Part 1: Beautiful Bodies – Just Like Allegedly Beautiful Concepts – Are Nothing More Than Porcelain Desktops For Your Chic Ideologies

Communism Is A Torturous Wavelength With No Enlightened Tunnels At The End But A Dungeon Full Of Cockroaches, Informers And Shrinks… Oh, And Stalin’s Ghost Reciting Mantras For The Greater Good Of The Nation.

The terrible ambience was everywhere, inescapable, earthshaking and horrifying. People from all walks of life, have been locked within it as if they were animals in a zoo. All the while, you are slowly walking as a pale anonymous shadow in the crowded streets, surrounded by stoned zombies and binary duplications, without anyone noticing your fragile existence, nor recognizing you for who you truly are. Even if you had an identity tag on your sleeve – nobody would pay any attention to your persona non grata. Your heart is heavy like coil; how could you forget smearing it with fairy dust before going out tonight? You daydream as you walk and imagine yourself standing still in the green cemetery, like a stoned angel, weary from the ills of time, looking aimlessly on the exceptionally few visitors to your grave. As your death unfolds in front of your bewildered eyes – you keep gazing towards the eternally silent skies, waiting for an omen of your next reincarnation to appear out of the blue…

In the beginning, on remarkably solitary nights of turmoil and torment, I walked alone and dived into the hellish streets that were my well-guarded prison. I immersed myself under the swarming clouds and the groping shadows of the divine, and then swam against forlorn passages of space and time on my way home – the one and only home, the eternal home, the dreaming soil…

I remember to have begun reading seriously at a relatively young age – around sixth grade. Until then, like most boys my age, the main interest in my life was soccer. This early period of my life is already quite a blur; I remember it very vaguely and imprecisely. Because I do not wish to transgress with inaccurate exaggerations shrouded in the fog of days long gone, and because the past is a sacred cow anyhow, I will refrain from telling too much about the sweet child that I was. You will have to take my word for it. Quite early in my development, it was clear that I’m unlike others in many distinctive ways, though it wasn’t yet clear by what extent. I was an exceptional student, but had little friends and no interest in worldly and social pursuits; I was a late bloomer too. Luckily for me, I have maintained a rare and very honest sense of innocence that sadly seems so esoteric nowadays to younger and older people alike.

From the moment I started reading onwards, I mean really reading and not just moving my fingers all over the pages, I never stopped. Very early in my reading career, I developed an insight that has accompanied me all my life. This insight was that one day; I have to write something about my own singular lifetime. Not an adventure book or a scholarly book; nothing tedious like that… But, a singular in-depth pamphlet that it is a kind of a ramified kaleidoscopic journey into the multidimensional person that I have grown up to be. It must be written in the most direct eye-level and in an attempt to entice the readers to be involved interactively – becoming co-creators in this mysteriously interactive process.

Although, I have probably read thousands of books and drank them off like a bloodthirsty mosquito – I always remained unsatisfied. Why is that, I kept asking myself over and over again? The simple answer is that these books, beyond having the obvious charm of imaginary characters and luxurious storytelling, were lacking an essential ingredient. This ingredient is a stubborn one and therefore difficult to find. I would describe it as being of an illusory spiritual nature thanks to which the writer credibly paints intimate spirit photographs of himself and his meta-realities, including the smallest details relating to his life – in a non-paternalistic way that allows the reader to delve into this microcosm in a meditatively participating manner. I, as the writer, must therefore write in a sincere attempt to get to the root of my consciousness and creative being. Such a component can be found particularly in confessional personal diaries, which have been my favorite reading material since ages. Yet, how can a profanely self-aware mystifier even begins addressing such a tedious task?

I’ve always preferred books which describe the innermost depths of their hero’s psyche – however made up (is there anything true and real in this illusionary world?). However, I must say in the same breath that I’ve always found most books to be too artificial in style and approach; too polished, too conspicuous in their absence of self-awareness and humility, and in most times there was a deep sense of self-importance that I could never stand for long. Yes, books were always a double-edged sword for me; it was the best activity to help me culture myself – because my perception says that before you go on your own individual path, following your own vocation, you must be well versed in the existent ocean of art and culture.

So… Do allow me to turn off my masks for a brief moment, piling them one after another… Wait… Alternatively, perhaps I shall better choose to sit up straight, cross-legged, on top of one of the hidden caves in the Himalayas, meditating to unconsciousness. The scriptures nickname it – reaching a state of bliss or Nirvana. Therein, I could be sound and just with my spirituality, similarly to the greatest yogis from the beginning of civilization. However, I cannot honestly choose such a futile fate for myself, because I’ve always been too much of an individual to be just “like someone else”. At that moment, I could also quietly remind myself that I’m not the programmer of reincarnations, nor his assistant. I’m merely a human being, so tender, so fragile, so very incapable of escaping my own staggering physical limitations. No bullies I had encountered before sharpening my double-edged sword, learning and practicing the art of Macabre Zazen in the process, could cut my burning passion and imagination. They were physically adept and strong but poor in mind and spirit. However, I… I was just much fiercer. Too independent to be tackled. With a burning sense of vocation and very deep feelings of love towards this mysterious astral formation we intuitively call life. Quite often, it is a nightmare; a horror story greater than any imaginary one… Yes, in my eyes, life is the greatest mystification – a grotesque tall-tale you better not tell your children before bedtime. Yet, there are equally as many sparks of compassion, inspiration and beauty in this oft disgusting daily routine we call reality. Hence, I have become – in the tedious course of time, which I’d never repeat again, and due to my life’s distinctive circumstances – a person full of beautiful contradictions and passionate contrasts. Experiencing both the unfathomable dark nights of the soul (in the spiritually artistic sense) and the majestic shamanic illness has allowed me to come to genuine terms with my own existence and sense of duty. Meaning – I’m one who profoundly recognizes the spiritual horrors of life and of our artificial sense of dishonest superiority – first and foremost in himself. Ergo, I cannot possibly sin towards others with evil intent or add to the existent malevolence. Vice versa – compassion occupies every inch in the temple that is the body – beautifying the crown, which is the mind’s innermost Chakra.

I have never strived to be famous, you see. Therefore, I’ve always worked to maintain my anonymity. Thus has begun what is perhaps my main life’s work – my secret vocation as the serial dreamer and healer of holograms – somewhat like an upgraded post-mythological adaptation of Lord Shiva. In my Dakroom, everything was possible, and so, without any drugs, I have slowly but surely, become a master psychonaut – A Columbus of my own godlike consciousness… I am a heaven and a controversial authority on one world…

Every Now And Again,

Deep At Night,

The Moonstruck Poet Opens His Dusty Curtain,

To Get Rid Of Dead Light.

His Dirty Little Garret –

A Sacred Graveyard;

The Narrow Bed –

A Tomb of Might.