writing as only way left of being
I write because the system wages war on the mind—flooding it with cruelty, absurdity, and deranged monologues—until language itself collapses under the weight of mass media assault. I write to reclaim speech from the wreckage. What remains but to write, or else to fall silent? I am drawn to the mystery of language, to the depth of myth, where silence and speech wrestle for meaning.
Language is not merely a bridge between people. It’s a threshold between worlds. It connects us to the soil we emerge from, the sky we dream into, and the questions that haunt our becoming. It is woven through us like breath, like blood. And when it builds up without release—when it’s not channeled—we suffer. We need words to be. We need to restore our true languages: the ones that remember, resist, and reveal.
A healthy mind is a mind that can articulate itself in thought, just as a healthy body articulates itself in movement. Otherwise, it stiffens, like a soul with arthrosis. That’s why a neurotic mind feels rigid: thought becomes cramped, inflexible. Perhaps that’s why right, as in correct, and write, as in expression, sound the same in English. To be write—or not to be write. To speak is to shadow-see—to trace the contours of what hides, what haunts, what hopes.
I craft symbolic landscapes where the soul can wander, reflect, and—perhaps—return transformed. To enter Rivalia is to step into a universe designed to awaken memory, rekindle resistance, and restore what the world tries to erase. If it works, even for a breath, you may feel reborn—more fully yourself—in a system built to unmake you.
Rivalia and the Green Fire
Depression occurs when, as the word itself suggests, pressure is misaligned.
Boredom, purposelessness, and the absence of hope create under-pressure. The soul, like the body drained of blood, collapses when its vital flow is denied.
And then comes the over-pressure: bills, rushing, alarm clocks, and the cult of insane productivity. A system that floods the body with cortisol and dread, until the heart breaks—not metaphorically, but literally. Heart attacks. Autoimmune collapse. Nervous systems frayed like old wires.
The natural rhythms are shattered. The pulse of life is hijacked.
We are no longer allowed to breathe, to pause, to listen to the slow music of becoming. Instead, we are timed, taxed, and trained to sprint through a maze of deadlines and dopamine traps.
This system kills motivation. It has built a maze of bricks and costume shops for a fancy-dress party called “life,” lined with shop windows that promise escape but deliver only illusion.
It is the architecture of your upbringing. The pressure of systems that never asked what you feel—only what you produce.
Your blood knows how to flow. Your soul does too. But it needs channels—mythic arteries for beauty, for art, for the message of the universe. When those channels are blocked, your essence is not merely silenced. It is mutilated.
Time and voice are siphoned away, drained into gray greasy grids and shit-holes designed to isolate and dehydrate the consumed consumer—day by day. You are endrunkened, dressed up in fancy decay, paraded as a living dollar doll.
This ugly, constraining architexture is engineered to force a feeling of escape—so you spend even more, stacked atop abusive rent and inflated prices of so-called “third spaces,” just to breathe outside the asphyxiating flats of isolation and TV injection that aim to rot you to death.
Where are the temples? The honour? The good shepherds willing to build a dojo—a place for healing, for becoming, for gathering, for uplifting, for touching the essence of stars made flesh?
Instead, we are compressed into closets disguised as flats—posed like mannequins in the dust of forgotten malls. Shelved lives, boxed breath, staged silence. Not homes, but storage units for the living.
Where is true religion—not the patrol of dogma enforcers, but the ancient act of re-binding ourselves to mystery? To the origin we cannot name, to the destiny we dare to imagine. To the sacred labor of explaining ourselves to ourselves—through thought, through word, through feeling. Not as compliance, but as communion. Not as doctrine, but as dialogue with the unknown.
Where is the true religion—not a crucifying stigma, but a communion of stars?
These words are a vessel. A green flame. A whisper from the underworld calling you back to yourself.
Take the green pill. Recover your mind. Begin the flow.