An Author's Journal

© 1996-2015 by the author

click on author's photo to read the blog tags relating to the creative nonfiction breakaway; The Pattern Of Diagnosis.

2015100211275044705 - Age 27-28 Archives

From The Archives: I had found some of my older entries from both The Shadowed Thoughts and from with the help of Waybackmachine ( the one is on InsaneJournal dated to the day when I wrote this on and this one was on as it is about 2,381 words and you can read this over on the IJ archives. It was about when I was getting ready for the 10 year reunion. I was trying to find a photograph from the era to pair this up with. This was when I became a ban dodger on Well the staff of LJ were morons back then too. I even found some old comments about my work from the era too which is very cool; I know that I wasn't always hated but by the industry I am. I do have a short story I am submitting around and making the rounds with this; and this one the editor told me it had some interesting ideas but not quite for them and another said, "Submit again but not a quite the deal we're looking for."

Obscurity -- A Parable
Written by Nickolaus A. Pacione

The mind dreams. It would become while the body falls asleep and the darkness that follows within the land of Nod; though when the body descends into its sleep the one who sees them in the writing is the one who dreams. Within the mind as it wanders and dreams, it would become from them in an echo that fades. That it would become from them in the beginnings of what dwell in a mind that one cannot find the fullest of details of a world and landscape that cannot be surfaced. Even within the darkest regions of a mental hell one sees them wandering without a reason. From the silence one sees, and from silence that they see as the body sleeps. While the body sleeps, the mind dreams; dreaming it would do when the eyes are closed and sleeping.
      In time where everything around seems frozen, as the dream descends into the details that fade from a waking memory. When everything around the one who is writing this seems frozen, it would seem from the dreamscape that descends into a hellish type of darkness. From them in a hell that cannot be described or named; it becomes the thing that becomes the reoccurring detail as one puts to the pages, a dream that becomes from the stirring details of a grotesque nature. So grotesque that what is seen cannot be named; though in the madness it would be the thing that one bares the witness and the eyes that are seen while the mind dreams. Though who wander within them as what stares into a darkness they cannot begin to fathom. When it becomes to the slow crawl, in that slow crawl the darkness that lingers waiting. When it become the waiting of the bones, as they stir from the beginning of them awaiting for when the mind dreams.
      That it would draw from the hypnotic descriptions that become in the echo of a dream when they descend. Though it would become from them in the journals that stand before the mind as it looks at them. Even when the questions we ask are the things we don’t know, when everything around them descends into a dream that tells within the psyche. It stands within the eyes when the shadow looks on descending, in them where they look descending. Though in words one descends from the passages as they become from an echoing dream. In the places where the body sleeps, and the descending while the mind dreams.
     In this which descends from places in me, that changes within the mind and reflection told within the pages of their memory. Falling down from them in the details that fall from them in the eyes of the one who sees this, in the place where the mind dreams. Though it would become the creation of the rift, in the rift that become the nightmare when time grows from shadows; and madness in horrors that become the beginning of the surfaced dream. Told within a distance afar, it would become the details that fade with time and memory; words that paint a picture of obscurity.
     Obscurity –– a bizarre word in itself but something that painted such a picture when it is comes to the dream within one’s mind. Something that is said without remorse when one walks in it within their dreams and the telling of them become the distant thing when they fall into a darkness they cannot climb out of. The landscape it paints into an abstract shadow that rises from a winter desert, that of a barren darkness which fades without a meaning or a sound that consists of a whisper. As desolate it would seem beneath a darkness that fades into a morbid shadow, a shadow that descends into an obscure sanity that dies with the one who writes from them. Horrors in the time when a shadow had no shape or forum, that even when I stand before them in a landscape without a description. From them within a landscape that grows in an aura gray, becoming in that gray which follows the void-filled skies it follows to the body when it sleeps. As the body sleeps, the mind dreams –– while the mind dreams, the darkness that becomes from them are the ashes in tomorrow’s memory.
      From the details that become within the dream, the keys of life and death can be seen by the eyes of a human when they are asleep. In a mind that follows what the thoughts obey, all that follows and leaves to control. A haunted mind that stirs away, that all that leaves to become of the gone. Though from the gone that they hear them, the whispers in silence that tell them when they either go to heaven or hell. Nor from the perspective that drawn from them in words spoken from the dream, and when the mind dreams. Though it would become of them descending in a darkness that fades; waiting from the echo told in whisper. Becoming from them in a whisper told within the eyes of someone who sees it within the sense of the words when they are looking on. Obscurity –– something that is painted from pictures within nightmares as one sees them into the pages of their mind. As what is said, obscure works come from an obscure mind, all the details of them become the surreal words as told from the nightmares that live within them. Though from them in the pages looking at them –– they stare with a pair of eyes that are theirs. In the dreams following them –– time is mine.
      From them in a field of an infinite darkness that spreads across the mind when it dreams and haunting within a surface that cannot be said. Though it stands without meaning, as what is written before the mind when dreams are seen before the eyes –– in the eyes when they are seen become the thing of multiple questions without an answer.
     “Tell me, what is this that I see that stands in a dark echo?” I asked into the silence, without a single answer it looks beyond anything that could be said or spoken. That it comes from the following of mind, the dreams told within them are the pages of memory and time within the details that stir within them. Of a landscape told are those which are heard in the echo of whispers and each whisper comes with a narrative of one form.

Barren and empty, within the years of silence
Left alone in the number of years, hidden of truth,
Passages of time, left without a form of guidance,
Into the passing of dissonance, the dying of youth.

The thoughts as they waited within them are the details told while the mind dreams, and while the mind dreams; the darkness grows within them. Waiting, feeding as it lumbers within the sleep as the body is numb. Depth from pages as they would be told, horrors from the mind as told from the perspective of the soul. The words when they dwell, and madness of purgatory of one’s sanity becomes the echo of what is seen when the mind dreams. Somewhere in the silence when everything around them is told, all the death of youth becomes the reoccurring thing when the body falls asleep. When it is gathered from my reasoning, and in that reason becomes a darker season. That all comes from the rendition and a painting as it resembles the landscapes created by Salvador Dali. And from the dreams it would become as such, the words that I describe of which when it resembles a painting or as something that darkly abstract.
      Of them being the poetic it would be described from them when they fade from memories as the mind dreams. In silence as told from the whisper, and the things heard in the whisper leaving for the imagination to follow. As they followed from a silence that is left from the dead and living as they follow into the eyes of a midnight sea. Within those fields as told, and the haunting shadow told within the eyes of an absolute memory.

Years that crawl in the depths of sorrows
Left in madness without a year of tomorrows,
Gathered in a year of silence, and madness
Within the infinities of sadness and death
Chanting for the children and final breaths,
Wailing away upon one’s health and weathered
Broken away as madness becomes the sorrow,,

Among those that become within the years, and season left within a time and days of the dream––-and when the mind dreams. “Who are you?” I would ask, nothing but silence. Silence. As it was told from the memories and the pages written to a darkness that one cannot tell; when it lurks and watches within a mind and waiting it would dwell. In them that become the beginning of what one describes as the parable of whispers. When everyone around in the dream walks around with their eyes closed. When everything they’ve known and found out, everything that they’ve known was dead. Even in the dreams that are seen and the words that are told, in the reality of it when everything around them dies. When it was left in an ocean of silence, waiting for all that becomes in the memory that dies with the mind while it still dreams. Nor that I could only tell myself of what stands within the mind, and the eyes that look within a shadow told within the years that had died and passed. From those that died and passed, the words told within dreams as they are frozen in a memory that is left without waiting.
     “Answer me!!!” I screamed into the dark, still no answer. Though it would become from the memory told in the time, and the depths of what is seen cannot be told. Drawn from a darker shadow of existence becoming the thing that are seen within the details of ones dreams, that when I walk, I walk alone. From the years within the land of Nod, they become the thing that are seen before me as I watch them looking on with their whispers. That it becomes from them in the eyes of a waiting mind and the whispers proceed to be heard within the dream.

A darkness within a distance
Waiting from the passage of time
When all in the dead begin to dance
As the bell tolls, and begins to chime,
Another gathered madness, awaiting
When it becomes another wait of run
Between the gates opening to Charon,

The walking of years when they become, and in them within memories as they crawled. The night which followed from years in memory; that becomes the persistence of them. The waiting from horrors when they become, and in them in the beginning; from the beginnings when all that awakens begins to fade. In the morbid curiosity and understanding of what becomes the way out –– only to realize that there was no way out.
      “Answer me!!! Answer me, damn you,” I screamed even louder into the darkness. Nothing. It was nothing that left me with an answer but asking more questions. That becomes the question after the years that died within the ghost of youth. From them within the eyes seen before the memories –– the dreams as told before the looking of the storm. “Answer me, why don’t you answer me?” I heard myself yelling into the silence, “tell me why don’t you answer me damn it?” In the eyes seen from them, are what I describe from a madness that cannot be said –– as eerie of a calm it has, and welcomed. In that welcoming, it becomes the etching of silence. In the bones that crawl from the fields when they are seen, from the eyes of the children told within an echo of one’s memory. That all was said among them in the whisper becomes the thing that is heard loudly within an echo. It becomes of piercing silence when some would say, all that becomes the words that are written upon the wall.

Eyes when they close of them,
The sadness becomes the sanity
When the sleep becomes the waiting
Becoming of when they take the fall
Awakening within the writings on the wall..
When it comes in the silence of the scream
And madness within the nightmarish dreams,
Waiting for them to awaken, death becomes again
Before the ashes that become he fall…in a wait

“Does anyone hear me out there?” I heard myself asking but all that was there was nothing but an ash driven silence. Beneath the thought as told within the mind when the obscurity fades. Those words ring in my mind when one sees the poetry on the walls. The ringing of the head when one hears them, and the throbbing whispers telling within a loud silence. A loud raging silence it becomes the dream as it fades into an obscure and surreal darkness. Though it would be said of them within a silence where words aren’t spoken but louder they crawl in a memory as they look and they see within the eyes of a silence weathered. Obscurity as it fades, silence becomes the thing that brings ones nightmare back to life.
     Though it would be from the dark that awakens, and in the dark that crawls in a madness that fades from the sense of memory. And from the sense of memory it becomes when one sees the nightmare dreaming within a nightmare. That it would become the parable of obscurity; as what is told among them in the pages and dreams –– when one sees the whispers in the mind. Of them in a gathering silence they become from the mind when it dreams.


> top of page and Suck it
HTML Arrangements By The Author