chimeric chronicles
@demianboras.bsky.social
Books, art, writing—my toys of delirium. I dissect them to feel my own pulse, not truth’s. I write for my vanity, my delight; all else rots in the pit of the irrelevant. Each line—a theft from the sacred, a sneer at the ghost that names itself Meaning.
I was gripped by Grey Hound’s spare yet haunting prose. Pocock cast a shadow of longing and loss so visceral I held my breath. Ultimately a quiet ache lingered long after the final page.
Read an excerpt of the forthcoming GREYHOUND by Joanna Pocock in @anothermag.com: www.anothermag.com/design-livin...
This Book Traces One Author’s Bus Trip Across America’s Troubled Highways
In her captivating new memoir, Joanna Pocock undertakes the journey from Detroit to LA by Greyhound bus, following in the footsteps of women writers who’ve chronicled epic road trips. Read an exclusiv...
www.anothermag.com
November 26, 2025 at 8:19 AM
I was gripped by Grey Hound’s spare yet haunting prose. Pocock cast a shadow of longing and loss so visceral I held my breath. Ultimately a quiet ache lingered long after the final page.
The morning lies before me like a freshly painted canvas. Sunlight settles softly on the fields, unsure whether to linger. I move through it carefully, as if a single careless step could shatter the fragile peace that, just for now, feels almost like happiness.
November 26, 2025 at 7:32 AM
The morning lies before me like a freshly painted canvas. Sunlight settles softly on the fields, unsure whether to linger. I move through it carefully, as if a single careless step could shatter the fragile peace that, just for now, feels almost like happiness.
Writing is a slow self-eruption: each sentence a wound you reopen to prove you’re still alive. Passion? A polite word for the compulsion to scratch at the void, hoping it echoes back. We write not to illuminate the world, but to survive its unbearable dimness.
November 25, 2025 at 9:26 AM
Writing is a slow self-eruption: each sentence a wound you reopen to prove you’re still alive. Passion? A polite word for the compulsion to scratch at the void, hoping it echoes back. We write not to illuminate the world, but to survive its unbearable dimness.
Just watched Nadya Tolokonnokova and Slavoj Žižek Interview.
In their encounters, Tolokonnikova's fierce defiance meets Žižek's chaotic dialectics — a clash where rebellion tries to stay pure while theory laughs at the very idea of purity. Together they expose a world afraid of its own truths.
In their encounters, Tolokonnikova's fierce defiance meets Žižek's chaotic dialectics — a clash where rebellion tries to stay pure while theory laughs at the very idea of purity. Together they expose a world afraid of its own truths.
November 24, 2025 at 7:05 PM
Just watched Nadya Tolokonnokova and Slavoj Žižek Interview.
In their encounters, Tolokonnikova's fierce defiance meets Žižek's chaotic dialectics — a clash where rebellion tries to stay pure while theory laughs at the very idea of purity. Together they expose a world afraid of its own truths.
In their encounters, Tolokonnikova's fierce defiance meets Žižek's chaotic dialectics — a clash where rebellion tries to stay pure while theory laughs at the very idea of purity. Together they expose a world afraid of its own truths.
A Monday without sun—just a bruised sky sagging above me. The sleepless night still clings to my bones like a parasite, whispering its rot into every step. They call this the beginning of the week. For me, it’s only the aftertaste of collapse, the slow unraveling of a body already defeated.
November 24, 2025 at 7:27 AM
A Monday without sun—just a bruised sky sagging above me. The sleepless night still clings to my bones like a parasite, whispering its rot into every step. They call this the beginning of the week. For me, it’s only the aftertaste of collapse, the slow unraveling of a body already defeated.
In this backwater, a Russian melancholy clings to every corner. The small, empty train station sighs under the gray sky. A long road stretches past the silent forest; the distant church tower mourns quietly. The rural idyll is fragile—time here feels reluctant to move.
November 21, 2025 at 9:02 AM
In this backwater, a Russian melancholy clings to every corner. The small, empty train station sighs under the gray sky. A long road stretches past the silent forest; the distant church tower mourns quietly. The rural idyll is fragile—time here feels reluctant to move.
Cold night, empty station. The rails breathe their thin smoke of absence. I wait for a train that is more omen than journey. In the blue frost, every silence sharpens: a blade held to memory. Even the stars seem late, dragging their faint, defeated fire.
November 20, 2025 at 11:30 AM
Cold night, empty station. The rails breathe their thin smoke of absence. I wait for a train that is more omen than journey. In the blue frost, every silence sharpens: a blade held to memory. Even the stars seem late, dragging their faint, defeated fire.
So much to do, yet the soul mutinies. Consciousness commands, reason pleads, and still the inner abyss replies with a stubborn, silent no. Work becomes a theater of resistance, and existence itself a conspiracy against itself.
November 19, 2025 at 10:17 AM
So much to do, yet the soul mutinies. Consciousness commands, reason pleads, and still the inner abyss replies with a stubborn, silent no. Work becomes a theater of resistance, and existence itself a conspiracy against itself.
Before Moreau’s Salome, I feel as if I’m standing at the edge of a fevered dream. Her stillness burns brighter than any gesture; her gaze wounds more than her blade. I sense beauty turning cruel, desire becoming ritual. In her jeweled silence, I face the terrifying splendour of my own shadows.
November 17, 2025 at 9:53 AM
Before Moreau’s Salome, I feel as if I’m standing at the edge of a fevered dream. Her stillness burns brighter than any gesture; her gaze wounds more than her blade. I sense beauty turning cruel, desire becoming ritual. In her jeweled silence, I face the terrifying splendour of my own shadows.
When I look at Caravaggio, I see the ego incarnate in light and shadow — not this herd of painters and writers who beg for approval. Their “art” is nothing but obedience disguised as expression. The crisis is not of talent, but of self — no creators, only servants.
November 8, 2025 at 8:19 AM
When I look at Caravaggio, I see the ego incarnate in light and shadow — not this herd of painters and writers who beg for approval. Their “art” is nothing but obedience disguised as expression. The crisis is not of talent, but of self — no creators, only servants.
We should not seek beauty that flatters the eyes. The heart alone knows the wound that makes a face luminous. True beauty is the scar of what has burned without being consumed.
November 6, 2025 at 8:09 AM
We should not seek beauty that flatters the eyes. The heart alone knows the wound that makes a face luminous. True beauty is the scar of what has burned without being consumed.
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.
November 4, 2025 at 1:52 PM
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.
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.
November 4, 2025 at 7:42 AM
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.
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.
November 4, 2025 at 7:31 AM
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.
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.
November 3, 2025 at 8:11 AM
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.
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.
November 3, 2025 at 5:19 AM
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.
Magnificent! A single, decisive white line (the harmony of silence) carves a spiritual void through the chaos, balancing the dynamic colors and shapes.
Who shall silence all the airs and madrigals that whisper softness in chambers?
John Milton
"The White Line" by W. Kandinsky #Art
John Milton
"The White Line" by W. Kandinsky #Art
November 2, 2025 at 12:49 PM
Magnificent! A single, decisive white line (the harmony of silence) carves a spiritual void through the chaos, balancing the dynamic colors and shapes.
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.
November 2, 2025 at 9:07 AM
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.
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.
November 1, 2025 at 5:06 PM
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.
A quote from the current reading:
"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."
Byung-Chul Han
The Crisis of Narration
"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."
Byung-Chul Han
The Crisis of Narration
October 28, 2025 at 7:53 PM
A quote from the current reading:
"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."
Byung-Chul Han
The Crisis of Narration
"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."
Byung-Chul Han
The Crisis of Narration
That gloomy sky, that endless gray, that rain—it is the very putrefaction of the infinite mimicking, with a sickening precision, the unbearable sediment of the soul. A day of spiritual erosion, where the external world merely confirms the inanity within.
October 27, 2025 at 9:08 AM
That gloomy sky, that endless gray, that rain—it is the very putrefaction of the infinite mimicking, with a sickening precision, the unbearable sediment of the soul. A day of spiritual erosion, where the external world merely confirms the inanity within.
Lacan’s lamella — that absurd immortal scrap of desire — is nothing but the ghost of ownership that refuses to die. Stirner would laugh: even the drive wants to possess me. I tear it apart and eat it; my will digests what psychoanalysis dares to call eternal.
October 26, 2025 at 8:42 AM
Lacan’s lamella — that absurd immortal scrap of desire — is nothing but the ghost of ownership that refuses to die. Stirner would laugh: even the drive wants to possess me. I tear it apart and eat it; my will digests what psychoanalysis dares to call eternal.
Poetry—
a scream trapped in ink,
a wound dressed in words,
it claws at silence,
bares the rot beneath the skin,
and yet, in its fevered pulse,
I taste a fleeting life
where the world has long grown numb.
a scream trapped in ink,
a wound dressed in words,
it claws at silence,
bares the rot beneath the skin,
and yet, in its fevered pulse,
I taste a fleeting life
where the world has long grown numb.
October 24, 2025 at 8:29 AM
Poetry—
a scream trapped in ink,
a wound dressed in words,
it claws at silence,
bares the rot beneath the skin,
and yet, in its fevered pulse,
I taste a fleeting life
where the world has long grown numb.
a scream trapped in ink,
a wound dressed in words,
it claws at silence,
bares the rot beneath the skin,
and yet, in its fevered pulse,
I taste a fleeting life
where the world has long grown numb.
Kaia comes with me to the cinema. Franz K. is on the screen. She doesn’t know Kafka and doesn’t pretend to. She only comes to see him because I do. I watch her watching me, and I think it’s strange, almost tender, how someone can care so little for what you care about,
October 23, 2025 at 9:59 AM
Kaia comes with me to the cinema. Franz K. is on the screen. She doesn’t know Kafka and doesn’t pretend to. She only comes to see him because I do. I watch her watching me, and I think it’s strange, almost tender, how someone can care so little for what you care about,
Writing an essay about that author — what a punishment disguised as learning. His every page a yawn, his thoughts evaporating before they touch the mind. And the professor, with priestly calm, says, “Everyone must make a sacrifice.”
October 22, 2025 at 9:45 AM
Writing an essay about that author — what a punishment disguised as learning. His every page a yawn, his thoughts evaporating before they touch the mind. And the professor, with priestly calm, says, “Everyone must make a sacrifice.”