The eater of dreams

Screams a thin haunt of ancient smoke

Into suburban bastilles

Tasting brimstone grey brains

And their blood sugared dreams

Dosed down rabbit hole pods

Where cottontail clouds

Frame a fingernail moon.

And he collects each dream

Piece by piece

Pocketing holograms

For oblivion’s feast.

The eater of dreams

Dips his rogue diamond chalice

Into mercury seas

To drink the drowsed void

Where wayfaring stars

Bleed glittery wonders

And Orphic veined wine

Toasting grape galaxy ashes

Swirling on deathbed paradise.

And he collects each dream

Piece by piece

Pocketing holograms

For oblivion’s feast.

The eater of dreams

Overdoses on neon delirium

As God’s widescreen soul

Colours the theatre marquee

With hypnotic spells of pink and blue

Announcing upcoming shows

And showers microgram mercies

To drown him in sleep.

And the war drums

Of embryonic heartbeats

Shatter his capsule carriage

Towards the wet nurse of space

Milking one halve with hope

And the other with faith.

The eater of dreams

Screams a thin haunt of ancient smoke

Into suburban bastilles

Tasting brimstone grey brains

And their blood sugared dreams

Dosed down rabbit hole pods

Where cottontail clouds

Frame a fingernail moon.

And he collects each dream

Piece by piece

Pocketing holograms

For oblivion’s feast.

The eater of dreams

Dips his rogue diamond chalice

Into mercury seas

To drink the drowsed void

Where wayfaring stars

Bleed glittery wonders

And Orphic veined wine

Toasting grape galaxy ashes

Swirling on deathbed paradise.

And he collects each dream

Piece by piece

Pocketing holograms

For oblivion’s feast.

The eater of dreams

Overdoses on neon delirium

As God’s widescreen soul

Colours the theatre marquee

With hypnotic spells of pink and blue

Announcing upcoming shows

And showers microgram mercies

To drown him in sleep.

And the war drums

Of embryonic heartbeats

Shatter his capsule carriage

Towards the wet nurse of space

Milking one halve with hope

And the other with faith.

The tavern breathed like an old beast—thick air, warm with the ghosts of a hundred dead conversations, the low murmur of men who had given up on everything except drinking. The candlelight barely touched the dark corners, flickering, weak, as if afraid of what it might reveal.

Two men sat at a corner table, their glasses nearly empty, the weight of the night settling over them like damp wool.

One of them, Nikolai, traced the rim of his glass, the other, Andrei, exhaled smoke from a cigarette he barely tasted.

They had spoken of many things already—of debts, of women, of the quiet horror of waking up and realizing the best parts of life had already passed them by. And then, Nikolai leaned forward, eyes shadowed beneath his brow.

“You ever hear about the artist who lost everything?”

Andrei smirked. “Sounds like every artist.”

Nikolai shook his head. “No. This one… this one really lost it all.”

Andrei swirled the liquid in his glass, watching it catch the light. “Alright. I’m listening.”

---

He was a painter once. The kind who thought his hands could carve something holy out of nothing. Who believed he was destined for greatness. The fools always do.

And for a while, he had everything. A wife. A home. A name that, if not well-known, at least carried whispers in the right circles.

But art is a cruel god. It demands everything and gives nothing back. The world did not love him the way he thought it should. The galleries were indifferent, the critics cold, and slowly, the cracks began to form. First, the debts. Then the disappointment. Then the doubt.

And, as always, then came the ruin.

The wife was the first to go, in the way that women always leave before they actually walk out the door. She lingered, out of duty, out of nostalgia, out of habit. But love, real love, had long since rotted between them.

She found comfort elsewhere. In a man who came in the quiet hours, who whispered things in the dark, who left before the sun could name him.

A man who, every time he was inside her, looked at the paintings on the walls.

“I knew him,” Nikolai said, his voice low, unreadable. “Not personally. But I knew his work. Every brushstroke, every violent, desperate smear of color.”

Andrei tilted his head, intrigued. “How?”

Nikolai exhaled through his nose, a faint smirk curving his lips.

“Because I spent years fucking his wife in front of them.”

Andrei let out a short, breathless laugh, the kind that wasn’t really laughter at all. “Jesus, man.”

Nikolai leaned back, taking a slow sip of his drink.

“She wasn’t faithful. Neither was I. But those paintings… they were something else. Every time I was with her, I’d look at them. I could see it—the madness, the obsession, the way he was clawing at something just beyond his reach. The last bits of his soul, bleeding onto canvas. He didn’t paint pictures. He painted his own slow death.”

Andrei shook his head. “You ever meet him?”

“No.” Nikolai set his glass down. “Only saw him once. The morning after. He was in the kitchen, drinking coffee like a man who had long since stopped tasting it. His hands shook. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a decade.”

Andrei exhaled smoke. “Did he know?”

“Of course.”

There was a silence then, thick and heavy, stretching between them like a noose.

Andrei broke it first. “What happened to him?”

Nikolai’s fingers tapped against the glass, slow, methodical. “He lost the fight.”

“Suicide?”

“Worse.”

---

The artist did not kill himself. No. That would have been too easy.

Instead, he kept painting. Even as his body failed, even as his hands trembled, even as his mind turned against him. He painted like a man clawing at the walls of his own grave.

And the sickness grew. Not one the doctors could name, but something deeper, older. He aged in fast-forward, like he had been cursed. In five years, he became an old man. His wife was gone, the debts swallowed him whole, and even his art—the only thing that had ever made him feel real—became meaningless.

And then, one day, he stopped.

Not just painting.

Living.

He vanished. Some said he fled the city. Some said he withered away in his studio, forgotten before he was even dead.

But Nikolai… Nikolai knew the truth.

Because months later, a package arrived at his door. No sender. No note.

Just a painting.

A masterpiece. The last one.

And in it, Nikolai saw something that made his stomach turn to ice.

It was a painting of himself.

Him and the artist’s wife, frozen in a moment of pleasure, of betrayal, of something primal and raw.

But the face in the painting… it was twisted. Wrong. As if something had looked through Nikolai’s skin and painted what it saw underneath.

Andrei stared at him, silent. Then, finally, he spoke. “You still have it?”

My friend asked me an amazingly deep question: "How can you manage to live in the real world full of difficulties and at the same time of the world of your imagination.?" Her questions are always thoughtful and wise, and I can't help but admire her ability to look deeply into things. In today's world, that's rare — many people ask questions without thinking, just throwing out the first thing that comes to mind. But that's not what this is about.

Her question made me stop and think. How do I really handle real life, full of challenges, while keeping my world of fantasies? The answer lies in the difficult art of balancing between reality and our inner world. Living in the real world requires strength, resilience, and the ability to adapt to constant challenges. But within us, there is always another world — a world of fantasy, which supports and inspires us.

The real world is full of uncertainty, sometimes cruelty, and injustice. It asks us to make decisions, take responsibility, and sometimes work hard on ourselves. But the world of fantasy becomes our refuge when reality gets too harsh. It's not an escape, but a source of restoration. We dive into our dreams not to avoid life but to gather strength to return to it with new ideas and energy.

This balance is like a dance between two worlds. Reality teaches us resilience and wisdom, while fantasy gives us creativity and inspiration. Both worlds are important and complement each other, helping us deal with life's challenges. Psychologically, it’s important to stay connected to both worlds. Fantasy allows us to imagine a better future, while reality teaches us to act here and now. Living in both worlds at once is an art that requires awareness, inner harmony, and the ability to see beauty even in the toughest moments of life.

I am incredibly grateful to fate that in my life there is a person I can confidently say is my person. At 38, I can finally say these words with full certainty — I have my person!

We are like two great minds, like Sherlock Holmes and Moriarty, but with one important difference: we don't compete. Instead, we find harmony, respecting and appreciating each other, creating a unique unity where each of us understands and supports the other.

P.S. Thank you all for your attention! I hope my thoughts didn’t tire you too much and even made you smile a little. Don’t forget to dream and stay true to yourself, and if life gets too tough — you can always find a corner of magic! As Carl Jung said: "Those who look outside dream; those who look inside awaken." May your dreams lead you to inner harmony and light!

© 2025 Victoria Lunar. All rights reserved.

Hardly what it seems

Twelve A.M across scowling sheets,

Frowns repeat in strong shrieks

You sing like gentle spring

Droplets,

Barricades in your esophagus

Quiver-

I sing in shattered

Consonants,

Palisades pierce my tongue

Bitter-

Smooth blood you left

Unpaved,

Pencil shavings spread across

Your desk

Clogged shower drain-

Sing another week

When summer comes

In studio apartment dreams

Stinging echoes of rusty pipes

Linger a roaring tune

Neighbors pounding fists

against

Towering doors,

Love ending beyond your

Kitchen sink

Adulthood is hardly what

It seems.

Do animals have souls? It's a topic for debate but I believe they just might and more so than some humans. As a child I had health issues that prevented me getting out much & even now I still lead a somewhat isolated life. For this reason most of time was spent around animals from the chickens eating bugs to the deer strung up and butchered.

As a farmer, pet owner, and Hunter I've seen my share of animal deaths. When an animal expires it isn't like a plant dying but closer to a human; the body shuts down, the breathing stops and there is a visible light that goes forever dim in the eyes. There has to be something there for the Grim Reaper to harvest.

When you mistreat an animal it suffers trauma like a human. Some lash out others cower in corners as a pair of loving hands reach toward them. They are broken and have to heal. Surely there is something within them for that mark to be left on.

Perhaps they do not possess a soul like ours but rather one God made just for them but it is a soul nonetheless.

/Interpassage/

...

Granting me a permission to sustain

I don't persuade any of you if you are the one who pursues me

Does it matter in this circumstance

Calling me nearer to your spheres

I am willing to get prepared for your conditions

Am I a matter if I am not a complete piece

You are a member of my nimbus

I am not swelling for that

You are the elation of my mind

I am not an imperfection of myself

I condemn your love

Even if I can't accuse you for that

Waiting for you to have a gleam on me

I consent requiring you

My consciousness is a conflict if it's you the one who has a destination scripted for me

I protest the god if I only get penury from him

Indulging me is a retribution when I flicker 'cause of the begetter

I couldn't retain her from the suppression

When I discern you, she is appalled from the composer herself

Nipping off while calling me a freaking heretic

Invoking me for the concession

I am not a significant driblet of the nimbus

Considering her although the delinquency

I never appreciate his oblivion

Pleasing me if I swing with the fury

I am not precious enough to speak about sufficiency

Disposing my codes and chrysalis

I convince myself to trust you when I have no selection

You are the confusion of my comprehension

I couldn't have conceived what I sense

But it convinces me to let them all being on

Even though that I am nudging my mold to comply with halo

Everyone that comes into my room tells me I need to clean it. They tell me it's messy, that they don't understand how I can spend so much time in here. But I don't understand them.

I mean sure, the cracked yellow tile and chipping white paint on the walls exposing the avocado green from when my room was not my own is not the most appealing, but I don’t mind. And yes my dresser is piled with all the random knickknacks I collect, but where else am I going to keep the things I keep from my many adventures? And yes I should put away the pile of clothes that blocks my bookshelf, but why would I? What if I finally get a chance to wear that pink dress that has been on my floor for a week from a date that never happened? Why would I clean my room when I can tell you exactly where my cats leave their favorite toys? Sure I could fix my tower of squishmallows that haven’t been reorganized since I got number 100, but why would I? Why would I when I could tell you where all my favorite ones are even though I can’t see them all?

Sure I could straighten up my jewelry boxes so they aren’t falling off the shelves, but why would I? Why would I when they are in the perfect spot for my nieces to grab when they walk in and see that hot pink Bobby Jack jewelry box full of braceletsI have been saving just for them? Sure, I could fold the dinosaur blanket that sits on my desk or move the cat scratcher from the middle of my room so it's more convenient for me, but why would I? Why would I when they are where my cats like them the best? And sure my walls aren't decorated with beautiful landscapes and traditional works of art but why should they be? Why should they when I can tell you where all 12 of my dream catchers that hang around my room are from? Why would I decorate my wall with someone else's artwork when I can put up my own instead?

When people walk into my room they see a mess but I see me. I see my adventures, my memories, my feelings, my likes and dislikes. Sure I could clean my room, but why would I?

It's been a long time. A very long time. And I suppose you would have never even received this letter if I had written it down. Mostly because I am afraid. The fearless, shameless girl you once knew is scared.

I wonder if you even remember me, or if I was just an insignificant friend among the many we both know you had. But I am to scared to confirm it because that will hurt. And I don't know what will hurt worse. Trying to forget you day after day, or reaching out and finding you didn't care enough to remember?

The place we would sit together alone under the sun remains unused. I can barely stand sitting there alone, staring at the town below it like we used to.

Even though it's been years, I cannot get over it. Almost like it was yesterday. I believe that there is such time as the right person, wrong time. But I fear there was never a right time, and that there never will be. Mostly because I don't know where you are. And also because I think I would be to scared to approach you again.

I think you will be happy, but now after years I have moved on. Sort of. He's nice, and funny like you are, or were. I don't know anymore. And sometimes when I'm with him laughing I can almost forget that there ever was a before. But still you stay, in my head living. Making me wonder that if I would have said what I always wanted to, maybe I would know the answers to all the questions in me now.

But, there was a before you, so there must also be an after. Although I cry, and try to forget, I won't. But, at least I have found a way to get around the constant memories. I haven't told him about you, and I probably never will because it's easier to pretend there was nobody before him. But just in case you were wondering, and if you've already forgotten that's fine. Because now you get a letter from a stranger you can ignore. But still, just in case. I found joy in the sunrises that were your favorite, and I will stare down at that town, but never from out place. From behind it, and pretend I can see two people sitting there, ahead, and living out their happy lives without it ever breaking.