The following article was published in N-SPHERE August 2011 issue.


Again the stream of my words lies choked six feet under, and the only clue of its former existence is an annoying groan than sticks impenetrably to my ears bringing the madness upon me. I still feel drained and incapacitated beyond belief and repair, incapable of stepping outside both the wreckage of my flesh and that of my consciousness.

“Some would say that you are the architect of your misery, and that just might be true. Not that I want to be another voice in the horde of judging bastards scrutinizing every frame of your colorful yet gray days, but there’s still a higher understanding of all this that still eludes you.” “Yes… here comes the spiritual approach of mediocrity. But I still want to wonder the streets in the dark and gaze upon my distorted reflection in the concrete that will one day cherish and nurture my remains. I still want to plunge into the nothingness of the stars and search the lost touch of the god that once protected me.” “Indeed a subject to study late at night. It inspires the stories dormant beneath your skin and divine intervention at your doorstep keeps the sanity watching over the last empire of carefully crafted imagery. Ever wicked tools of your trade disappear briefly beyond the candle light.”

But now you leave. And even if I did not realize, or maybe I’m just deluding myself again, for I do not know what is real and what is not anymore, the bottom of the pit still holds fragments of … something … something that causes the putrid walls of the soul to bleed again. And just when I was getting the feeling that things were starting to go right. Just when I finally turned my head away from the endless line of exterior and altered creations passing before my eyes, that cloud my judgment and keep me inert and powerless. And I scream in pain and shriek inside with every image that I’m doomed to see.

“Good thing you don’t need to get out… right?”


text & artwork by Bahak B

Full article here.