Author | Lightnews

chimeric chronicles @demianboras.bsky.social · 7h

Beneath the picket fences and roses, Blue Velvet opens the wound of suburbia. Lynch doesn’t show evil invading innocence — he shows they were never apart. Every smile trembles, every whisper decays; civilization itself seems a polite mask for primal rot and erotic despair.

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chimeric chronicles @demianboras.bsky.social · 10h

Nastassja Kinski in "Paris, Texas" film by Wim Wenders — she speaks as if every word were a memory she’s afraid to touch. Her silence glows with the ache of distance, her beauty not seductive but wounded — the kind that remembers love as something lost long before it was ever found.

chimeric chronicles @demianboras.bsky.social · 15h

At the next table—a plump sphere of resignation disguised as a woman. Her meal glistens with oil, the slow machinery of her undoing. Some souls cultivate decay with the same devotion others reserve for art.

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chimeric chronicles @demianboras.bsky.social · 15h

Good morning (albeit a bit late). Sorry, I'm trying to use the phone as little as possible.

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chimeric chronicles @demianboras.bsky.social · 20h

A woman’s beauty is not light, but silence — a hush that descends upon the room. It is the moment when everything seems about to be understood, and nothing is. Her face, half in shadow, carries the sadness of things that remain unspoken yet are felt more deeply than truth.

chimeric chronicles @demianboras.bsky.social · 21h

I'm out of coffee. A morning without it—an absurd parody of awakening. The body rises like a bad actor repeating its role, while the soul stays buried. Blood drags itself through the veins toward execution. Even the light derides me, parading its sanity across the walls. I exist—without belief.

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chimeric chronicles @demianboras.bsky.social · 21h

The night doesn’t sleep — it decays. I lie awake like a corpse rehearsing resurrection, gnawing on the silence until it bleeds meaning. Every breath is an argument against existence; every second, a confession that even time is insomniac.

chimeric chronicles @demianboras.bsky.social · 1d

Odilon Redon's Apparition in the Window haunts with its dreamlike ambiguity. The spectral figure, half-seen, floats between reality and imagination, shrouded in shadow. Redon captures the fragile boundary of perception, evoking wonder and unease in equal measure.

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chimeric chronicles @demianboras.bsky.social · 1d

Balthus paints as if time had stopped just before sin. His figures hover between innocence and provocation, silence and tension. Every gesture is a whisper of scandal, every shadow — a confession unspoken. He paints dreams that refuse to wake.

chimeric chronicles @demianboras.bsky.social · 1d

So much to finish. But November… It drags its gray days like a funeral procession. To me, the month is a canvas by Caspar David Friedrich, where every fog, every leaf, every dying light conspires to crown sadness with the dignity of its last melancholy.

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chimeric chronicles @demianboras.bsky.social · 1d

Balthus paints as if time had stopped just before sin. His figures hover between innocence and provocation, silence and tension. Every gesture is a whisper of scandal, every shadow — a confession unspoken. He paints dreams that refuse to wake.

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chimeric chronicles @demianboras.bsky.social · 1d

Redon paints not the world, but the fever that dreams of it. His colors whisper from the abyss — flowers blooming in the skull of a vision. Every image trembles between nightmare and grace, as if the soul itself were learning to hallucinate.

chimeric chronicles @demianboras.bsky.social · 1d

Redon paints not the world, but the fever that dreams of it. His colors whisper from the abyss — flowers blooming in the skull of a vision. Every image trembles between nightmare and grace, as if the soul itself were learning to hallucinate.

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chimeric chronicles @demianboras.bsky.social · 1d

Redon paints not the world, but the fever that dreams of it. His colors whisper from the abyss — flowers blooming in the skull of a vision. Every image trembles between nightmare and grace, as if the soul itself were learning to hallucinate.

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chimeric chronicles @demianboras.bsky.social · 2d

Rain drums its bureaucratic rhythm against the window. Monday — the priest of routine — demands resurrection from the sheets. But I lie here, a corpse with a pulse, unwilling to serve another day in this carnival of decay. The bed — my last rebellion, my only homeland.

chimeric chronicles @demianboras.bsky.social · 2d

AI itself isn’t the real threat — the danger lies in the corporations and the greedy, unaccountable few who hold a monopoly over it, twisting innovation into profit and control.

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chimeric chronicles @demianboras.bsky.social · 2d

You're welcome. I'm glad you like it.

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chimeric chronicles @demianboras.bsky.social · 2d

Autumn — the diseased breath of the year. Trees undress like whores tired of pretense, the air reeks of endings, and even the sun limps toward oblivion. I walk among corpses of leaves — rusted confessions of life decomposing beautifully, like ideals after the revolution.

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chimeric chronicles @demianboras.bsky.social · 2d

Magnificent! A single, decisive white line (the harmony of silence) carves a spiritual void through the chaos, balancing the dynamic colors and shapes.

Estrella @estrellaonthecloud.bsky.social · Apr 17

Who shall silence all the airs and madrigals that whisper softness in chambers?

John Milton

"The White Line" by W. Kandinsky #Art

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chimeric chronicles @demianboras.bsky.social · 2d

Before his colors [ de Stäel,s] I fall silent — they bruise and soothe me at once. Each block of paint seems to breathe, to wound the air. I feel him still there, burning behind the thick, trembling light.

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chimeric chronicles @demianboras.bsky.social · 2d

My dream still clings to me, like a feverish ghost painted by Bruegel and dictated by Kafka. It crawls through my memory — grotesque, divine, absurd — a theatre of disfigured saints and laughing corpses. My soul, that cracked canvas, still trembles under its touch.

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chimeric chronicles @demianboras.bsky.social · 2d

I drink coffee with cardamom — bitter, fragrant, almost sacred. The air vibrates with oriental melodies, as if the East itself were writhing in my veins. All that’s missing is a belly dancer — some delirious apparition of flesh and rhythm — to complete this blasphemous morning ritual.

chimeric chronicles @demianboras.bsky.social · 3d

Solitude wraps around me like a rag soaked in mercy, the only respite from the endless parade of fools who bludgeon reason with their presence.

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chimeric chronicles @demianboras.bsky.social · 3d

Good mood — ridiculous, obscene! And yet here I am, grinning like a fool at the sky. Why? No tragedy, no revelation — just a bitter coffee, a cheap cigar, and the sun vomiting gold over the street. Enough, apparently, to deceive the abyss for a few hours.

chimeric chronicles @demianboras.bsky.social · 3d

"Christian religion is a meta-narrative that reaches into every nook and cranny of life and anchors it in being. Time itself becomes freighted with narrative. In the Christian calendar, each day is meaningful."

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