I'm trying and trying to write a next novel (in english this time), but my head is simultaneously so crammed by the things I am working on as a must, and so inspired, I keep getting stuck in a twirl. My expectations are so high. I'm reading too many school texts on the subjects, they get me scared and doubting myself. Which is the prime time to start the next book.
Scribbles will rhyme back and forth and say he
tried to look on beauty, but his eyelashes would turn to rust and he tried to
utter kindness, but it split his tongue like acid and out came only belittling
platitudes and petty camp. Well, poets fudge. It’s why we love them. Things are
not that simple. No character, once stripped of the thin paper of their pages,
is ever so entirely unpardonable. Even humans, who tend to be the worst of
species, know this. Violent when even a little scared; always scared, falling
for the slightest provocation; hysterically possessive and gullible to the
point of irony. Even human, wrong men, remembered darkly, had lifetimes of
quiet, right thoughts that nobody was around to put down. Humans favor tunnel
vision. Old school journalists, few bothering to check up what’s behind the
frame are coming fast extinct. So who should judge the Gods so quickly if not
me? It’s my pen, ‘tis not? See - Nyx, the Goddess of the Night and Erebus, God
of Darkness, had four sons. Their firstborn was Death, an agent, procreator of
devoid; he was mighty and arrogant, without compassion in absolute, and very
vain. His confidence and focus inspired all of his younger siblings to strive
beyond even their rigid family’s expectations. He set very high standards for everyone.
Sumnus, the second born, loved to parry him. Their youngest was a god of
forgotten things and didn’t particularly try to compete, but he was the
favorite of Death and was most frightening of them all in Death’s opinion. A
solitary, melancholy boy, who liked no places, no things. They called him Pavo,
though that was probably a mean joke on him that he didn’t get. Only Oneir, or
as some liked to call him, Morpheius, was made of the same thing that people’s
dreams are and people can be extremely creative when given the right thumbs up.
Morpheius liked life for all the colors, shapes and unpredictability. Chaos is
not something a God faces bravely. Yet alone change. Change just pulls their
socks off. A God can go unchanged for epochs. And there you have one who
changed his shape fourteen times before brunch. He may not have been aware of
it, but he liked the stories that came pouring out where there was
consciousness. He liked to build. He liked to morph. He wasn’t very popular
with his family. I don’t have to stress that, do I? Somehow they just wouldn’t
understand that from any darkness, any void, one form of creation or another
always, inevitably explodes, erupts, vomits hatches through.
It
wasn’t the only thing substandard about him. Morphei had a quarter of a dozen
souls. Phantasos was the dreams dreamt by the objects. Dreams do not
discriminate and welcome anyone who should attempt to try them. Phantasos was a
very nice soul. He could whisper songs into the wind so long, the winds circled
the world and in the morning every tree or creek or statues knew them. Morpheius,
Oneiros, was the dream God of people. Oh, how he extolled that fact. He was, if
unsubstantial, aflame with ego. He had a son, Tutu, who judged if his dreams
were perfect. Should people call that part of him the whole Dream, he was fine by
it. Behind them, the eldest soul, Icelus or Phoebetor Perenis, was the
Nightmare. He fathered creeps. He didn’t hold any particular reason or grudge wanting
to inspire nightmares, it was just something he was. In fact he wished,
secretly, that just for once those idiots would notice because something was
ugly, it really didn’t mean that it was particularly evil just for sport.
