, altering from the realm of dreams into the world of ordinary being and illusion. The full-size bed she snoozed in, which she could have never conquered all by herself with her simple existence, lays on a platform at high-rise level. The balconlike ground contains limitations on the sides through walls, however it lacked such at the top. Without a roof her gaze was determined to glance at one sight only – namely the totality. Her eyes consumed by the entirety now gradually conceive the outer happenings. Theres was nothing more true than the beauty of the morning acting out right before her eyes, the majesty of the entire creation.
But what exactly was it, that she so tenderly saw?
In the dark and dawning purple sky she did see various small little black structures and pixellike forms that were circling, rushing, accelerating, while reflecting small light dots of blaze and shine. Every single form had a purpose in the district of the greater entireness and thereby they depicted great entirety as a whole themselves. They formed so ever multiplying and dynamically danced in the dawn time sky. They merged with one another, almost hand in hand, and danced and floated synchronous in the birth of the rising sky, which seemed to personally salutate its keen observer and counterpart. Fireworks of existence, that was her entire world for the moment. It appeared to her as if they depicted a more real and true embodyment of a fragmented crystal, which extended its spikes into all directions of the universe, so that everyone can be drowned and stung in the beauty of their shards, because impermanence needs to be caressed. She was so mesmerized by the spectacle, she had to eternalize it.
Oh, if she could hold onto this moment forever..
She took her device to testify truthful magnificience to her mankind. She had to transfer this moment into the eyes and hearts of the others. Yet, even this moment was volatile by it’s nature. Because beauty lies also partially in the element of impermanence. She went to the door and had to discover that her room on the platform had a portallike linkage to two further buildings – so she saw into the vast life of a shop on her right and to her left into the open unmasked life of her resident. “Whether they were also granted the beauty of the dawn?” – is what she wondered to herself. …
All of this was only a dream of mine.
I had this dream 24 hours beforehand this transcription I’m noting here just now. I would’ve almost forgotten about it and lost it out of my memory forever if I didn’t came across words like these, when I was planning out the new upcoming year:
These words magically triggered my memory. Words hold so much power to them. Or maybe it’s my own perception of words and how much significance I prescribe them..
The imagery was the most ethereal view I ever saw – both in reality as well as in the dreamworld. Even AI was not able to capture the beauty of the moment authenthically in all of its details, which makes sense since I saw things that weren’t occuring in the real world. Maybe I watched too many trip-videos on youtube in the past, who knows. My subconscious seems to love the idea that everything real is actually an unrefined version of reality and there are far more real and ideal versions of reality and truth than we are ever or hardly able to understand.
I asked AI to interpret my dream and this is what it came up with:
“This dream suggests a deep appreciation and reverence for the beauty of the world around you. It symbolizes your desire to be fully present in the moment, capturing and sharing this beauty with others. The fact that your bed is positioned on a high level without a roof signifies a sense of freedom and openness to new experiences. The emerging and dissolving structures and forms represent the constantly changing nature of life and the steady flow of creativity and creation. The dark and purplish-violet sky indicates a sense of mystery and transformation. The connection between your room, the store, and another person’s house may imply a merging of different aspects of your life or an openness to new connections and experiences. Overall, this dream reflects a longing for beauty, wonder, and a strong desire to capture and express these experiences.”
If my dream could be translated into a song, it would be this one:
Fluctuations are nothing other than contractions of earth that unite everything. Yet why did ours rip everything out of existence’s reach.
I see and waver in endless interwoven galaxies of the experienced. It’s the distance of reach that allows vibrations to come close.
It’s the irregularity of your being which is absolutely not an illusion that holds me together because everything real must inevitably be paradoxical. You embody nothing more correct. The symbol of existence for itself. Monopoles and Magnets. This is my approval for you.
Your magic is the magic of the world, thus I continue to collect spells to cast acts of magic.
Sappho, spelled (in the dialect spoken by the poet) Psappho, (born c. 610, Lesbos, Greece — died c. 570 BCE). A lyric poet greatly admired in all ages for the beauty of her writing style.
Her language contains elements from Aeolic vernacular and poetic tradition, with traces of epic vocabulary familiar to readers of Homer. She has the ability to judge critically her own ecstasies and grief, and her emotions lose nothing of their force by being recollected in tranquillity.
suelysium.com 