DIANA MARIN

Category: Uncategorized

  • Obsidian Dreams

    I had a dream where obsidian figured extensively—
    even in holy places.
    The dream said: your boundaries can be holy,
    keeping yourself can be sacred,
    your silence can be medicine,
    and you don’t have to translate yourself
    into something digestible.

    Obsidian is the kind of guardian
    that enforces healing
    and swallows the noise
    of energetic attachments.

    Remember that survival
    can be a black gleam.

    I woke up with the taste
    of illuminating darkness in my mouth
    and the sense that somewhere
    inside me
    something had been sealed
    safe.

    The dream said
    here.
    carry this.

    a shard of truth.
    a mirror without mercy.
    a protection shaped like night.
    And I did.

  • Healing: A Gentle Unfolding

    I’ve walked through the terrain of healing, and if there’s one thing I’ve come to understand, it’s this: healing isn’t linear. It may come in recognisable stages, but it doesn’t follow a timeline. It loops back on itself, unfolds unevenly, and often catches you off guard.

    It moves in layers. Cycles. Spirals. It stalls and it surges — often revisiting the same path from a new depth.

    It can feel like progress one day, and total regression the next. But what I’ve learned is that every part of the process — every step forward, every stumble, every still moment — is part of the return.

    The return to yourself.

    Even when it feels like everything has fallen apart, what people are really in is a sacred unfolding. A slow, aching, deeply intelligent movement towards healing. They are falling into alignment.

    Healing doesn’t come all at once.

    It reveals itself in waves, in seasons, in ambiguous moments.

    It comes in that morning you wake up and realise you’re not bracing for the day ahead.

    In the sudden softness of your breath when someone holds your hand without you pulling away.

    In the moment you let the tears come — not out of despair, but relief.

    And it doesn’t begin with joy. It begins with honesty.

    The first stage of healing, for many, is rupture.

    That moment something breaks — a relationship, a belief, your nervous system. Sometimes, it’s loud. Other times, it’s the quiet hum of “I can’t keep doing this anymore.”

    Then many enter a state of shock. You might be filled with a thousand emotions all at once: disbelief, pain, rage, confusion. The ground feels shaky. The body instinctively retreats into itself. Let it. Meet the vulnerability with presence, otherwise…

    Then comes the resistance.
    This is the part we don’t talk about enough. The pushback. The “maybe I’m fine.” The instinct to numb, distract, avoid. It’s not weakness. It’s protection. The body’s way of saying, “I’m scared.”

    Then comes the numbness. The protective freeze. The disbelief. You go through the motions. You’re functional, but far from whole.

    Then comes the awareness…A flicker of knowing that something doesn’t feel right. That the ache you’ve been carrying wasn’t always there. That the exhaustion isn’t just from a bad week, but a buildup of years. Recognition… A dawning sense that something important is surfacing. That the story you’ve lived with isn’t the whole story. And with recognition comes acceptance — not the kind that makes everything okay, but the kind that says, “this is mine, and I can face it now.”

    What follows is grief — deep, confusing grief. Grief for the things that happened, yes. But also for the time you lost pretending you were okay. For the versions of you that never got to bloom.

    After that, often, comes anger. Rage, even. The fire. The “why didn’t anyone protect me?” The “how dare they?”

    Anger is not the enemy. It is sacred information.

    It protects your boundaries before you know how to. It says: “I deserved better.”

    It comes in waves, or sometimes all at once. And while it’s not easy, this is the part where things begin to shift. The dam cracks. Emotion moves.

    After the fire, sometimes there is emptiness. A hollow quiet where the old self used to be. This is not a failure — it’s the shedding. The space left behind when you let go of what doesn’t work for you.

    And finally, slowly, there is softening.

    Not forgiveness, necessarily. Not forgetting.

    But space.

    You place gentle distance between the wound and your identity.

    You begin to see yourself not as what happened to you — but as the one who survived it, felt it, held it, and lived. As the awareness behind.

    That’s when integration begins.

    You start living again. Differently. More slowly. More consciously. More bravely.
    You try new ways of being. You stumble, relearn, adapt. And it’s hard. But it’s worth it.
    You practice micro-choices that add up: Breathing deeper. Saying no. Staying when it’s safe. Leaving when it’s not. Replacing old reflexes with new rituals.

    The nervous system settles. It learns safety. Joy peeks its head around the corner. Not the loud kind, but the quiet joy of being present in your life. Of tasting food. Watching films. Catching a captivating scent. Appreciating nature. Of laughing without effort.

    And then comes release.
    A deep exhale.
    Not because everything is fixed — but because you no longer have to hold it all so tightly.
    You recognise that this moment, just as it is, holds you. And that’s enough.

    Eventually, transformation comes.
    Rather than as a grand event, it comes as the subtle, gradual, daily choosing of something new.
    You rearrange your life in a way that honours who you’re becoming.
    You build your world around your truth.
    There’s no need to hurry. Even the smallest steps can lead to profound shifts.

    You start choosing.

    This journey is not linear. You may circle back, feel like you’re unraveling again, question whether you’ve made any progress at all.

    But each time, the return is different. Quicker. Wiser. Kinder.

    Healing is a relationship, not a destination. A relationship you nurture over time. One that asks for your presence more than your perfection.

    I used to think healing was about fixing myself. Now I know it’s about finding myself again.

    The parts I abandoned to survive. The softness I tucked away.

    Healing is a series of moments where you choose to come back to yourself, again and again, with love.

    And when that love is mirrored by the right people — by safety, by attunement, by presence — something incredible happens…

    Your nervous system is shown, again and again, a different story. Through the repeated experience of safety, love, and presence — enough times for your body to finally believe: it’s over now.
    And you begin to believe you’re worthy of healing.
    And you are.
    Always.

    Healing doesn’t mean we forget what hurt us. It means we hold it with more care. We bring it to the light.

    We meet it with kindness.

    Wherever you are in this process, know this:

    You’re not late.
    You’re not failing.
    You’re healing.

  • Beneath the Ritual of Suppression

    Memory has teeth, a hush,
    A chamber built of breathing wallpaper,
    Peeling, alive. I enter it daily.

    I step through, barefoot,
    into a corridor lined with mirrors,
    with versions of me as reflections:
    a girl in pearls and incense smoke,
    a woman swallowing her name,
    a mouth sewn shut with ribbon.

    A silver-flecked box beneath my tongue,
    its hinges rusted shut with prayers.
    No one sees. The wound wears pearls;

    I dressed it in silk,
    set candles beside the wreckage,
    and called it sacred.
    I spoke only affirmations,
    like spells, sweet words
    I fed the universe like seeds,

    my throat full of snowdrops and ghosts:

    Please grow me a life
    that doesn’t shiver in its sleep.

    But the ripple moves. It always does.
    Through time. Through space. Through me.

    I tried to frost the wound in light.
    I hung dreamcatchers like talismans,
    whispered mantras into tea.
    I spun silk out of lavender oil
    and rose quartz,
    lined the ribcage of my life
    with glittering distractions.
    I painted over the cracks
    with angel wings and moon phases.
    I made altars out of dissociation
    and called it healing.

    But silence echoes.
    Even in temples.
    Even in rooms where everything smells holy.
    The unspoken grows legs,
    wanders through the years,
    flicking switches I didn’t wire.
    It calls to me in mirrors:
    “I am you.”

  • Kriyā and the Art of Alignment: Writing from the Self

    There’s a passage in The Artist’s Way that has stayed with me, one where Julia Cameron introduces the concept of Kriyā, a Sanskrit term meaning “action”, but which she expands to describe a kind of spiritual crisis — a deeper, almost visceral reaction we have when something in our life is misaligned. It’s the pain that hits right after we force ourselves to endure something we shouldn’t. The exhaustion that follows overcommitment. The anxiety that builds when we ignore our creative instincts. The psychosomatic warning system that lets us know when we are forcing ourselves into a life that doesn’t fit. A kriyā is the body saying, “Enough.” It’s a warning from the self we’ve ignored for too long.

    She describes how, when we ignore our truth — whether by working a job that stifles us, overcommitting to obligations that drain us, or even rescuing people who should be rescuing themselves — our body protests. We get sick, anxious, lethargic. Our emotions flare up, and our energy vanishes. Cameron’s Kriyā, in this sense, goes beyond simply taking action; it requires recognising when the actions we are taking are working against us.

    Through morning pages and self-reflection, we begin to see where we are out of sync. At first, this clarity feels like loss.

    “I can’t keep ignoring my health or sacrificing my time for this job.“ Or “I have outgrown this job.”
    “This relationship isn’t working.”
    “I don’t enjoy this anymore.”

    Realising these things can be painful. We often resist. We want to keep the illusion that everything is fine. We don’t want to change — we want things to change for us. But as Cameron points out, once we eliminate ambiguity from our lives — when we become clearer about who we are, what we want, and what we stand for — we also lose illusion. And while losing illusion can feel like a loss, it is also a gift. We gain something invaluable: the truth.

    And yet, truth doesn’t arrive gently. It disrupts. It can bring tears and frustration. Cameron compares this process to a spiritual seizure, an upheaval that shakes us until we let go of what no longer serves us. This is where art and self-expression come in — not as an escape, but as a way to process and understand this shift.

    One of Cameron’s most striking ideas is that as we clarify who we are, our creative voice becomes coherent. When we are fragmented — when we suppress parts of ourselves to fit into jobs, relationships, or roles that don’t align with us — our creative work reflects that fragmentation. It feels scattered, disconnected. It lacks a centre. But as we strip away the false selves, as we clear out the clutter — physical, emotional, psychological — our writing, our art, begins to feel like it comes from the same person. A pattern emerges.

    She calls it the snowflake pattern of the soul — a unique, intricate identity that takes shape once we shed false layers. The more we remove what is not ours, the more distinct our pattern becomes. And when we create from that place, our work has coherence, continuity. Our writing, our art, no longer feels like it was made by multiple conflicting selves but by one true self.

    Also, writing (or any creative work) involves tuning into what is already within us, rather than inventing something outside of ourselves. And that means confronting our real emotions, our real desires, and our real experiences. This is why Cameron insists that creativity is not based on fantasy — it is rooted in reality. Art happens in the moment of encounter: when we meet our truth, we meet ourselves. And only by meeting ourselves can we create something original.

    She seems to emphasise the following points:

    1. Listen to the kriyās. Pay attention to where life feels wrong, where you are forcing things. Let yourself feel the loss of illusion.
    2. Write from clarity. As you refine your self-understanding, your art will refine itself too. Your writing will begin to feel like it flows from one true voice, not a chorus of conflicting selves.

    Beyond its myriad interpretations and purposes, art is about becoming someone. Becoming the person who can create freely, without distortion. And in that becoming, as we align with who we truly are, our voice, our art, the snowflake pattern of our soul will finally emerge — whole, authentic, and coherent.

    According to Cameron, writing (or any creative act) therefore requires a stable sense of self. We need to know, at least on some level, who is speaking in order for our voice to emerge authentically on the page. If we are constantly shifting to accommodate external expectations, our work will feel scattered, fragmented, and uncertain — reflecting the uncertainty within us. To write from the self, we must first reclaim it. We must listen to our Kriyā, recognise where we are out of sync, and make adjustments — not just in our creative work, but in our daily lives. The more we align our actions with our deeper truth, the more naturally our words will flow.

    That said, I don’t fully agree with the idea that writing requires a singular, stable self. Writers like Whitman, Virginia Woolf, and David Hume remind us that identity is not a fixed entity but a shifting constellation of thoughts, perceptions, and impressions. Whitman famously declared, “I contain multitudes” while Woolf wrote, “I am rooted, but I flow”, suggesting that while parts of us are fluid, ever-shifting, there is also a deeper, more unshakable core — something immutable that makes us who we are. Hume, on the other hand, challenges even this notion of a stable self, asking, “When you enter most intimately into what you call yourself, what do you find?” His answer: a collection of perceptions in perpetual motion, never truly fixed.

    In my case, the fluidity in my writing does not stem from accommodating external expectations; rather, it emerges from exploring the fluidity of the self itself. Creativity allows me to move between different facets of my identity, to express contradictions, to embrace the shifting and evolving nature of being. Even to dream myself into another existence. Rather than seeing this as fragmentation, I see it as expansion — writing as a way of capturing the many selves that exist within me, rather than fixing them into one.

    At the same time, there is work to be done in letting go of how my writing will be received. It’s easy to fall into the trap of thinking about how something might be interpreted, whether it will make sense to others, or whether it aligns with an external narrative. But ultimately, what matters most is this is how it feels to me. Writing from that space — without worrying about how it will be perceived — feels like the truest way to honour both the clarity and the fluidity of self-expression.

  • Dreamscape

    A labyrinth of quiet alleys

    where you absorb moments that feel
    like they belong to no one,
    and yet to everyone who’s ever been here.

    The scent of the sea clings to the air,
    mixing with coffee, incense,
    and the distant laughter of strangers.

    Here, serendipity is a way of being.

    A church,
    its walls reverberating with Vivaldi’s notes,
    a heartbeat from centuries past

    filling the air with something
    that feels like longing,
    or maybe just peace.

    You wander
    and the city shifts around you,
    showing you its secrets,
    its ethereal beauty that you only notice
    when you’re not looking.

    A flash of sunlight on a canal,
    a reflection that disappears as soon as you see it,
    a city that holds you,
    then lets you go
    while you carry a piece of it in your thoughts.

  • Viscerally Tired

    Tired of false assumptions, projections, and flawed worldviews — tired of patriarchy, misogyny, misrepresentations, malice, arrogance, duplicity, and needless snark. Tired of finding myself caught in vicious cycles. Tired of a world that sometimes drains me, so I naturally retreat within. Tired of judgmental attitudes. Tired of jealous people. Tired of manipulation. Tired of toxicity. Tired of obsessions about aging. Tired of pathologising our differences. Tired of neurotic tendencies. Tired of inauthentic friendships. Tired of feeling expected to feign constant enthusiasm — joy, passion, care, even empathy for those who seem wicked. Tired of the quiet seep of others’ insecurities and projections into my mind. Tired of being judged for embracing my disenchantment. Tired of double meanings. Tired of ignoring the imminent necessity for a chemical dependency. Tired of being perceived. Tired of being misperceived. Tired of caring about being misperceived to the point of extreme self-censorship. Tired of succumbing to the impulse of being authentic and regretting it. Tired of dissecting everything I say from dozens of shifting perspectives. Tired of noticing everyone’s blind spots. Tired of both encountering misanthropic attitudes and, at times, harbouring them myself. I know I’m not immune — I sometimes quietly slip into misanthropy, and I’m learning to accept that shadow side as part of who I am. Tired of thinking in rigid binaries. And no, this isn’t what a mental health breakdown looks like for me. When I sense myself beginning to spiral, I tend to freeze, finding it difficult to update my personal social media channels or engage much at all.

    [This is an older blog post. Unfortunately, I don’t remember the date.]

  • Misunderstood, Unperturbed Self

    When I find myself in situations where I’m allowed to be myself, I notice how my discourse changes in my writings. My inner life is allowed to breathe, and the landscape of my soul becomes more vivid and expansive. By virtue of this expansion, it becomes more alluring. Strangely, when I’m not concerned with anything besides myself and conveying my inner life unperturbed by others, this allure draws people in my proximity. I then tend to find myself at a crossroads. I have learned not to let anyone cross my borders without a meticulous and often undetectable process of selection. Because of that, I’m sometimes inclined to test people. Yet, I try to do so while keeping every interaction genuine. Although I am a perceiver (INTP), I can’t deny I judge their responses more harshly and quickly than I would ever wish to be judged. In my view, I employ the right system of reference in my judgment. However, I must admit, I hate being analysed, especially in day-to-day interactions; it irks me profoundly.

    When I am given the space to be myself, I have no desire to prove anything—and I mean this in the most positive way, unrelated to lack of productivity, hence everything feels more genuine as the walls of the fortress retreat in the ground. There is still a surrounding portal, veil-like, between my world and everything else, seemingly transparent, but in actuality having a transformative function, of shaping perspective, both ways: Representations of the other gaze in, seeing what they wish; depending on how healed or emotionally aware they are, they might see everything warped by projections or get closer to my meaning. Likewise, I look out, seeing the world through my filter, penetrative or transformative, surface-shattering, depth-piercing, death-defying.

    When I’m in an environment where it’s unclear whether it’s sustainable for my true self, I’m sometimes (not always) ready to show up as myself, even if it means being misunderstood and subsequently irritated. What feels best is being unperturbed by others’ interpretations. My problem is that I can always see the world from a multitude of perspectives, which is both a blessing and a curse. This requires me to make an effort to pick the perspective most aligned with my self-concept and established set of values and beliefs, and then stand by it, regardless of the other perspectives I can give voice to. Life is sometimes about what you choose to pay attention to.

    There have been times in my life when I couldn’t write—not because my inspiration or creativity deserted me, but because they were suppressed, captive, muted, just as I felt suppressed, captive, muted. During these times, a false self replaced me, influenced by external projections, reacting to others’ impulses, stepping into a role that was as distant as possible from the traits embodied by the people I disliked around me. How do I explain this without sounding like I’m drowning in the fluctuations of being? Or without it sounding like I haven’t embraced my shadow self? Can I even claim that, with certainty, to myself?

  • The Path Within: Exploring One’s Emotional Landscape through a Metaphysical Lens

    Embrace kindness, grace, tenderness, and understanding towards yourself as you proceed on a journey of self-reflection, integrating the various facets that form your unique identity. A moment of tranquillity. Let down your guard and approach yourself with gentleness. Set aside time for introspection, allowing your thoughts, fears, and emotions to surface. As you reopen past wounds, you can create a path for healing and discover methods to effectively process them in ways that feel safe to you. Engage in this self-exploration with an open heart and mind, ready to confront both your strengths and vulnerabilities. Recognise that this journey is about identifying what needs to be healed or changed, as well as about appreciating the resilience and wisdom you have gained through your experiences. Acknowledge the courage it takes to delve into the depths of your psyche, exploring the complex fabric of your thoughts, beliefs, and emotions. Seek to understand the intricate layers of your being, and how they shape the way you perceive the world around you. Remember, this process is a powerful act of self-love and self-care, an essential step towards embracing your true self and living a more conscious, fulfilled life.

    I believe self-worth is a key element in all of this. It would be ideal to ground our journey of self-discovery and integration in a strong sense of self-worth. A self-assured basis, at least in relation to worthiness, enables us to navigate our emotions and interactions with others from a place of confidence and authenticity. Personally, I feel in alignment with the view that every human being possesses intrinsic worth from the beginning of existence. In Sculptor in the Sky, Teal Swan emphasises this aspect as well, while pointing out that society often conditions people to believe that worth is contingent on achievement, success, or acquiring skills – thus on external validation. This societal conditioning leads to a misconception that one must constantly strive and perform to be valuable. Miss Swan encourages readers to recognise and reconnect with their intrinsic value, independent of external factors. I believe that striving for achievements and gaining skills and knowledge is beneficial, provided it doesn’t overshadow our intrinsic worth or lead our spirit astray from what truly matters. There is also the suggestion that deep within, people hold profound knowledge and understanding about life and existence, and that there are great advantages to remembering it – because this knowledge is often lost or obscured due to life experiences, societal norms, and cultural conditioning. The aim is to help people rediscover and reconnect with this innate wisdom, which Miss Swan believes is essential for personal and spiritual growth. Another key theme that is relevant to our narrative is the importance of recognising one’s ability to shape their own life, so that one moves away from victimhood to a position of strength and agency.

    Let’s shift our focus to the realm of conflict and our emotional responses in these challenging situations. Contemplate your instinctive emotional response during conflicts. You might lean towards anger, anxiety, sadness, defensiveness, guilt, shame, or fear. Reflect on your typical modes of expression when distressed. You could find yourself redirecting, seeking mediation, ignoring, compromising, yelling, blaming, or perhaps withdrawing completely. Ponder on whether your reaction is a direct response to the present situation or a reflection of past traumas and unresolved issues. Do you notice patterns in your behaviour that are repetitive and perhaps unhelpful in resolving conflicts? Do you tend to resort to projection, casting others into roles that align with your own internal narratives, usually associating the person in front of you with other figures from your history? Consider whether you are confronting the person right in front of you or an amalgamation of phantoms from your past, the manifestations of your emotional baggage. In our interactions, we believe we’re arguing over current issues, but often, we’re actually grappling with deeper, long-standing emotions like feeling ignored, undervalued, or excluded. As we subconsciously attempt to resolve these past issues, we find ourselves repeating these scenarios, hoping for a different outcome. However, to truly change the narrative, we must live in the present and recognise people for who they are now, instead of holding them accountable for past hurts inflicted by others. If the person in front of you says things that cause you to spiral while crossing a boundary that you explicitly expressed, feeling betrayed and disillusioned is a natural, healthy response that is in alignment with self-love. After a boundary violation that isn’t very severe and, as a result, we choose to forgive, it’s wise to create a strategy outlining our expectations for how the other person should engage with us moving forward. On the other hand, when we’re talking about something unforgivable, some of us might respond with anger (which is valid), others might be tempted to rationalise, to justify the other person’s behaviour; in the process, we might recognise that the person operates from a wounded, unhealed part that has to rely on all sorts of defences. If another person’s energy is not beneficial to the current version of you, on this path of self-care, worth, and discovery, don’t feel pressured to be their saviour, it’s not your responsibility. It’s a better idea to protect yourself, and perhaps, if it feels right, turn inward and think of when you yourself allowed the wounded part of you to be in charge in similar ways.

    Consider the emotions in others that unsettle you the most. What judgments do you harbour towards these feelings? Ask yourself if you allow these emotions in your own life. Identify the traits in others that you find off-putting, such as greed, negativity, insensitivity, or arrogance, and explore whether you notice any echoes of these traits within yourself. Reflect on how acknowledging these traits in others impacts your interactions and perceptions. Ponder the possibility that your reaction to these traits might reveal deeper aspects of your own character that you have yet to fully understand or accept. Use this awareness as an opportunity for self-improvement, aiming to cultivate compassion and empathy both for yourself and for others. That way, you can foster a deeper sense of connection and understanding in your relationships. There are also times when you might feel a strong resistance towards someone, without realising why, exactly. If you ever feel repelled by someone’s personality, in real life or online, try to wonder why. Sure, sometimes, it could be pretty justified, they might be hypocritical or not align with your standards, they might hold psychopathic, extremist views, or be someone who crosses your boundaries of emotional safety with their views or attitude in some way. In which case, that’s not something you have to concern yourself with. But, if you can’t quite tell why the things they say or write about bother you that much, look at what you might supress in your own personality. Analyse this person and analyse yourself.

    A journey of self-discovery has to transcend acceptance – it’s about integration. I was reflecting on instances where I found myself inexplicably repulsed by someone’s demeanour or way of interacting; I soon realised it was sometimes my own suppressed judgments resurfacing. Bare in mind I’m not referring to instances where I’ve actually been wronged or harmed by people. In the rare instances where someone’s personality repelled me without a reason I could pinpoint at the time, I began to explore the idea of the existence of various “selves” within one person, each representing different facets of our being, even the disowned selves – our shadow, which should ideally be integrated. In my case, perhaps it was not just one-dimensional; maybe there were conflicting aspects at play. What bothered me was that the person was overly critical and negative, while at the same time smiling most of the time and seeming friendly, which I perceived to be unpleasantly contradictory. Delving into this approach, I realised how interesting and unintuitive the process of integrating our shadows can be – the suppressed judgments and unexplored aspects of ourselves that surface in response to certain personalities can be revealed to us in ways that surprise us. Splitting ourselves into different selves, each exhibiting unique traits and perspectives, allows for a more comprehensive understanding of the human mind. Like a psychological mosaic meant for a holistic self-awareness, you have to embrace both the light and shadow elements within.

    Let’s focus on happiness. In his book on bliss, Osho differentiates between happiness, pleasure, and bliss, emphasising that true happiness is a state of being, not just a fleeting emotion. He suggests that happiness is a deeper, more sustainable state than pleasure, which is often momentary, hedonistic, and externally driven. Bliss is a heightened state of joy and contentment, with a transcendental element, stemming from a profound inner peace and self-understanding. In the context of one’s self-discovery journey, in my opinion it’s important to recognise that while happiness involves embracing and integrating our full spectrum of experiences and emotions, there is also a place for the innocent pleasures of life. Little joys, such as the enjoyment of the scent of a distinguished, evocative perfume, a beautiful building, or experiencing a random act of kindness have their value. These small pleasures, while fleeting, add colour and texture to our lives. They are not in opposition to true happiness, but rather, they can coexist as part of a balanced and fulfilling life. Embracing these simple joys is not superficial; it is acknowledging and appreciating the various aspects of life that bring us momentary delight. As we strive for a deeper happiness and integrate our various selves, including our shadow aspects, we can also allow ourselves to enjoy these innocent pleasures without guilt. This balanced approach leads to a more authentic and holistic sense of joy, blending the pursuit of deeper, internal fulfilment with the appreciation of life’s simple pleasures. Being able to appreciate such moments of pure, unfiltered, spontaneous joy, is indicative of a healthy, balanced perspective on life and a deep capacity for gratitude and presence. In our interactions with friends, we can share these joys while also engaging in deeper, more meaningful connections, embodying a true sense of happiness that encompasses both the light and the playful, enjoyable moments of life. The problem appears when we solely seek temporary pleasures, mistaking them for complete happiness, while neglecting the deeper work of integrating our various selves, including our shadow aspects, in order to resolve internal conflicts and reach inner harmony. As mentioned, happiness involves embracing the full spectrum of our experiences and emotions, finding balance and harmony within. It is about acknowledging and integrating the light and shadow within us. This understanding allows us to seek a more authentic and lasting sense of joy, which is less about external validation or fleeting pleasures and more about a deep, internal sense of fulfilment.

    In moments of comfort and ease with friends, consider the sides of yourself you reveal. You may be playful, thoughtful, or reserved. Address any misperceptions others might have about you that cause pain. Envision the kind of recognition and appreciation you desire from others, and think about ways to embody those qualities now. Reflect on which emotions you would like to become more at ease with. Ponder how these comfortable interactions with friends might serve as a mirror, reflecting aspects of yourself that you may not regularly acknowledge or appreciate. Delve into the reasons why certain emotions are more challenging for you to embrace, and contemplate strategies to cultivate a healthier relationship with them. Acknowledge the importance of vulnerability in building deeper connections and trust with others. As you work towards becoming more comfortable with a wider range of emotions, remember that this process is a key part of personal growth and developing a more authentic and fulfilling way of relating to both yourself and the people around you.

    Finally, identify a behavioural pattern or habit you’re prepared to transform. This introspective journey is about self-awareness, but also about evolving into the most genuine and enlightened version of yourself. This process of self-exploration is a profound step towards spiritual growth and personal fulfilment. Embrace the courage required to confront and change these deep-seated habits. Understand that this transformation may challenge you, but it is a significant part of your journey towards self-mastery. As you pursue this path, be patient and kind to yourself, recognising that change is a gradual process. Remember, this journey is also about understanding the underlying motivations and emotions that drive them. This way, you cultivate a deeper sense of self-awareness, leading to more meaningful and lasting change. This path to personal evolution opens up new possibilities for joy, fulfilment, and a more authentic way of living.

    The intricate journey of self-reflection, embracing our inherent worth whilst inviting change and avoiding stagnating in unhappiness, and understanding our complex emotional responses to conflict and relationships are deeply intertwined with the universal fabric of existence. As we navigate our internal world, confronting and integrating our shadow selves, and striving towards personal growth, we inherently influence the collective consciousness. This interconnectedness accentuates the significance of our emotional and spiritual journey, highlighting how our inner transformations contribute to the broader mosaic of human experience and the universe itself. This interplay between the personal and the universal has to be recognised, in order to approach our journey with a heightened sense of purpose and awareness, understanding that our quest for self-mastery and fulfilment is deeply connected to the greater whole, designing a more empathetic and unified world.

  • Liminal Space

    A state of flux.

    An ineffable sense of rapture of the mind, body, and soul.

    A substitute for the spirit molecule.

    A place where it’s safe to be human and where the concept of being human is unravelled at various stages in a way that will add to one’s self-worth, empathy, and awareness.

    The texture of reality is mutable here. Your substance might go through physical and spiritual metamorphoses in tempestuous waves. Fragments of souls that are no longer around will reflect back at you unexplored feelings and aspects of your self on a visceral level.

    You will witness the miracle of the self unfold. During your paradigm-shifting odyssey into this state of overwhelming multitudes, your core will be shaken and re-examined, but despite that, you will overflow with self-love even as you go through the transformative process. Your memories and dreams will be your friends, not your foes.

    There will be upheavals, eventually followed by a sense of enlightenment and profound emotional intensity that will set new foundations in stone. No more lingering intrusive thoughts. No longer projecting and no longer being affected by other projections. An elation and liberation of the self

    I had actually written a little uncanny story that these images were just accompanying, but I’ve decided to integrate that one exclusively in a greater project of the future.

  • The Uncanny Cabarets of the Beyond

    While meandering through the vastness of cyberspace, I found myself immersed in old analogue photographs and archival material of the intriguing Parisian phenomenon known as the “Cabarets of the Beyond”: the Cabaret De L’Enfer (the Cabaret of Hell), the Cabaret du Ciel (of Heaven), and the Cabaret du Néant (of Nothingness). As night deepened in the heart of the glittering capital’s Montmartre neighbourhood in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, flâneurs could escape the mundane and seek refuge in the enrapturing and otherworldly embraces of both Heaven and Hell during the same night, as they were situated at the same address. Diminishing the veil between worlds, the Dantesque cabarets represented a stirring source of entertainment and inspiration for guests from different walks of life, as well as a fitting backdrop for avant-garde artists and bohemian intellectuals in particular.

    The Cabaret du Ciel greeted wandering – damned and divine – souls with blue lights and ethereal archways, whilst the neighbouring entrance of the Cabaret de l’Enfer allowed them to be devoured by the flames of hell in the grotesque jaws of the Leviathan. A little bit further away, one could find the arguably more unsettling Cabaret of Nothingness, which was a celebration of the essence and process of death, embodying a more worldly and macabre approach to the concept. The grim exterior of the latter was black and unadorned, except for the eerie green lanterns casting an otherworldly, cadaverous glow upon the unwary faces of the guests.

    Inside the Cabaret du Néant, people were led by a monk-like figure through a dark hall towards a sinister café. In the Intoxication Hall, a chandelier crafted entirely from human bones cast a flickering eerie light upon the setting below, which consisted of coffin-shaped tables adorned with deathly flowers, dismembered arms with candles in their fingers, waiters dressed as undertakers who addressed the patrons as “corpses”, and disquieting depictions of battles and executions seemingly resurrected by the flickering lights. The unearthly, foreboding ambiance of the stage was merely a prelude to the performance that was about to unfold. Bells tolled. A funeral march entranced the audience. A sombre young man dressed in black held a transfixing discourse on the anguish and misery of death, pointing at the macabre imagery on the walls. The visuals would suddenly glow and become imbued with life as ghastly figures started emerging from the frames. Portrayals of fighting, living men turned into haunting images of skeletons writhing in a deathly embrace, as if they were fighting a never-ending battle.

    With the help of mirrors, lights, and hidden rooms, the disoriented audience could witness the gradual decomposition of bodies. In a smaller room, the “Room of Disintegration”, a beautiful, pale, uncannily alive young woman in a white veil was enclosed in a coffin. Here is an excerpt from William Chambers Morris’ “Bohemian Paris of Today” (1899), which describes the experience through his eyes:

    “Soon it was evident that she was very much alive, for she smiled and looked at us saucily. But that was not for long… Her face slowly became white and rigid; her eyes sank; her lips tightened across her teeth; her cheeks took on the hollowness of death—she was dead. But it did not end with that. From white the face slowly grew livid… then purplish black… the eyes visibly shrank away into their greenish-yellow sockets… Slowly the hair fell away… The nose melted away into a purple putrid spot. The whole face became a semi-liquid mass of corruption. Presently all this had disappeared, and a gleaming skull shown where so recently had been the handsome face of a woman; naked teeth grinned inanely and savagely where rose lips had so recently smiled.”

    Compared to the other two cabarets, the Cabaret du Néant was notably different mood-wise and far less light-hearted. Not everyone appreciated the cabaret’s earthly, corporeal, macabre approach to death. Jules Claretie noted, “a sinister irony was expressed, not with angels and devils, but with people, mortals, death”. The French journalist also perceived the Cabaret du Néant created by illusionist M. Dorville to be ghastly and mean-spirited compared to Antonin Alexander’s Cabaret of Hell.

    Renault and Château expressed their critical point of view in their book, “Montmartre”, stating: “if the Ciel and Enfer of the lovable M. Antonin merit a visit, this is not true of the Néant, which is frequented by hysterical and neurotic persons”.

    Despite the scarcity of visual archive material featuring the cabarets, judging by literary accounts providing first-hand snap shots of nightlife in Paris, it’s hardly surprising that the Cabaret du Néant was found to be more disturbing. It seems to have embodied a visceral approach with painful reminders of mortality whilst focusing on the actual process and ritual of death in a way that made people face a primal fear. Moreover, some aspects of it created an uncanny experience, which would automatically involve the elements of emotional shock and repulsion. Besides the uncanny acts from the room of disintegration, there were other elements that were subtly frightening, nihilistic, and potentially psychologically scarring for some, as the cabaret of the void focused on conveying the emptiness of existence in a surreal way that had the effects of psychological horror.

    Meanwhile, despite the profane theme it depicted, the unholy Cabaret de l’Enfer was less anchored in secular, materialistic reality and more rooted in the intangible and unearthly, which might have been one of the characteristics that made it less disconcerting. However, it was also not exactly for the faint of heart. After entering the infernal mouth-portal, past the embers that were stirred by a frenzied scarlet demon in the depths of hell, one would be welcomed by meticulous hell-themed decorations, ghoulish images of demons, dioramas of sinners being punished, and staff dressed in devil costumes. A cauldron was hanging over a hellfire, partially enveloping several devil musicians eerily playing “Faust” on stringed instruments, being prodded with red-hot irons for every discordant note.

    After having their orders taken by a devilish being whose discourse was characterised by consistently twisted, macabre, yet playful words and arcane incantations, the damned souls who ventured in this hellish place would get to drink liquids that were supposed to ease their upcoming suffering, from glasses with an eerie, phosphorescent, unearthly glow. Meanwhile, the place pulsed with dark energy. There was a palpable, ominous sense of unholiness in the air. Volcanos were blasting and streams of molten precious metals were trickling from the crevices of the underground rock structure of the walls.

    Imagine being there, surrounded by figures and symbols of the macabre, witnessing nightmarish scenes, soaking up the atmosphere, sipping glowy liquids, and catching sight of André Breton in one of his meetings with the Surrealists. The Cabaret de l’Enfer served as a gathering place for the Surrealists in the 1920s – and a popular one, at that. Unsurprisingly, the Surrealists were drawn to the cabaret’s macabre aesthetic, due to their fascination with the unconscious mind and penchant for the bizarre and the subversive. Breton’s studio was located on the fourth floor above the cabaret, which is where he and Robert Desnos arranged his well-known surrealism sessions.

    The souls that graced the vibrant Cabaret du Ciel were enveloped in a cold blue light. The patrons stepped into an ethereal realm featuring plays that depicted the bliss of heavenly afterlife. Divine, dreamlike harp music as well as gloomier organ music filled the air. A priest recited a typical invocation from a small altar. St. Peter would stick his head through a hole in the celestial cupola to sprinkle holy water from the heavens, while reenactments of scenes from Dante’s Paradiso mesmerised the audience. Waiters were adorned with lacy translucent wings and halos that seemed to glow in the ethereal light. Fluttering among sacred palms and gilded candelabras, the performers were dressed as nuns, angels, and saints. After a brief procession, guests were invited to a separate room in order to become angels themselves through an uplifting, ritualistic, choreographed performance involving singing, incense, getting dressed in white robes, being adorned with wings and halos, holding a harp, and gaining access to the empyrean – a cloud structure.

    Many visitors, including British poet Arthur Symons, described the Cabaret du Ciel as a Parisian gem of divine enchantment, a slice of heaven, appreciating its serene atmosphere, uplifting show, and otherworldliness. However, some naysayers seemed to be of the opinion that it was strangely irreverent, vaguely sinister, or, worse – kitsch. Others said it was actually more depressing and grotesque than the Cabaret of Hell, which provided an intriguing spectacle.

    Despite being staged like a religious ceremony, according to British visitor Trevor Greenwood, the Cabaret du Ciel had something dark and sinister in its ambiance and mise-en-scene. In his view:

    “I just couldn’t believe my own eyes. What a room! Down the centre, lengthwise, was a long table covered with a white cloth… and lots of ash-trays: around the long table were seats, some already occupied by bewildered looking Americans: I suppose there would be about thirty seats all told. At the far end of the room was a small screen about eight feet square… presumably hiding a stage of some sort… And the room itself!! It might have been a temple for the sinister performances of black magic or something. The walls were covered with cheap imitations of religious knick-knacks. There was a large bell suspended from an imitation beam… and it was a wooden bell! Close to the bell was a banner-pole, with a silver coloured effigy of a bull mounted on top… The whole place reeked of something sinister… and the general effect was the very essence of tawdriness.”

    An iconic and inspiring piece of the cultural landscape of 19th and 20th century Montmartre, the Cabarets of the Beyond provided a tantalising glimpse into vivid worlds lying beyond the veil by inducing uncanny, surreal Dantesque experiences. Testaments to the alchemical and polarising effects of art, the well-known entertainment venues were places where the ordinary was endowed with uncanniness, and where curious souls could immerse themselves in a sea of unfamiliar and strangely familiar sensations. Through their macabre and celestial decorations, their unsettling performances and music, as well as the otherworldly themes that they brought to life, the Cabarets created a space where the boundaries of reality and imagination were stretched and distorted.