DIANA MARIN

Tag: poetry

  • Notes on Selfhood, Consciousness, and Other Matters

    The lights: clinical.
    The feeling: mythic.
    The moment grows a halo.
    Even doubt turns ceremonial.

    ~

    I watch thought
    rise like sea-foam
    and vanish
    into the blue work
    of mind.

    ~

    my mind builds altars
    to clarity
    then sacrifices clarity
    to the altar

    ~

    in the cave of the psyche
    every echo is a message
    from a self
    still alive
    still waiting

    ~

    I looked for truth
    like a needle
    in a myth
    and found only
    the thread
    I was using
    to sew myself together.

    ~

    the feminine psyche is a forest
    you enter slowly
    until it recognises you

    ~

    the wound became
    a doorway

    ~

    I am the shimmer
    between two meanings
    that refuse
    to hold still.

    ~

    Silver logic
    with a bruise of snowdrop feeling.
    You call it composure.

    ~

    I read the air
    like augury—
    and it keeps spelling
    your almost

    ~

    the path isn’t linear
    it’s lunar
    it circles back
    to the same pain
    with more light in your hands

    ~

    The self is a fever
    that dreams itself well
    and calls it healing

    ~

    The mirror keeps asking
    what I’ve done with her—
    the girl I used to be.
    I tell her she’s sleeping
    inside a poem.

    ~

    I built myself
    from the ache upward—
    each bone humming
    the memory of before.

    ~

    reality feels agreed-upon
    until a dream
    unthreads the seams
    and the world
    breathes wider

    ~

    consciousness:
    a syntax of noticing
    that cannot stop
    editing

    ~

    threads.com/@dianaofcyberspace

  • 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.

  • A dream within a dream

    Last night I had an enigmatic dream that turned nightmarish and dystopian.

    At least twice, I became aware I was dreaming. I even woke up inside the dream—a dream-within-a-dream—and then went back to sleep to keep dreaming, so I could finish it and write it down. At one point, while I was “awake” inside the dream, I was already writing a story based on the dream. And now I’m writing parts of it here.

    Anyway—this is how it started.

    Inside the dream within the dream, in the second—actually the third—layer, I was in the city centre, in a concealed place, with a guy I used to know vaguely and a teacher. The teacher had us make transfers using carbon paper—right there on the floor—and then interpret them: what emotions they stirred, what thoughts they triggered.

    The image was seemingly simple: a skull with flowers. A vanitas motif, or a stereotypical gothic tattoo.

    After waking up inside the dream (back in the second layer), I returned to that same location to see if there was anything real about what I’d seen. There was nothing printed on the floor—but I did see the skull, like a shadow in the exact same spot. I stood there wondering if it was just a pattern my brain was imposing on the world, a moment of pareidolia. It felt very eerie.

    Then something stranger happened: I experienced an echo of another person’s life, and it made me wonder if it was something divine at work. I heard what he was hearing—and what he was hearing was what another person was hearing—and who knows how many people the message had passed through before reaching us.

    It was part song, part voice note. Distorted and cryptic, yet somehow it made perfect sense in context—eerily aligned with the present moment as I walked through the city centre, like it had been timed to meet me there.

    Then—“the next day,” in the dream—a woman pulled me into that same spot at night. She told me a nightmarish prophecy: a plague was coming, to affect the city, maybe the entire world. And the plague, she said, would bear the face of the first person to find us in that place.

    And then it began.

    We didn’t see the person then. Whoever it was, they were hiding. And suddenly there were little creatures everywhere—crawling things with indistinguishable human faces. A nightmare for me. Apparently they would grow, and over time their feeding habits would change.

    I woke up inside the first dream layer and felt relieved, because I knew it wasn’t real—though I’d kind of known all along. In the second and third layers, I’d already been aware I was dreaming. I also kept remembering I had to be somewhere soon (a real meeting I have IRL), like an anchor tugging at me from the waking world.

    In the first dream layer, I realised again that it was a dream—and then, finally, I woke up for real.

    It almost makes me wonder if I’m still dreaming.

  • Before the clipping of wings

    Once, I felt the stunning, stunning, kaleidoscopic
    World
    was made of doorways to glittering realms—
    a thousand skies
    waiting for my astonished feet to enter.

    The future sang
    in wild colours I didn’t know the names for—
    a language of rivers splitting open,
    of moons rehearsing their silver scripts behind clouds.

    Then came the shrinking—
    the narrowing corridors of days,
    the blue-edged hours
    that bent under the weight of time
    like flowers strangled by frost.

    My heart became a room
    with locked windows,
    dust gathering in the corners
    where sunlight used to kneel.
    The future—a startled bird
    I dared not wake.

    Because whether I choose the quiet field
    or the whirlwind-life,
    the clipping of wings folds the sky in on both—
    and it aches.

    and yet—somewhere under this ribcage,
    a throb of fierce music remains,
    a tide climbing the ladders of my spine.

    I want the old hunger back,
    I want, I want, I want
    the dangerous dreaming,
    the beauty of fearlessness
    that burned in my marrow
    before the clipping of the wings—
    whose triggering memory I have worn like iron.

    I want to be light again,
    to fling the windows of heaven wide,
    my idea of heaven,
    to let the earth feel my pulse until it trembles
    to walk straight into the wind,
    scatter every feather of fear
    until even the dark forgets my name.

    to lift my face like a dare
    towards whatever storm waits—

    I want to be, at last,
    the one who walks
    with re-attached wings.

  • Rethinking Fulfillment

    We treat satisfaction like a finish line — permanent, polished, waiting for us if we hustle hard enough and heal “right”. And yet, what if that’s the wrong map? What if satisfaction isn’t a destination at all — rather, a weather pattern: passing through, beautiful when it visits, impossible to domesticate?

    What if the baseline isn’t seamless fulfillment?

    Psychoanalysts called it jouissance: those bright, disorienting flashes of more-than-pleasure that visit and vanish. We get moments, not permanence. Yet we keep trying to retrofit life into a continuous high: more goals, more apps, more “optimised mornings”, more distractions polished to look like purpose. We stack our calendars like sandbags against an inner tide we don’t want to feel.

    And then something tears through the fabric. The diagnosis. The layoff. The quiet Tuesday you crumble for no obvious reason. The void you’ve been outrunning steps into the doorway, and the light goes strange. It feels like descent — like a cold, locked crypt — but it’s also a threshold. The ache isn’t evidence that you’re failing at life. It’s evidence that you’re alive.

    We’re not built for perpetual plenitude. Every wisdom tradition has said this in its own dialect: dukkha, exile, the wound that opens the heart. Jung mapped it as shadow and descent. Lacan called it lack. Mystics describe a dark night where the old scaffolding collapses so something truer can breathe. Different names, same contour: there’s a gap at the core of things. We suffer when we try to plaster over it. We grow when we learn to relate to it.

    So here’s the unsettling invitation: stop trying to seal the crack. Sit beside it. Let the draft move through you without rushing to fix the windows. Notice how much of your life is designed to outrun this exact feeling – the tabs, the tasks, the tiny screens that promise relief but deliver numbness. Notice the bargains you make with yourself: “When I get there, I’ll finally feel whole”. There is no there. There is only here, and the momentary sweetness that visits like birds at dusk.

    This isn’t a call to resignation; it’s a call to intimacy. To meet the void is to meet yourself without costume. It’s to put down the role of the one-who-has-it-together and become the one-who-is-honest. It’s to trade the anesthesia of certainty for the medicine of contact. Paradoxically, that’s where steadiness lives — inside the willingness to feel the wobble.

    Look around: when we refuse the ache, we outsource it. We build cultures that run on distraction, economies that monetise our longing, feeds that flood the cavity with glitter until we forget it’s there. The collective chaos is the echo of a shared refusal. We think we’re avoiding darkness; we’re manufacturing it at scale.

    What shifts when we stop? When we let the void speak in plain language?

    Sometimes it says: Rest. Sometimes: Tell the truth. Sometimes: Cry. Sometimes it says nothing at all, and you learn to sit with silence without turning it into a problem to solve. You breathe in the unfinishedness and, somehow, it stops feeling like a threat and starts feeling like a horizon.

    Practically, this looks smaller than your ego wants. It’s making hot chocolate and tasting it. It’s putting your phone in another room and letting loneliness introduce itself by its real name: longing. It’s prayer without performance. It’s a page in a journal that doesn’t have to be profound. It’s a walk where you practice being a body, not a brand. It’s telling a friend, “I don’t need advice; I need witness.” It’s letting satisfaction be an unexpected guest, not a lease you’re trying to secure.

    And when the next tear comes — as it will — you’ll recognise the terrain. You’ll know that the crypt has a back door, that the darkness is not empty but full of seeds. You’ll remember that you don’t climb out by force; you grow out by contact. The more you befriend the gap, the less power it has to terrify you. Not because it disappears, but because you do not abandon yourself inside it.

    Maybe this is the quiet revolution: to stop demanding wholeness behave like a product, and start letting it behave like a rhythm. To become someone who can hold sweetness without gripping and hold sorrow without drowning. To build a life that isn’t a fortress against pain but a hearth that can host it.

    You don’t have to wake the whole world up. You don’t have to prove you’ve “healed”. You don’t have to turn your ache into content. You just have to strike one small match in the dark room of your own life and look honestly at what’s there. The flame won’t seal the crack. It will make it visible. And in that light, you might find a needle and thread.

    Not to stitch the world shut — but to stitch yourself to it. To the gap, to the gust, to the gorgeous, fleeting weather of being here.

  • 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.”

  • Fantasy of The Source

    In this gossamer realm —
    phantasmagoric,
    unfathomably distant
    yet intimately close —

    where stars are breaths,
    and light
    a living, breathing skin,
    time gathers like spilled mercury
    on the edge of forever;

    ethereal creatures —
    with bodies translucent
    and minds boundlessly unfolding,
    speak in pulses
    of radiant light,
    conversations that shimmer
    through cosmic veils,
    tangling in spectral dances.

    — can you imagine?
    a life where whispers float
    on stardust,
    where thoughts
    flicker
    in the nebulae-web,
    crystalline, numinous,
    weaving through each other,
    and unweaving,
    like phantoms,
    ephemeral yet infinite.

    here,
    time hums,
    a symphony of moments
    that never begin
    nor end
    but simply
    are
    in a waltz of glimmering nows.

    these silver beings,
    so incandescent,
    move in choreographed grace,
    mirages of motion,
    speaking in the geometry
    of constellations,
    their seraphic hands
    sketching the arcane,
    drawing spirals in the void.

    — oh, to be
    one of them:
    untethered by the gravity
    of our earthly anchor,
    by pain, or neuroses,
    or the dread that festers
    in the fear of unbeing,
    the torment of the unknown —

    dancing in the celestial,
    bathed in nebulous light,
    a spectrum of
    ethereal,
    resplendent,
    otherworldly
    beauty.

    glimmering echoes
    of ancient light whisper
    to each other across dimensions
    like a spill of crystals
    on velvet cosmos:
    I am, you are —
    luminous souls
    composing
    the score of an eternal symphony.

  • Act of Worship

    We are here hunting haunting paradigm shifts
    while our exquisitely glistening unreality spills
    softly into the night in a secret shrine somewhere;
    seraphic dreams (holy, profane, & tender) merge
    yet meanings are not alike, they have multitudes,
    nuances, that are tied to dreams, tastes, & neuroses
    even when we strive for transparency,
    while we cling to a fairy‑tale sense of identity
    amid turbulent scenes, a delicate, fleeting glance
    reveals a much needed allegory of sweetness, of
    shadows redecorated by light beams, strategically.
    I’d like to fathom you as more than a projected inner ghost or
    an angel-minded muse or a presence enclosed
    in a cage of their own making or a synthesised archetype,
    I know you are real, but at times, for my own sake, I forget.

  • Gratitude Journal Entry No 2

    I’m grateful I’ve come to a stage in my life journey where I am far from being consumed by other people’s paths. Instead, I remain focused on my own alignment, recognising that what works for one person may not resonate with another – and that’s perfectly okay. I’ve gained clarity and serenity as a result of this discernment, which has also taught me to value my unique journey while honouring others’.

    I like to believe that the universe ultimately has my back, as it guides me toward what aligns with my highest good (sometimes gently, other times not so much). The main purpose of some experiences is to redirect me towards opportunities I might not have otherwise seen. For instance, if I happen to be around people who are not a vibrational match for me, that should not discourage me; instead, it should make me realise what my needs and wishes are so that I direct my energy towards people who are right for me. In this context, I’m grateful that my instinct for self-preservation often acts as a social compass. Trusting this process brings me a profound sense of comfort and reinforces my belief in the beauty of life’s unfolding.

    In this reflective moment, I extend my gratitude to all living beings – animals, plants, the elements, and the earth itself – that sustain and enrich my life. I honour the care and labour of the generations before me and the blessings of health, safety, and community that I am privileged to enjoy for these gifts, both tangible and intangible, represent reminders of the interconnectedness of all life.

    The everyday blessings such as the cozy embrace of a warm blanket, the shelter of home, the nourishment of simple and fancy food, and the honesty of genuine connections – these are the basis of a fulfilling life. As time passes, I’ve come to value these seemingly ordinary experiences for the extraordinary joy and comfort they provide.

    Gratitude transforms our perspective on life itself, enabling us to find joy in the simplest things such as the breath in our lungs or the resilience of our own hearts. Even amidst challenges, gratitude has the power to lighten burdens and allow moments of joy to shine through the darkness.

    And so, I close this entry with gratitude for life in all its complexity. Life is not without its struggles, but it’s filled with opportunities for growth, beauty, and connection. May this gratitude continue to guide me – and anyone reading – towards joy, courage, and love.

  • Her

    in her soul-healing era
    she is
    a magnetic muse
    her aura
    (mystical and rare)
    breathes in
    the soft spell of becoming–

    she moves through dimensions,
    vibrating at a
    dream-born
    frequency where the
    cosmic
    folds into her hands,
    pure-hearted (she loses no one,
    they lose her; their hands cannot
    hold the sky)

    her dreams are fragments of soul medicine;
    her whispers no longer embody
    the ache of the ephemeral.