Alyona’s Journal I: Claim Yourself, Be your own Master

I do not content myself with merely spewing words around. I practice what I preach, so I encourage each individual to explore life and discern that which is most suitable for his well-being and prosperity.

– Alyona

Something snapped, and I felt the known existential discomfort of looking for a purpose or something desirable, engaging, interesting, or entertaining to mind.

As I browsed through YouTube, I became aware that even frustration was created by me, not by life or the browser. That frustration and any other affliction only came into being as a reflection of my relationship with myself and my vision of reality.

Being aware of myself, I noticed how I was searching, but at the same time also mentally resisting taking something in and giving it an opportunity.

With this awareness, I consciously chose a video to watch and focus on or immerse myself in.

I felt the shift immediately: how tension and mental resistance dissolved into nothingness, and how the experience became more pleasant.

Out of the ordeal, I emerged with this:

Avoid the trap of searching mindlessly for something that can only be fixed from within. That is a distraction from what truly needs to be addressed. Also, stay clear of gathering or accumulating too much information just for the sake of it under the guise of “learning” or “education” when you have no clear vision for its use; for it may feel and be like you are perpetually preparing for a future that will never come. Pick one thing and stick with it until you master it, to then let it branch out.

Through your relationship with yourself and your vision of reality, the matter directs you back to mind the quality of your focus.

What you focus on is what you will materialize and experience. It is not a matter of any particular circumstance that determines your life experience, but rather how you relate to the experience – consciously or not.

So, how well can you sustain a constructive mental framework, and live your life lucidly while directly influencing it?

If you have to think about this question, start working on your ability to and quality of focus. Do not wait, postpone, or wish for another day, another time, or for the future that looms forever on the horizon. Wake up and be and do right now!

You have this moment right now to be productive with yourself in building up and refining your life.

Despite any and all existential discomforts, take a deep breath in while acknowledging the situation as you go within, and focus on something to get yourself ahead.

Always give yourself something to look forward to.

  • Pictures:
  1. https://pixabay.com/images/id-2471007/
  2. https://pixabay.com/images/id-3252371/
  3. https://pixabay.com/images/id-4393603/

Lotus: the Pull of the Deep

Velvet feathers quill

The canticles of ecstasy.

The ocean, still, breaths in

And out of me,

Reflected in every raindrop,

This July of mermaid lullabies and salty breeze.

Velvet feathers embosom me

In the temple of Divinity.

Quiet still, heartbeats shed tears of ancient bliss.

Quiet still, beauty bleeds pensively through the eyes of memory.

There, who birth gave to the First Swirls

Moves enchanted by life and lyric,

Storytelling the Ways of Mystery –

The Ubiquitous core of Eternity.

Two-fold Vision of Humanity

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

Midnight stroke a symphony of two-fold clarity, as I paced around in silence while everybody slept. How amusing and how horrific had the picture of humanity appeared before me!


To fulfil our physical sojourn in this world, we seek to make ourselves of value by way of choosing and polishing a craft from which to make a living and sustain ourselves.

Such beauty, is it not? To be able to freely sculpt a fine specimen of a life provided the right influences be present.


With a vision and a purpose, creativity would know no limits, and we would weep with joy at the realization of our potential expanding like supernovas in outer space.

And then it came to me that the body of knowledge that humanity cherishes, all its inventions, are the product of the imagination. From the most academic endeavours to the more overtly artistic expressions, everything we have and have done has had its origin in a thought which has preceded manifestation. All the great accomplishments have had as base someone who provided something which was not available before.

Suddenly, it made no sense to me that such a thing called a job would be so stiff.

It was then that horror supplanted hilarity. We look like figurines running around and groping in the darkness of ourselves and the world around us.

Not only are there no specific rules by which to design life, but our lives are dependent on our imagination and our creativity to build something quite magnificent out of it instead of solely relying on pre-established institutions perpetuating models of reality that may or may not be of value to our lives.

If all be dependent on a sparkling thought, the birth of a new idea via myriad media of inspiration, we would ultimately appoint ourselves to be the prime architect of our lives.

But what happens when man is unleashed in his full creative expression without an in-depth realization of himself and the possibilities all around?

The untold may ensue!

For one, the wild sense of freedom may become so overwhelming as for us to feel trapped with so much potential at the disposal of our judgement and creative flavour.

There would be no one else to point our finger at, as this freedom would become our undoing or our greatest tool for major transformation and empowerment directly from our hand.

Not only would we be responsible for ourselves, free from past conditioned shackles, but the world itself would make us responsible for ourselves.

And from this would emerge the prevailing tendency toward excellence, for once devoid of the distracting excuses and fears shrieking from the bowels of our own personal hells – an excellence geared toward our success and satisfaction once we have embraced ourselves and recognized that we have all we need to be content already within us.

Florescencia (Translated – Spanish Collection)

Burdas luciérnagas sin piel trazaron el camino

de vuelta hacia la morada del ojo empírico

que supervisa todos los lazos del pasado, presente, y futuro por igual.

Es la florescencia –

la consciencia y sensibilidad que se arremolina

inmutable a los chillidos mortales

que elevan pilares de auto-adversidad.

~*~

En la brisa yace el soplo de la sabiduría de la antigüedad.

En la brisa yace la respuesta a toda pregunta en honestidad.

Es la florescencia –

el vínculo sutil de la claridad balsámica

y el colector de la moneda en ligamentos de alquimia.

“¡La libertad es el modo y el camino!”,

arrancó de mi pecho y garganta,

ya que si los sentidos obedecieran solo un deseo,

serían exiliados más allá de los portales de la creatividad.

~*~

Burdas luciérnagas sin piel adornaron la corona de la noche

desde la cuna hasta el cenit,

observando las extrañas formas luminosas en la oscuridad.

Fue la florescencia –

el aliado de cristal que juzgó a los espejos gemelos

con el juicio de no ser paralelos para embarcar

en el viaje a través de las tierras impías de la llama infernal.

Coalition of Yourself

Image by pieonane from Pixabay

Every spring is a delirious dream,

a fever of singing birds beaking

at the ribcage of the shadow of death.

Every spring, the tales of old fall asleep

to the chiming of wishes

which nature is to defy

the will to apotheosis.

But every spring takes the edge

off the wine of misery.

At one point, no reflex will escape

the awareness and dance of the puppeteer –

being there but forethought

and synergy with the lower machinery.

Thus, every spring is but a glass of alchemy.

Be drunk! Be mad! – Never still.

For the road is long in the quest for eternity.

Womb Liturgy

Image by Bruno /Germany from Pixabay

Come to feel my heavy heart

as I bleed for you tonight.

Come to soothe my laments

as I stand for you in Light.

I run to you to die,

for there is mercy in your arms.

No love compares to yours, Forgotten Mother of the World!

Come to me, my shrine — my haven, my heart!

Sing me a lullaby,

and guard me with your mind.

Embosom me, Endless Dark!

Kiss me into your essence sublime.

Release me from the chains that keep away the Night.

Dead & Awake

Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay

In the breeze lies no breath

for which I extend my grip and forbear my weeping.

In every garden a pricking thorn

for every poignant rose worth keeping.

The tides wash over the sands of my soul –

wax me stagnant,

gorgonize me on the spot,

tease the ground so tarnished with the white execrable.

Erewhile it had not mattered,

but the name of her burst forth of every mouth

in the hopes the prayers were answered.

They knew not their saviour laid breathless and disarranged

at the bottom of the old stone well amidst the town square,

that I bled her to death with a pen to quench my thirst,

to spare myself of beholding her face.

Clouds had not ere brought about the darkness,

and pouring ceased not thereafter.

The sun had fallen into the land of the forgotten,

and in her stead a young black star was lauded.

The sun never tarnished, if you ever wonder.

The sun alone perished without warning.

Solemn Pleasure

Feather feet tickle the blackened reflection of forgotten regions.

The fathomless mirror weeps with tears of oblivion

as the mystic voice of some divine creature denudes with tender touch

the skin seared in the truce of sweet perdition.

Silken vocals wrought from the salt of reasonless reason

declare war against the bearer of gentle breeze and warmth of spring

that if the bosom dare be tranquil still,

thorns of nightshade and opium dreams will unearth the graves of youth-besotted shards

beclothed by the deranged pure minds of the sheltering lamps

in a world of dark delight.

Cockroach Juice – Prelude

The fair cat in a suit of velvet blue looked with disgust at the raindrops trickling down the roof at the entrance of the old cabaret.

Tonight, like the previous night, and countless others lost in time, Lord Kamsim Mira had performed before an audience of dispirited souls.

The prominent feline had sung for so long that he, too, had nothing but emptiness in his once wild heart. The cold starless sky was the extension of his withered smile. Each time, he greeted it with the air of resignation of a man who ignites a fight just to surrender and die. This was his drill – the endless gloom of post performance nights, when the void that corroded him came alive and brought about the gall of an immortal with little regard for life.

Tonight, the minstrel of the drunk and the swine, still cursed and breathed in the fumes of his earthly prison; however, the cat was not of his reason.

Overtaken by the desire to escape his malediction, Lord Kamsim Mira closed his eyes and jumped into the streets in a warcry.

To his discontentedness, no carriage, and no murdeous shadow deigned to relieve him from existence. Instead, sundry legs and eyes filled his vision and cornered him behind a building of stone at the other side of the street he had crossed.

“You are one naughty cat”, said the mist who kept him from harm.

“Unhand me!” cried the feline, yet the oily musty stench of that fog saviour permeated through his nose and claimed abode in the residence of his lungs.

Soon enough, the gracious cat laid unconscious upon the hardened ground — tongue hanging to the side, tensed lines of furry brow slowly yielding to the sphere of dark.

The House of Infamous Memories

Thus, Alethea growled,

“In slithered the sad artist with manner of reverie.

She danced ’round the pyre that calcinated the enemy,

and drank from my veins until she was sated.

Image by Pete Linforth from Pixabay

Unholy hands elevated me beyond the flesh

to confine me to the house of infamous memories.

I wished to sleep, but discarnate voices of the past conjured up my wildness;

thus, I confronted them – broke their necks and ate their eyes to absorb their power.

Not too long after in this abode of correspondence,

a rapping at my door broke the stillness of my conscience.

“Go away!” I shouted in turmoil – my knees upon the floor, my heartbeats sundry.

I saw the hand that knocked on as no wall dared to shield me.

I saw the hand that knocked on even when the entrance was unopened.

“Let me in!” the ghoulish tongue demanded.

I sure held onto my faculties and beheld the blind man bearing crotches;

his grime was of a flower, his eyes a thousand thunders.

“Would you let me in?” said the cripple in a wonder

when I stood to analyse his intimate comportment.

A thought, a desire of abandonment tempted me to bed in a glorious bolting.

“Leave him there!” I heard as the ghost of Lethe perched

upon the threshold of accomplishment.

“Imbibe from the chalice of the dead and string my song in the nest of men.”

“Accurst!” I pined and pained. “Thy touch is of a bane!”

Forthwith I removed the first lock, allowing in the head of bleeding torment.

Unseeing as the man was, he managed to find my gaze and sigh.

The being vanished into thin air,

and darkness spread her mantle of primeval hearth.

I turnt on my heels – cold and aghast – just to find a woman akin to the man,

yet greasy and pregnant as she gave me a side smile.

“How did you get in?” blurted I. “Tell it to me, or I will kill you otherwise!”

“Remember the path beyond the Nightmare White?”

The woman cut all distance betwixt us and touched my hands.

Her fetid curls, her mouth swamp-like, burnt my insides

and turnt my semblance into a sour mask;

albeit enthralled I was by her shining azure eyes.

“You can’t unlearn a lesson learnt.

I know your happiness.

It’s all carved in where reversed dreamers dare not tread.”

Had I looked elsewhere but the woman’s eyes,

I would have seen the ungodly beast extract the life out of me.

Her grey hands gripped my neck, and I desperately sought calmness.

In those disturbed blue eyes, love danced in swirls of hand forlorn.

Hatred – a merciful cure for a heart whose sun burnt for reasons unknown.

Caged eternities – impulses of a sojourn gone too long –

laced vivid tales of a time that is no more.

Moved by sorrow once forgot, my countenance softened,

yet the daemoness brought her wrath further for my insolence – my boldness.

“Forgive me!” I stammered.

For the first time, surprise visited the woman’s visage;

consequently, I took advantage of such fleeting frailty

to turn my hands into claws –

to rip her head off and devour her eyes along with her unborn.

Thus, the last seal broke.

“What have I done!” I wept –

ebony tears abolishing the masters of the spider-web.

“My life!

Seed from the womb of another mother!

Scorn me not; for I can’t retaliate against this hunger.

Resurrect, my love – my longing!

What must I do to release thee from the arms of non-becoming?”

Sovereignty of the Mourning Brat

Image by JL G from Pixabay

From the ashes of past

’till the shadow hereafter,

the wrath of my soul shall breathe you terror.

I will laugh and conjure the fire of the nameless stars

as I relish your agony and frolic in this crown of tar.

You let me down, little bird of the sky —

bound me to a life in silence.

You stringed my limbs as far as it could have lasted.

There’s nowhere to go in this world forlorn

for one who takes not the spear of divine role.

Caged in your own disaster,

you will yearn for my poison dagger.

The winds will deny your voice and swallow your words

as penitence for your narrow-mindness.

Give me your tears, Asinine of Unsuited Matters!

I shall drink the nectar transmuted in the entrails of your delightful mother,

and free the world as I drag you crestfallen.

Sigh of the Blooded March

Image by cocoparisienne from Pixabay

In a summer land, a kingdom of ice stands upright.

The sun perishes before the stroke which forces masses into stone.

The walls of a neutral core may break alone to give way

to grey rocky protrusions of painless pain,

and defy the natural order to command saline rain.

The shards are alive.

They contain the secrets long lost to men,

yet bane their gist exudes to the soul whose midst is uncouth and strained.

The fiend of the flat nourishment baits with the hand of flatter aliment.

The blob abhors that which translates to growth and refinement,

yet let abhorrence be the might of their supine power.

Down come the storm of glacial fire!

Wash our hands and lend us the eye of the deeper waters.

The shards breathe from borrowed life,

their iridescence stolen from the sweet guitar

that accompanies my cries every night.

Atavism of the Alligator

“Sí se puede”, I often heard. A phrase bearing the meaning of a possible endeavour, that it is possible to carry on and be victorious against the enemy.

Image Not By Alyona

“¡Sí se puede!”

I wondered what in soothe was possible, and then I said to myself, “It is possible to cry, to scream, and to die”.

Ruins will engage the eye with woe and nostalgia as the many pretty murals lauding comunism and the spooned psychological combat against an invisible adversary will display where all the care has been bent to.

Mother Nature stands as an entity uncorrupt. With semblance still virginal and fertile, she screams of potential; still her hand is vacant and devoid of pleasure.

Nature blossoms astoundingly vivacious as population is abased with everyday effort. But worry not, for it is possible. It is possible to be beaten and squeezed until the shores of the afterlife are reached. The war has already a victor in its own world of make-believe.

Image by Alyona
Image by baetzpetra from Pixabay

Easy it is to romanticise the land for her magnificent groves and mountains, for her promoted beaches. Only the inhabitants of this island reversed in time will reveal the truth that breath-taking pictures and the flora and fauna hide.

I have heard misery-conscious mouths avow that Cuba is delightful. Thus I wonder Do you find pleasure in starving? In being deprived of the basic untainted liquid that sustains life? If you enjoy the existing conditions so much, why don’t you stay and carouse until you putrify? Do you suffer from amnesia that when you depart you forget the sweat and the tears of the countrymen, or are you the kind to portray a deceptive reality to the ignorant eye? If that is so, I damn you to retrace your steps and recognise that common life takes after the appearance of a dump that overflows.

Withal dare say I that Cuba is an enjoyable land, beheld from the distance through some foreign godhead’s eye. Majestic in nature, death in the eye. Majestic in nature, oppression in the human heart.

With a raging sword poised to slice, I still wish to add that all of this I cannot chastise. Hard times forge individuals of a lofty stock. Warriors stand, strength surmounts all obstacles. People live mostly through what pertains to their personal and higher growth.

I wondered anew what was possible, and to myself I then said, “The magnitude of reality is felt through personal perception. It is all mental, and the learning process is eternal”.