Thin-Film Interference

A room dominated by darkness. A hand resting against the cool glass. The somber hour before sunset when ends and beginnings are entwined. Her figure is accentuated by the contrast against the window. What lies beyond is saturated with life, what exists behind it is a vacuum. Where does her mind go when her gaze lingers and her body becomes rigid?

Lady behind the glass, what do you see?


Radioactive Bliss

It’s better this way. Enough light to illuminate your next step and nothing more. Be grateful you have it. Why know more if it means the demolition of your edifices? You have spent years erecting the pillars. You need to reside somewhere. The inside is tumultuous and capricious, and you need shelter. Why destroy your creations for the sake of intellectual pride? Pride… like the devil. The pleasure of knowledge; the apple. That’s when you fall. That’s when you reach for one thing and lose it all. He whispers misguided commands: be inside your head and think! Think yourself into an everlasting slumber. Step back to admire your creation and then watch it tremble as the earth devours it.

Heirs of the earth, nature’s peculiar children, progenitors of metaphysical destruction: despair.

Genetic Drift

The earth is scorched and forsaken. You sit in your cubicle atop a frozen cloud pondering the state of mankind. Why did homo sapiens evolve to become alienated from life itself? Did it all start with a genetic disorder? An obsession with meaning and purpose. A dysfunction between what you are and what everything else is. Perhaps it is symptomatic of the fall. The higher you ascend, the more detached you become, but the closer you are to meaning… or so you think. It remains irreversible. Your eyes are hazy now as your thoughts visualize themselves: a traffic jam in the atmosphere as an entire race plunges into fire, just like in the books.

This fall is voluntary. This fall is a gift to the flames.


Reach around her waist to touch the keys of the piano. What happened to all the things that were? Lean your head against her shoulder and sway to the composition of neurons inside your brain. Every touch of a key plays a note of your depression; you play for hours. You play until your feelings erode. You play until she’s gone.

You play until you wake up.


Romantic Matter

Romantic, isn’t it? To abuse what’s supposedly curing you. To unconsciously occupy your body. To feel detached from what makes you human. Romantic because it’s different and often gets mistaken for spirituality. Divine providence reveals itself to you in the numb haze. To be drunk and confident or high and pseudo-intellectual is preferable to being conscious and going through the days with a malign mass in your brain and a slow agonizing pain emitting from your heart. Order of the day: drugs first thing in the morning to send a jolt of electricity into your system. Your worn-out and depleted body can no longer start itself up. Drugs at the end of the day to reward yourself for successfully remaining alive. Drugs when you’re sick from all the drugs you’ve been taking. Drugs to alleviate the side effects of other drugs. A deluge of stimulants and depressants ravaging your body, reshaping your psyche every day.

Romantic, isn’t it? To die at the hands of your creation. An AI that’s more human than you. Create a god in your image and keep perfecting it, then take its hand into oblivion. Dwell inside your shell while the machine takes care of your body: the perfect form of substance addiction.

And then he gave them consciousness and condemned them to life,” the unwritten words that should have been.



Delirium tremens

A fetus floats in space, surrounded by radioactive decay. A newborn’s lungs stretch as he gasps for a first breath. A mother, numb from the pain and surrealism of the situation, holds the infant while slowly shaking her head to get rid of the unsettling thoughts that a new born looks older than it really is and how she can almost see him start to die. Headless children ride a euthanasia coaster, arms flailing, clothes flapping; you can nearly hear their screams as the ride plunges into Lethe. Consciousness erodes mid-sentence.

You can barely keep from disintegrating.

Sentience Now

I am the voice that speaks of feelings buried within you and thoughts pounding against the confines of your brain. I am the conceptualization of your shadow, that which you oppress to maintain autonomy over your own body. I am the wish to be forgotten and the hoarse whisper to please, please stay. I am the child yearning for a hug and the immovable object standing against life itself.

“This is who I am” is treasonous to who you truly are: a malleable interchanging mass of matter that matters.

Expired mental states

Communication. Possessing the facilities but lacking the incentive. At your best you look forward to it only to end up with disappointment, never knowing what you expected and couldn’t find. At your worst, you avoid interaction and count the days until you no longer need to be in the presence of people. Do you build up on other people’s philosophies? Is it expansion or replacement? Is there meaning? You’re capable of empathizing more than ever because now you see the view from the other side. The days are squeezing the life out of you. You fear looking back and finding your own hands around your neck.