The Conscientious Observer

I think I'll be running ideas of what to write if my suffering didn't include my unending support for Manchester United Football Club.

Pugilistic Cor vult quod vult, donec cerebrum "non" dicit. A calloused heart beating a century of times every minute, rhythmic in its tone, seismic to the bone. It pumps blood to the soul and tells it to let it be known that there’s no better time than now to be feeling this alive. A fully grown body with a pugilistic attitude symbol for the futuristic servitude done for the raging fire, rising from an aging pyre whose straw is made from all the worse that’s yet to come. I feel eviscerated, by the ongoing dystopia I’m forced to accept as reality. I thought paradise was only a step away, but I found Armageddon to be closer. Thousand eyes staring at me, yet no one seems to notice that I’m drowning in the sea of worthlessness and irrelevancy. I was promised the world but I didn’t know there was more to the universe, the moon looks pretty tonight, and the stars breathtaking, but all I can sense is the itchy texture of the sand that has me covered neck down. I’ve seen the death of man, as I’ve seen the birth, I’ve heard about rebirth, from a sermon my restless mind had to reverberate to listen. Lately I’ve been feeling like a spineless vertebrate whose sin he’s unable to carry, yet I keep on keeping faith that I’ve been reborn, am being reborn, and was reborn in this vicious cycle as a sign for the light in the darkness, a sliver lining for this dark mist.

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And btw I've been waiting for this song's studio version for 18 months now. The acoustic version was one of the best things I've heard. I actually slowed it down and used it for the audio of "DAMNATI PRAEVALEBUNT".

There's no musical artist that depicts alchemist vs architect archetypal war than Eidola.

I feel like a dickhead when I just post some piece and then dip. To anyone who's wondering, I'm not a bot. I'm 100% real, I think.

My head is empty and full of white lies My head is empty and full of paralogical lies. Conversations with my old self hit a little different nowadays. He seems to make lesser mistakes with time, I sense a better future, laced with perfection and good faith. I pay homage to the seasons that changed the ways I thought of life. My head maybe empty, but it holds on to its lice, and the rain that nourishes them. The sun dries them up, the wind disperses them and I sense some honesty slowly seeping in as they do. Life’s a trip. A balanced imbalance placed in between the good, the bad, the great and the downright ugly. I always knew it wouldn’t be pretty, but I never anticipated it to be this filthy, something that is nothing short of purgatory. I can sense the sand flowing freely with each minute that passes by. Everything goes down to perspective but time was never on our side It fails to reside to its biddings in spite of which angle we dare to place our eyes. We try to replace our vices yet they always keep creeping back in. And it continues in the same cyclic process, of anguish and agony, languishing thoroughly through our entire skulls. Nonetheless, my head is empty until it lies on its deathbed and the insects that were chased away by the turbulent seasons and the cleansing I’d done in my life, return and place themselves on it. That’s when the cliché advice “Get out of your head,” becomes of some meaning, as I can only stay in that empty place for so long until I am forced to depart by those six-legged beings. Until then, my head remains empty and full of the white lies I tell myself in order to keep my sanity amidst the chaos. And I’ll keep telling those white lies until I discover the dark truth underlined by timelines all designed for the history books. Story to be continued.

The Enclosed Balcony When I was young, all I ever wanted was an open-air balcony, Next to a giant water-slide and unlimited supply of chips. I had a balcony once, but it was enclosed by some shitty glass window that made it too hot and smell terrible. That’s how it goes, and that’s how it flows. If you choose to follow, you will find yourself swallowed by a fate so hollow. At times, I misunderstand the decisions that were made for me. Lately, I notice I’m the decider, but there are certain folks who got their juries out. “Eat popcorn like this, walk with a clenched fist. Don’t add more than a drop of maple syrup on your waffles, make sure your arms don’t fill your shirt,” are amongst the usual. And every moment I see someone do that, I revert to my first balcony, the one that was enclosed by some stupid glass covering, depriving me of the opportunity of seeing the world through the ambience. I’m the angry type, I get it. The next cunt that tries to lecture my about it might end up eating the fist I was told to clench while walking. You don’t want to go there, trust me. What did you just say? Why don’t you come here and say it to my face, you little… More thoughts follow, I’m reminded that the human mind is shallow. Put it into perspective. Could it be that the balcony was enclosed so that I didn’t make the grave mistake of jumping off it? Erm, I mean, Even if that’s the case, they must have thought I was as stupid as the question I asked right now. I see a balcony as many things. Both bleak and optimistic. You jump off it, it’s over for you as long as it’s placed high enough to kill you. You stay on it, you get to see a view, one you’ve never thought you knew. Regardless of the outcome, the game’s about survival of the fittest, and enclosing a balcony is a direct form of blasphemy against natural selection. I see it as a window of opportunities alongside despair. It’s the place where your knee meets the ground and you build a family or it’s one where your voice constantly screams for a nonexistent entity. But nonetheless, it’s a place of life’s dualities, and enclosing it should be a sackable travesty. Life either comes at you with a gigantic middle finger or a massive hug that smothers you till you discover your sweet death. And I’m feeling its embrace tightening up with each hour that passes by. Feels great, man. Paradoxically great. Paradoxical, but great. I look at the view, astronomically pretty. But it looks like a weight too heavy for my atrophied gastrocnemius to carry. The horizon looks vicariously serene. I mean, that will have already been part of its CV by now. “Nonchalant, mysterious, hard to reach, they’ll never know what is beyond me,” it says. Such a pretentious being the horizon is! Such is life, innit? What would we be, without the concept of irony? I cried about an enclosed balcony, although I am writing this while sitting on one of the two open air balconies I’m privileged enough to reside at, And privileged enough to recite on.

And it all boils until it evaporates to the skies we hope to join one day. An hour, forty-three minutes, and ten seconds seem a lot until time flies and they look like fractions when compared to the greater eternity. March 2024

1:43:10 I was sitting on my chair, listening to some lo-fi music and a calming sound of sea waves as I was going through my day's study. One hour, forty-three minutes, and ten seconds in, I heard a voice in my head say the following. "I think the most beautiful feeling a person can feel is the feeling of despair, the feeling of heartbreak. For heartbreak brings art, and art is a way of bringing beauty out of ugliness, and meaning out of expediency." And so, I picked up my pen and decided to write about this infamous feeling. One hour, forty-three minutes, and ten seconds in I lay on top of my car, Staring up at the stars, Staring at all my scars Looking for some tape to stitch my broken heart by the corner of my eyes Maybe this could be a fresh start even if it tears me apart, I just realized. Sometimes we got to kick back to see the privilege of acknowledging the aesthetics offered by this overwhelmingly painful life. Perhaps we should learn that love might not be the remedy for this pain that knows no time. They say the most blissful feeling is the moment before we cry, But we do our best to hide our deepest feelings and stay in denial, Wearing the thickest of masks to prevent the spread of the viral thing that makes our fates intertwine. Ashamed of sharing a meal, in solitude we dine. As deep down we know that, in solitude we die. But we all have to ask ourselves if trying is worth a try. We live in a void, One that we either fill with the most expedient or hide. We hide it from the mass so it's not cursed by an evil eye, But at the same time, we're desperate to show our closet to someone whom we consider right. The void will always be up for us to fill, For at the end, it boils down to the question of freewill. April, 2021

“እሰብ” ለግሞ የቆየውን ኮልታፋ አፌን የፈታሁት፣ በአፌም ያሉትን ሸራፋ ጥርሶች የነቀልኩት፣ ቢቀምሱት ጣዕሙ ከማርና ከጨው ከሚልቅ፣ ቢዳብሱት እቅፉ ከእናት ጉያ በልጦ ከሚጠብቅ፣ ሊቃውንት ቢጽፉ በቃላቶቻቸው ሊደርሱበት የማይችሉት ንግርት በሆነው፣ ባንችው አንደበት ነው። ቢሆንም ራሴን ደጋግሜ እዋሻለሁ፣ የማውቃቸውን ቃላት አላውቅም ብዬ እከዳለሁ። “እሰብ” ይለኛል የውስጤ ምናብ። አብሮም ይሰማል ውጭ ካለው ዝናብ፣ ከዚያም አልፎ ይገባል፣ ከአንገት ባለ ክታብ። ዳሩ ግን ባስብ ራሱ ይሳነኛል፣ የጠፋውም ሃሳቤ በራፍሽ ዘንድ ይጠናል፣ ጠንቶም ይጠብቃል፣ ጠብቆም ይሄዳል፣ “አንኳኳ ይከፈትልሃል!” ይል አይደል ቃሉ? ታድያ እንዴት ራቀ እውነት ከብሂሉ? “ጠይቅ ይመለስልሃል!” ይል የለ ስብከቱ? እና እንዴት መልስ ጠፋ፣ ከነማንነቱ? ብጠይቅ ባንኳኳ፣ ብጠብቅ ሳይሳካ፣ ቀኝ ስያሻኝ ግራ፣ ሜዳ ስል ተራራ የሆነብኝ ያንቸው ነገር፣ በምን ቃል ይነገር፣ በምንስ ዘይቤ ይብራራ? አፍ የፈቱበት ቋንቋ፣ በድንገት ቢሰወር፣ ባህር ላይ ያለ ታንኳ፣ ወለሉ ቢሰበር፣ ቢለያይም ያው ነው፣ ትርፉ እስኪመሰከር። ውኃ ቢያሰምጠኝ፣ ሞት ይከተለኛል፣ ዝምታ ቢሆን ግን፣ ምን ገድሎ ይውጠኛል፣ ምንስ ቢበረታ ከዚህ ማጥ ያወጣኛል? አፌን በአንቺ ፈታሁ፣ ፊደልም ቆጠርኩ፣ ስትሰወሪ ግን፣ በዝምታሽ ታወርኩ። ከዚህስ በስደት አለም፣ ይቀልላል መኖሩ የባዕድ ሰውን ቋንቋ፣ እንደ አዲስ መማሩ። ምስጢር የሆነልን ቋንቋን የመልመዱ፣ አውቀው ከለመዱት ቃል ጋር ሲያዛምዱ፣ ነው እንጂ፣ ያወሩት ንግግር፣ ዘይቤና ሰዋሰው፣ እንዳይመለስ አርጎ፣ የምድር አፍ ሲውጠው፣ ምን ማድረግ ይቻላል፣ ምን አማራጭ አለ፣ ከማስመሰል ውጪ፣ ቋንቋህ እንደሌለ?

Grief's Inferno Upside down, crucify me upside down. Vilify every frown I make as my smile drowns, and when my kaleidoscope is overwhelmed by something so underwhelmingly brown. I need to get my thoughts straight. I need to think without some intellectual magistrate, having to censor everything my God-forsaken brain has to conjure up and force my tongue to say lest you visit their house soon. Lift me up high, and have my waxed wings melt, and as they do, be the trampoline on the ground that has me safe and sound for the time you’ll eventually crucify me upside down. Dear grief, have you not had enough? Why do you have to occupy our already-broken lives, to give us further sadness? I try walking away but your intoxicating ways keep crucifying me until I have a looping vertigo, pleading you let me go, but to no avail. I feel it lurking around. Lingering on the village where everyone hides from it just for it to catch them one by one. Dear grief, have you not had enough? What more do you want from us. We all know our time will come, so why not wait until then? Why do you have to make us suffer with this earth as a living hell? Crucify me upside down, go on, you have my consent. You’ll visit my house for now, and you will keep that up once I am long gone. Crucify me in the most humiliating way, and I’ll take pride in that. I’ve said the damned shall prevail, but as damned as you may be, as indomitable as you seem, your reign will one day come to an end. But until then, crucify me upside down, and best believe, motherfucker, I will wait until it’s your turn.

Proud of coming up with this piece.

Architect Descendant "It takes two to tango," is a verse often abused by those afraid of solitude. There will be times two ain't enough when the two in question becomes one on the undying ball between an alchemist and an architect. Two men damning their fates, by murdering sea-gulls off-shore. Their time spent by drinking their pain away with the city's ostracized whores. Two men saved by grace despite and ending up in the mountains of Andalusia, cultured by words from Athens and Rome, Alexandria and co, both sat down at the sycamore of a sacristy they'll never come to own. Redesign and reshape the world to a newer form, divide and dissipate the bonds of all that conforms to love to unison. Kill their child-like state, Fill their never-say-die faith. Build the shrines that lead to the light, kill their sight and bleed out your spite Two legs cris-crossing each other, two cerebral hemispheres trespassing their border surpassing their septum, deploring their outcomes. Redesign and rebuild, destroy and then recoup, choose a side, and live by that. An architect and an alchemist, a humble scribe and the Antichrist within the same sitting of a table. One does what the other evades. An alchemist known to menace, stands with an architect known to grimace at the site of destruction. Hard to make sense of it. This deep duality between construction and alchemy, chastity and sodomy, unity and dichotomy, is beyond just a mystery in this limited economy where the architect sows the seeds that the alchemist will eventually reap. And this game of poker continues, until one is forced to leave after having to endure the great pain of having to read 'em and weep.

Dissolution Libertas clavis est ad cellam carceris Iustitia autem "Cry even more you deserved to buy milk that turned sour. Cry even more you deserve the dry luck on every hour." She's got a colorful mind covered by mediocre eyes. She's the saturated color vision I get to see whenever I hear the phrase "happy hour". She don't know all this though as she's blind, whenever a mirror isn't there to show her her face. Metaphors filling my mind before shutting me down whenever I dare to dream. Meteors of metaphors rising alongside my ego before dropping with my confidence. She's got a colorful mind hidden by a mediocre life. I once saw her in the midst of a hyperchromic euphoria, until all else faded and I realized that every exaggerated color vision I've had was directly correlated with the gradual decay in my brain. The child-like state would live on until, like my brain, it gradually turned all gray, and the gleeful consolations I had received when I teared up slowly became vile words that spelled, "Cry even more you deserved to spill the milk you adore. Cry even more, you deserve to kill every light that's at store. Cry even more, your smile is all I deplore."

Kaleb's Inferno Fortuna nemini favet. Nemo enim valet I'll die to know what the soil of my grave would feel like. Would it be the loamy, fertile soil that grows trees under it from all the decomposed flowers that were left there as tribute? Or would it just be sand? A symbol for a lackluster and banal prognosis, an ominous prophecy? My infernos are the ones that taught me how to make my deathbed. I remember getting laughed at for not making my bed properly but now it's part and parcel of my major expertise. All these would work for one bed, though, as I'm apathetic for the rest. መሆኑ ለማይቀር የመሞቴ ነገር፣ ተግቼ እኖራለሁ፣ ኑሮዬ እንዲዘከር፣ Everyday, I tell myself a lie so mediocre. አላማ ሳይዙ በደመ-ነፍስ መዳከር፣ ባልባረኩት ውኃ ከነ-ልብስ መነከር፣ Grieving the nonexistent, till all becomes a blur, giving into the abyss, till pain is the only answer. ለእውነት ኖሮት ካሳ፣ በሐሰት መመስከር፣ ልቆ የበጎ ዋጋ፣ ጸያፉን መናገር፣ ደጉን ርቀን፣ ክፉውን ወድደን፣ ወርቁን ጥለን፣ ሰሙን ዘርፈን፣ ሄድን፣ ተጓዝን፣ ፊቱን ትተን፣ ኇላይቱ ዘንድ። I bathe myself in the sun, I dreamt exploding to dust. I've waited for you from dawn to dusk brought all the statues down into bust. ዘመድ አልባ የያዘው ውርስ በረንዳ አዳሪ ያኖረው ርስት፣ ቢኖርም የለም፣ በምድር ውስጥ። It's the worst of the worst. To the realest crocodile tears, I burst. I fight off every will to die, just to be met with the toxic side of existence. I waited for you, my Golden Fleece. But you're nowhere to be seen, nowhere to be located, and nowhere to be found. Tell me, are you elevated in the skies, or did you dig a grave seven feet profound? Tell me are you even real? Are your hands ones I can feel? Are the bruises you used as a smokescreen to make the masses believe that you're suffering palpable by my palms, and likely enough to heal? Am I growing psychotic, for thinking you can be neurotic? Why do I crave a presence even though it's robotic? Why does the outlet I deem to be cathartic make me so bloated and my days so gloomy? Why? Why? Why? ¿Por qué el amor que se presenta como barato tiene que ser tan costoso? ¿Por qué todo tiene un precio? እንጃ የአርባ ቀን እድሌ ቢሆን ነው፣ ባለ ነፍስ ሁሉ ፊቱን በኔ ላይ ያዞረው። Doubts linger, and I revert to my most clueless form and ask, for further evidences in hopes that I can acquire one. I've asked about your realness, but at times I doubt whether my existence is just another simulation, yet another dream interrupted by a noisy alarm. Fighting battles I can never win, wanting entities I can never access. What is this life? Ignore all I said right now and answer the following: If I called for your name out in the forest that happens to be my old friend, would you show up? Is all the promise worth the hype if you end up being what I thought you've always been? Tell me Are you real? Are you real? ARE YOU REAL? Tengo una pregunta pero sé que no hay respuestas. Tenía muchas preguntas sabiendo que la respuesta es una. Of course you are... real! How have I not caught up to this? If you weren't, why would I remember you when I spoke of what I envisioned of hell? Honestly, you don't have to put up with these shenanigans. I happen to be very shy, and if I ever met you, it'd probably be so that I get to say the following lines and run away into oblivion. Give me a second, let me get my note out. "Inferno taught me how to make my deathbed, although I'm still yet to lay on it. I'm yet to lay on it as it feels a tad bit bigger, when you're not next to me."