In loving memory of Ernest William Rhymer (30th of September, 2016)

 Blessed be thy merciful hands on my speechless and motionless companion, for the less he felt the longer he endured. I know my face was like a washed out water painted portrait to him, and lack of comprehension made me no clearer than shades of death walking in the streets of Egypt to have done what had been written in a harvest of heads of slaves to be. Myself shall not dwell in this image for my companion comprehended it as much as I understood his gestures. For I have felt despair of not being understood I can understand a man's will to die after a fortnight of only crawling in his own head. Just as one cannot take away a man's will to live, one cannot take a way a man's will to die. And when the cold hands of death came claimed the harvest, he was still in the merciful hands of sister morphine.

Days in the madhouse

Days in the madhouse
Episode 54

"My name is Nameless" ..... this is the name he chose for himself when he decided to write from a madhouse. I shall tell you a bit about it, all chambers are the same, no sense of creation, pure dullness and no questioning absurdities. We were so pathetic that we laughed at the same joke like amnesic elderly ones with the same enthusiasm. We lived in repetition that we forgot how many times we've seen the same plays and discussed the same topics. Our only consolation was that we no longer walk around with the others, but the truth is, we don't dare. We neither had homes nor families. We all knew our carers in the madhouse were genuinely the sick ones and we never questioned their sanity or had the slightest share of doubt about it, only because they kept us away from the others. I had no doubt about my insanity, and my cowardice at the same time. I also am not sick of repetition like all the others in the madhouse. I repeated what I had written and rewrote what had been formerly created. I have always been asking myself if divinity is not at least as sick as we are of this never ending story. 
Even if we were kept away from the others, they still kept us with other "others". This shall keep going for as long as they hold the assumption we are pack creatures and we shall go to graves in groups. The truth is, you go alone in a shroud with no pockets and nothing to pull from beneath your cloak. But it's also the same scene in the madhouse, no pockets, and nothing beneath your cloak, and no five aces in your cards. There is no trick. It felt like taking a penniless one into a free show and asking them to pay as they were leaving, and thus they never made their way out again, simply because it looked tempting. But let me not think of the tragedy of being in my chamber with another maniac, at least I am no one's "Cesare". 

The Black Raven

The scroll

The scroll

Episode 53

I was so unlike myself once anger and agony conspired against me .... I was worn out .... days on the road in vain .... I could barely feel hunger or thirst ..... I could barely feel .... The road was long enough and my demons could entertain me with the ugliest yet the most realistic thoughts .... days in apathy and madness to forget about how the journey commenced a fortnight earlier ..... and what I have learnt is once a lone wolf one can never be a lamb again .... and once a lone wolf one must take a wound after the other until the final blow gets them to close the lid denying a world of isness to infiltrate their world of nothingness ..... and new eyes to see what has been done .... when life starts to make sense and everything falls in place or so I hope .... in the yester world I had soothers ..... I was scared of being feared when I am seen through ..... like a hunchback on a pedestal I was waiting for the first stone ..... but from my pedestal everything looked small below .. insignificant ..... like gods I was above all .... but I was alone .... one day I was left a scroll .... a few words enough to let me take a final blow with pleasure ..... I have known there is someone who can sail in a sea of confusion in my head with me .... I knew there was someone along the way or at least there would be someone .... I feared being touched or seen ..... I feared being touched by the light itself .... Above all .... I feared my fear itself ..... the face of terror I have seen on every one I met .... and on those who used to matter long before my yester self was gone .... the scroll had me in words I could never relate to .... because I was blinded by my fear of fear itself .... and thus the scroll was placed in my soul for eternity even after I woke up as a blind crow.