Month: May 2022


I feel sometimes like a forest creature; attracted by huge trees which weave the pattern of branches over the sky. In love in places filled with overgrowth, where other people are more than unlikely.

And even if I never hunted on animals, I feel a hunter – of solitude among woods, of paths that only I tread.

I have chosen a Hunter as my name and wherever I go, I see how fitting it is. I hunt for myself in the mushroom circles and old ruins. Talons deep in my prey, not letting it go. Ever.


I am so tired… my fears returned, taking even more tremendous shape, like Smaug, towering over Bilbo.

I can easily reasonate my conflicted soul, I can even be a good advisor to other people. But my brain is stubborn like a donkey and stupid like a pack of dodos and even if I understand that something just can’t be happening, my thoughts circle around it, fishing in it, catching each time fatter and more ridiculously looking fishes.

I think they caught an old shoe and few kilos of cellophane, too.

I wished Lithany Against Fear from Dune worked this time but it was choked with said cellophane and retreated, along with common sense.

Era Oscuro

those little men
encrusted with paint and ink into paper
hues on their armor, mystery in their eyes
shifting in my mind, rolling with curiosity within my heart

those little creatures
frog looks at me with its third eye
cat’s face human-like – it enters my dreams
tempting to open the grimoire once more

I studied history… long time ago. It was fascinating subject, dripping with both beauty and obliviousness of old ages. I clung to it, because it was settling me somehow in our times – I was able to be who I want to be, without resigning from my passion, not necessarily fitting in, with one foot in the past; but that didn’t matter when I was opening them.


Old, new, breathing ages and centuries through what was inside. Art, wars, culture, believes… it all was there, ready to be absorbed. Like a vital essence I needed, a water of life against normalcy and common life.

What I remember most, were simple medieval paintings, tiny lads with uncanny faces, mysterious creatures of unknown origin. There be dragons. And not only dragons, there were other, even more fantastic beasts, who I tended to copy and stick in my room. They were my passion, my coping mechanism and my door to enchanted garden.

And while most were delightfully creepy and odd, I couldn’t but smile at the humoristic ones, the best example is internet-circling man who smiles while other man pierces his head with a knife.

Secret garden knows honest laughter, secret garden tempts with fae, three-eyed frogs… and happily-murdered people.

I miss my books. I want to return to them. But as middle ages prove, everything passes. My Era Oscuro ended, blended with darkness, with its young sun and clear skies. And little knights with swords where they shouldn’t be.


my wooden ring is a shell
keeping your secrets closed
in the soft membrane
do you hear the voice of the sea?

my key is a stellar wing
it will open the moon
if you want to steal its secrets
it shines with light from the worlds above

my coin guards your dreams
and when you see my shadow on the windopane
the scent of holly berry will guide you
into the windswept forest

far from danger, far from sun

God of the Sun

So… again coming back with my Indiana Jones ranting.

Interior World would be a guilty pleasure, if I believed in guilty pleasures. I am not ashamed of reading this sillily written book. I just enjoy my nostalgic trip to when I was 12, eating crunchy apples straight from my garden and cared only about if next day will be filled with sun.

Now, again is sunny, world spins like crazy and I only miss these juice-apples to be fully happy with my Indiana not-so-much guilty pleasure.

I hang the glitter stars on the sun rays and become a Sun God of my childhood.

Ghosts and Birds

I am reading “Indiana Jones and the Interior World”… and honestly wanted so badly that the ghost ship was REALLY a ghost ship.

You know… mysterious and rainy chilean town… even more mysterious paintings showing the ghost ship… birds… ah the birds, they come from nowhere!

But then… no ghost ship.


Quill and Ink

The more I write – of my novel, of my poetry, of my silly thought about books, of detailed description of Louis de Pointe du Lac – the more assured I am that if not so called quill and ink, I would not be alive anymore.

Quill and ink. The reason to wake up at morning and the reason to feel that tiny love for myself. Because I created the worlds in which I live. Earth is falling down, but my own still spins and blooms with white flowers.