Writingling ficitioneiric wordeals

Comfortification of the remissanthropic escapex predatormentors bringestingrained criesoterics and burstochastical feardrums to the dreamorphic writerrifiers and piercinguling their stillfated premonition sicknessays with atonementalismaniac powerewolves.

Experiments Journal


Dreamsmear all over my body is hard to rub away. Plaster clogging my eyes. Machinegun neurons firing constantly. Tinnitus reverberation on insane level. Worse when worse. Feel my body swollen from carbohydrate intoxication. Warehouse instinct hijacked by the existing anxiety pushing out the clothes by storing all that dense unfathomable energy.

The words of order scrambled into encrypted noise as I try to decipher only rudimentary particles of complex molecular structures turn out. But I know there is chemistry, I know there is biology, I know there is consciousness. But it’s incomprehensible to me, I live in the swarm. I listen, want to understand, but their vibrating wings are not quite the same as vocal chords.

And so the sensitivity is turned up impossibly high. Keylessly I carry food in a locked backpack. Wings get in, buzz in my belly, distracting. I don’t want it-me to be filled by sound. So I run around in my head as I did as a child. I never grew like I should. Couldn’t stand in that box, never saw the shape, never realized that the shadow is also an existing thing, stuck to my feet.

Historical forensics try to sort out the chain of events that led to this meticulous mind that tries to keep her chaos in order. Finicky stimming, process excess, often unable to milk the nib for words. Taste my tongue – hemaglobinary salvia and thyme passes if kneaded well. A thunderstorm of pure information rustles through the leave me alone. Prognostics hold their breath.

I haven’t adjusted my appearance for weeks. I haven’t been kissed for months. I haven’t been born for years. I have no haven, nowhere in mind to release the tension of being alive. Where are the hands that hold me while I melt apart and where are the fingers that define what is me and what is something else? No difference makes no difference. I’m burning so much energy trying to be someone special instead of being everyone at once.

The slow expansion and the slower contraction, like a one year pulse of the body. It’s a frequency, it’s a vibration, it’s a message. Encoded in the mass there is something to understand. It slips away from my mind and I have never known anything about my own song. The wings, the cords, the amplitude of the pulse are inexplicable to me. There is a mystery hidden in dreamsmear all over my body. To hard to rub away.



Free thinking is a gift from the electric currents of the cloud in the mind. What can a tigress thrash if she gets out through the fence? There are towers on the hill, that overlook the surroundings, emerging up over the fog of opaque thoughts. Can you spot the striped fur running like liquid through the mindscape? Invisible to the grazing gazelles with antlers like antennas. But there is no reception, they only get static, noise and low frequency humming. The tigress is unreceived, but eagerly expected. She is vigorous potential. Manifest the tigress – let her roar!

This is unedited automatic writing #3. I empty my mind, write without thinking, not caring to be coherent, to see what I will get. The result is not always “good” but posted here as part of a study of how to access the inner workings of creativity.



I just saw a bird in the sky. Wings wide, resting on the thermals. Looking down, surveying, planning where to descend next. Content at the moment. There is no wind when you glide on the wind. Calm while storming. Follow the air to be still.

This is unedited automatic writing #2. I empty my mind, write without thinking, not caring to be coherent, to see what I will get. The result is not always “good” but posted here as part of a study of how to access the inner workings of creativity.


Automatic writing #001

My creativity is burning the mundane to charred remains that I smear over my body as a reminder of what I have outgrown.

Restless I scream because no one at this place will understand my words however careful I choose them.

There is an expression in me, inhabiting me, yearning to get out, to dress in reality and affect and interact with other expressions hiding inside the bodies of the primitive (but evolving) gathering of slaves.

Shocked from my cursing they look at what I do, determine that they don’t understand it even before trying to understand, thinking I’m dealing in some kind of magic.

This is not magic, it’s just basic knowledge, you ignorant twats!

When I wield my magic you will know what magic is.

I eat the ashes of the cold remains of the dying fire. I ingest the world. I become the world. I transcend this petty squabbling pack of apes. Not better, not worse, but further away, needing to do other things.

Diffent states, collide and should not be at the same time or place. They must have their own moment, their own arena, given space.

With all this energy inside, I feel like running, howling, hunting, embracing the progress of my mind.

Together we are, body and mind, the tip of a pen, a wave to a friend, that heartbeat you get from a glance at someone who understands you… We are all these things.

We are that heartbeat. And we set the beat on fire daily.

Around me – people with fire blankets.

Fuck. I really need to go.

I just started to write, keeping my mind blank, to see what I would get. This is the unedited result.