A night of triumph

A night of triumph

An eternity seems to have flown around me since last my fingers glided over the keyboard with the intent of stripping my soul bare of the plaguing thoughts and ideas that keep me up at night. An eternity more since I last found the right words to paint the images in my head and in my heart. Reality has a cruel way of keeping the creative spirit away from man. It plays a twisted game of overwhelming your entire being to the point that exhaustion takes place of inspiration and lack of patience takes place of hours on end spent on molding the perfect vision of your story. It hurts, truth be told, for creativity to be the sole casualty in a daily war fought between the exterior desire to succeed at reality and all that it entails and the inside, yearning to escape from all the commotion that disrupts its natural meditative state and dive into yet explored lands of untold epic tales or gargantuan, bizarre settings that chill you to the bone with their mystery, pulling you in like an agile spider that patiently awaits for its prey to be securely nestled in the web.

Tonight, creation emerges triumphant, as my fingers accommodate once more to the rhythm of storytelling. Tonight, it celebrates its won battle with songs a images seen through the kaleidoscope of unfiltered chaos. Tonight, it dances to the music of the keyboard, following its irregular beat, accentuating it tenfold in its madness. Tonight there is no order, the universe of the plagued mind is freed of its constraints and roams around aimlessly, with a haste that surprisingly brings upon a state of calm and pure acceptance of true nature. Tonight the outside world ceases to exist, giving place to a cosmos of haphazard novelty and delight. Tonight Chaos triumphs over Order. Reality is no longer.

I give myself freely to the gleeful God that relishes its victory, elated to feel his aura drowning me, lifting me to the heavens and allowing me to ride the high I had been quietly desiring. I live through the cacophony of feelings and sensations, savoring every second of my escape. I am fully aware that the war shall begin once more with the arrival of morning, but for now, nothing but freedom and fantasy embraces my being.

Ipomoea – Prologue

Ipomoea – Prologue

Image     Mischievous thoughts plagued her mind like rogue bugs. She could feel them crawling under her skin, instilling doubt in their dark wake. An icy cold shiver ran down her spine, in a perpetually freezing motion, taking over her confused and weak spirit, feeding on her helpless neediness. Her body contorted to the disturbing music of the netherworld, swaying as a marionette controlled by the unwavering force of impending darkness.


She seemed powerless to her demons, which ate away at her life force with manic glee. Her flesh gave in to the immortal carcass of ice that shielded her intellect, embracing its promise of life, of time to come. Her voice, trapped inside of her, was desperately trying to claw its way to the surface, yet seemed to fight a losing battle, being engulfed by the piercing silence.

Eyes witnessed the body’s cage, and their light dimmed, shadowed for a second by fear, only to regain their intensity in a moment of pure clarity. Her mind conquered her spirit and shed her body away, morphing the ice shield into a statue of her desire, into a sculpture of untold beauty and grace. Her grey eyes spoke of her revelation, clouded by an ancestral understanding of true meaning, and void of destructive remorse.

The ritual was complete.

A child was born.

Yet a child as no other she was. Her being voiced her immense potential for untold greatness, and her gaze shined with her thirst for knowledge. She was a fighter and a scholar combined; a beast and a master.

She was Minerva’s Maiden, a child of force and wisdom.

“Welcome home, Natalia.”

Ipomoea (II)

Ipomoea (II)

I never saw Mother after she created the new me and departed with those cryptic thoughts she passed on. Neither did I grasp their meaning, hard as I tried. My cage….what exactly was my cage? What could possibly keep me from reaching my true potential and earn my wings? Was it even possible to gain wings? ice_queen_by_sebastien_grenier-d5ohi1p

As I could not decipher that enigma, I filled my days with taking in this new world I had been accepted in and my new persona. After my metamorphosis, Irene, a stunningly beautiful ice sprite took me as her protegee and set out to teach me anything and everything that she could. We spent endless moments wandering through the nameless glacier that was our home.

‘While this land has no name, it is called differently by each and everyone of us. What I see is not the same as your vision, and what you see I do not. Take your time and get to know this world, discover the secrets she divulges only to you and grant her the wisdom you gain. Connect to her, body and soul, and she will whisper the name you wish to know.’

Awesome, yet another enigma I had no idea how to solve. How was I supposed to connect with this land? Dig a hole and bury myself in it?  Now that was a sight in itself. Pushing Irene’s words to the back of my mind, I devoted my time uncovering the beauty of my new environment. This world was like an ice field surrounded by blood red waters from all sides, seemingly mourning all the mortal souls that has made the supreme sacrifice in order to reach completion. Glass trees adorned the snow coated ground and shone gracefully in the delicate silver light of the sun, the ever present fragrant mist enveloping this tableau in diaphanous bliss. The land was almost barren, save for Mother’s palace, situated in the middle of the glacier, guarding it with its imposing might. It was pure silver and emerald, carved with ancient protection wards and runes that exuded power and grandeur.  It felt as if the palace had a life of its own and accepted Mother’s presence on its own accord.

Our chambers, however, were underground, in the heart of the glacier. We lived in a vertical maze, intricate slides and paths being our roads. And they all lead to the center of our “town” (if I may refer to it as such), where an immense library dominated. ‘Inside these walls lies our entire history, written on diamond sheets with the blood of our mortal selves. Here you will learn of our beginnings and here you will write your own story, when the time for it comes.’ Irene’s words struck a sensitive cord inside of me. Would I ever be able to write my own story? Would I ever achieve what would be necessary to deserve my place within those screens? How would I even start my tale?

Well, thinking about it, I could always begin with my bizarre appearance. Sure, I kind of looked like everyone else, but then again I didn’t. My body was made up of billions of tiny diamonds, yes, but my hair remained jet black, only several silver streaks gracing it. It was cool, but unusual, because from what I observed, the other sprite’s hair either completely turned white, or kept its original colour. Even Irene, the red headed minx,  seemed to be baffled by this odd trait, and told me that in all her time here (and we are talking about hundreds of years, mind you), she had never seen this peculiar phenomenon. Yet another mystery I was to unearth.


I spent the first month locked inside the enormous library, reading sheet after sheet of wars and peace, of births and tragic deaths. It seemed that, although immune to disease and the passing of years, we had but one weakness – fire. By piercing our hearts with fire, the diamonds that granted us life would turn into molten silver and boil us from within. At this knowledge an unknown sense of dread came over me, that somewhere, the Ethians, children of lava, were plotting yet another war, mindset on our destruction. Suddenly the great hall I was in became suffocating and minuscule, my breath stopping in my throat and choking me. I had to get out. So I ran. I ran until I had nowhere else to run. I ran to the surface, only stopping when I reached my tree, my safe haven, where sea and ice met and danced a secret waltz. Gazing at the red waves, the familiar scent of moon flower swathed me like a mantle, bringing calm to my disturbed mind. I spent what looked like an eternity just glancing at the water, silently crying out all my frustrations and my fears and letting the mist lull me to peace.

I returned to my chamber late into the night, pausing in front of the crystal mirror to study my frailty, but something else drew my attention. My eyes, which were a clear grey, now gleamed a greenish hue, particles of emerald dancing gleefully in my pearly pools. Then a subtle murmur, as a kiss, grazed my ears, and I learned what I desired for so long.

‘Ipomoea, my name is Ipomoea.’

Ipomoea (I)

Ipomoea (I)

That irritating chill crawling on my spine and on the back of my neck as a filthy maggot made me feel I was in a Stephen King Moonflowernovel. The world around me was reduced to an excruciatingly simple, yet impossible to comprehend concept: Cold. A cold so severe and punishing that it chewed on my flesh and punctured my bones, vivisecting me with sharp, merciless tendrils along the way. Tears escaped my eyes and instantly froze on my pale, stone-cold cheeks, becoming small pearls glued to a marble surface. Winter’s matriarch had finally embraced me, her delicate, razor sharp feathers eating away at my body and tearing my mind apart. She was turning me into one of her children, replacing my blood with tiny diamonds and turning my skin into clear, beautiful and dead crystal. The matriarch was taking my sacrifice in high esteem, turning me into regal art, a small frosted smile playing on her pale lips as I sang and shuddered my pain. The red of my blood was the only color tainting the white of this world, painting the ground surrounding me in the vivid hue of what was once life, standing witness to my metamorphosis.

Trying to escape the agony, I retreated into the ruins of my shattered psyche, drowning myself in remnants of old memories, indulging in their sweet taste one last time and allowing their fleeting warmth to bring me a drop of shallow relief. I sought my identity and struggled to grasp it tightly, but it was slowly drifting away, dissipating like morning fog.

All I could clearly see was my face looking back at me through the mirror, silvery-gray eyes clashing with long, jet black hair. I must have had a name, but it was buried deep in the crumbling labyrinth, forever lost in the destruction. Not that it really mattered anyway; once I would become one of them a new name would be bestowed upon me, a name worthy of my new statute, a tribute to everlasting immortality.

Suddenly drifting back to the present, I was once again reminded of the torture I had to endure before slipping into the realms infinity. In an attempt to cope with the pain, I turned my eyes towards Mother, studying her features as she commanded her wings to cradle me. Her beauty was unparallelled, intoxicating and enthralling, like a diaphanous ivory phoenix, both mighty and lithe. Her milky white eyes, which seemed to hold unthinkable knowledge of this tantalizing universe, were focused on my own, reading my thoughts, stealing my memories and annulling my former existence. That small, omniscient smile still graced her noble features as the last fragments of a previous life left me.

The process had been completed, I had been accepted into their ranks. Still dazed, I looked at my arms and nearly gasped in awe. They were now translucent, tiny diamonds peeking from under my skin, shining lightly in the glow of the silver sun. I no longer felt the biting cold, but a pleasant mist gracing my body in the ever alluring moonflower fragrance. I felt light…so light I believed I was floating; I became completely aware of the beauty of this world, now fully perceiving its purity and untainted charm.

‘Your wings, child, will surface when you will be ready to spread them and fly, without the fear of falling plaguing your mind. That moment is known by no one but yourself. Only then will you become perfection, only then will you be free of your self-dictated cage.  Welcome home, Natalia.’ Mother’s soft whispers glided to me atop a gentle breeze, caressing my face and eliciting a smile.



Un Castel de smoală își îneacă simțurile în eter. Întunericul își pătrunde până în măduva oaselor, unde putrezește și se răspândește ca o ciumă devastatoare. Îți înlocuiește sufletul cu plastic ars și te dezumanizează, îți transformă mintea într-o casă a ororilor. În această fantezie infectă și grotescă, voința își este lăsată intactă. Castelul vrea să decizi tu singur cât de repede o să cedezi. Se joacă cu tine, așa cum felinele se joacă cu prada înainte de a aplica lovitura fatală. Se hrănește cu disperarea ta, crește mai măreț și mai întunecat ca până acum. Își răspândește tentaculele de vid în Universul tău, distrugându-ți lumea cărămidă după cărămidă. Ați rămas singuri: tu și Voința, în abisul nesfârșit al Castelului, înconjurați de Nimic, bestia nemiloasă a zeilor subpământeni. Voința încearcă să îți dea puterea ei, cântându-ți lin, ca un violoncel, aria inocenței pierdute. O harpă delicată își face și ea cunoscută prezența, atingând fărâmele încă nepătate ale ființei tale. Împreună, ele reușesc să readucă acea lucire vie a ochilor tăi încețoșați și grei. Încet încet, simțirea începe să revină și în restul corpului tău: degetele, mâinile, picioarele se trezesc din coșmar și îți reproșează neglijarea. Le suporți durerea cu un zâmbet mic, știind că te vor ierta mai târziu; întotdeauna o fac.

Corzile unei viori răsună în depărtare, ca o dulce tortură pentru auzul tău încordat. Îți poți imagina doar fragmente din  povestea ei, pe alocuri dezacordate, fragmente ale unei melodii știute, dar încă nerecunoscute. În măiestria eu șchiopătată, vioara se topește cu Voința ta, formează un tot inseparabil și aduce puțină lumină în fundalul anost. Întunericul tremură în jurul micului cocon de soare, iar Nimicul își zbiară frustrarea. Răgetul puternic al bestiei reușește să  crape lumina, întunecimea încercând să pătrundă iar în sfera ta de siguranță și certitudine. Castelul nu spune nimic, dar un rânjet i se joacă pe chipul deja schimonosit de ură pură. Voința, zdruncinată de bestia infernului, se ridică și își reîncepe simfonia de raze, mai puternic și mai radiant ca înainte. Clapele unui pian îi vin în ajutor, sunetul lor cristalin așezându-ți-se blând pe spate, asemenea unor aripi de fluture, mirifice și puternice în fragilitatea lor. Îți șoptesc ușor că în curând vei putea zbura spre orizontul nemărginit, spre soare, spre centrul existenței tale. Lacrimi de cleștar ți se preling pe obraji, încălzindu-ți pielea înghețată și umezindu-ți buzele crăpate. Apoi cad pe întunericul de sub picioare, formând o peliculă subțire de lumină argintie care îți împământează sufletul și se răspândește cu fiecare perlă translucidă care o atinge. Te uiți la Voință și vezi cum crește cu fiecare secundă, asemănător cu o Virtute scăpată de lanțurile Păcatelor. Te privește cu ochi de lavandă  omniscienți și omniprezenți, un zâmbet blând împodobindu-i buzele roșii. Trebuie să reziști încă puțin, apoi vei fi liber să zbori.

Pe chipul Castelului observi uimire, groază și furie nestăpânită, cioplite brutal pe pânza sa imensă. În disperarea sa, smoala își trimite bestia la atac, dar bestia nu îl mai ascultă. Lumina e prea puternică, prea plină de înțelesuri; îl mușcă neîncetat, îl taie și îl arde. Schelălăind amarnic, Nimicul se retrage în cele mai ascunse și congelate cotloane ale lăcașului său de veci. Castelul își urlă ura și teama, încearcă să zgârie Voința cu ghearele sale de neant, dar nu reușește decât să și le rupă. Căldura luminii readuce viață în universul tău, topind smoala Neștiutului. Amintirile tale, soldați căzuți în război, se ridică acum și își reiau locurile pe scena vieții tale. Simfonia Voinței încă îți încântă simțurile ieșite din letargie, reconstruind paradisul pierdut.

De acum poți zbura; tot ce trebuie să faci este să îți întinzi aripile și să vrei. Te simți capabil?

Tarja Turunen live – o experiență memorabilă

Tarja Turunen live – o experiență memorabilă

În întunericul Sălii Palatului, o zeiță a adus lumina. O faptură grațioasă, fermecătoare și puternică asemenea unui Phoenix al zăpezii a pășit pe scenă, în fața a mii de chipuri vrăjite de apariția și vocea ei. Ne-a înlănțuit cu muzica ei și ne-a dus în The Reign, unde ne-a arătat adevărata putere a Lost Northern Star. A creat povești și în același timp ne-a spus și poveștile altora cu un glas suav și tunător în același timp, ne-a făcut să îi simțim ființa și să ne simțim propriul suflet.

Nu am crezut niciodată că o artistă ar avea o asemenea putere asupra umilei mele persoane, dar se pare că m-am înșelat. Tarja Turunen m-a făcut să simt tot ce am exprimat  mai sus, dar și ceva unic, special, care nu poate fi exprimat în cuvinte, ci care va rămâne mereu în interiorul minții mele, în sertărașul cu ocazii memorabile.

Am râs, mi-a venit să plâng, am conștientizat bătăile puternice ale inimii mele, rezonând cu tobele și violoncelele, m-au trecut fiori de plăcere reflectând sunetul dulce al viorilor și al cântului acestei minunate femei.

Această amintire îmi va rămâne mereu adânc întipărită în ființă, va fi mărturia unei zile de naștere cu totul și cu totul aparte.

Mulțumesc din suflet pentru această oportunitate, oportunitate pe care o voi prețui întotdeauna.



Îmi pun lumea imaginară pe pauză, îmi las fantomele minții să se odihnească, și adresez o serie întrebări care îmi stau pe creieraș de ceva timp încoace. Pentru ce mama naibii ne facem un blog? Pentru ce scriem? De ce scriem atunci când nu avem ce spune?  

Nu pot să înțeleg cum unii își fac un blog pentru a arăta celorlalți ce mănâncă, ce beau, cu cine și unde au fost, de ce își explică acțiunile (lor foarte banale) în fața unor persoane pe care nu le-au întâlnit niciodată în fața lor. Vrei să îmi arăți ce mănânci/bei? Deja ai postat vreo 200 de poze pe facebook. Vrei să aflu cu cine ieși tu, pe cine judeci tu, de cine râzi? De asemenea, facebook-ul știe tot. Vrei să iți expui opiniile despre diverse subiecte relevante, sau să creezi o lume în care ne putem pierde cu toții? Atunci da, ești în locul care trebuie.

Un blog, pentru umila mea persoană, ar trebui să reflecte și să evidențieze trăsăturile intelectuale și imaginația autorului, un blog trebuie să fie plin de semnificație, nu umplut de căcaturi care nu au niciun sens, un blog trebuie să fie expresia eului artistic al autorului.

Gata, m-am descărcat. Monolog încheiat cu succes. Acum dau iarăși play lumii interioare.