Nº. 3 of  368

Lifestyle of a Dream Walker

This volume is dedicated in all sincerity to every lover of the true and beautiful

loosenedshelter

The stargazers gather around, telling stories of aimless journeys on overgrown paths. They smirk and reminisce, emphasizing on the journeys that start with you. Dancing to a song that only exists in your head while Mother calls you, dancing out the door, dancing on a whim, leaving without the sound of a slamming door. The entrance is wide open, and as time progresses and the moon settles on the shallow wind, the creatures make home in what is now an abandoned chamber. Dark faces and sharp teeth, the sound of their lullabies echo and you finally understand their desire for butterfly skeletons. They bite and scare the weak with crooked poetry but they never mean to harm. The night sky greets you, forever sending light on the untouched paths. She guides you but you lose your way so easily. You wish to write poems and songs to the ones you loved, hoping they’d understand where your heart was. The forest is where you belong. The translations of the creature’s moans begin speak louder than your own natural tongue and the world seems to become darker. The laughter was gone and the story ended.

What can I do with my happiness? How can I keep it, conceal it, bury it where I may never lose it? I want to kneel as it falls over me like rain, gather it up with lace and silk, and press it over myself again.

Anaïs Nin, Henry and June

77thsense

All I wanted was to be alone with her; isolated with just our voices. I felt selfish once I realized it, but that was all I wanted. I wanted no interruptions and knew that if there were, time would resume again. I would wait for us to embrace each other with eyes closed, touching faces that were always familiar yet surprising. And if anybody else saw us, they knew we were in love. Life would go on, but all so distant. We wouldn’t see it as it used to be. Washed with a rose-colored tint, all I saw was her.

I never wish to be easily defined. I’d rather float over other people’s minds as something strictly fluid and non-perceivable; more like a transparent, paradoxically iridescent creature rather than an actual person.

—Franz Kafka

Maria Loks by Andrian Crispin for January Biannual (German) No.3

Maria Loks by Andrian Crispin for January Biannual (German) No.3

The secret of the machines

Nº. 3 of  368