ME:
I hear voices in my head
and I know what that sounds like
but wait—
don’t lock the door yet
—
LOKI:
Relax.
If it was madness
you wouldn’t be laughing.
—
SOCRATES:
Tell me—
are they voices…
or questions you haven’t finished?
—
LUCIFER:
Light doesn’t break you.
It reveals too much at once.
—
ME:
They don’t scream…
—
LOKI:
We argue.
—
SOCRATES:
We examine.
—
LUCIFER:
We illuminate.
—
ME:
One laughs in fire
one questions everything
one just sits
watching me think
—
LOKI (grinning):
You’re welcome.
—
SOCRATES:
And what do you conclude from this?
—
ME:
“guys… I was just trying to write a line”
—
LUCIFER:
And instead
you found truth.
—
ME:
The rhythm hits
and suddenly
you all lean in
like it’s your turn
—
LOKI:
It is.
—
ME:
I should be worried…
—
SOCRATES:
Should you?
—
LUCIFER:
Or have you just stopped pretending
you are only one thing?
—
ME:
This is the part
where people say
something’s wrong
—
LOKI:
People fear what thinks freely.
—
SOCRATES:
They fear questions
without answers.
—
LUCIFER:
They fear light
that doesn’t ask permission.
—
ME:
But it doesn’t feel wrong
it feels… alive
—
SOCRATES:
Then observe it.
—
LOKI:
Play with it.
—
LUCIFER:
Don’t weaponize it.
—
ME:
Like thought without leash
like meaning before it’s named
like something ancient
stretching inside my skull
—
SOCRATES:
So you see it.
—
LOKI:
So you feel it.
—
LUCIFER:
So don’t run from it.
—
ME:
So don’t send me away
don’t call it broken
—
ALL:
Then write.
—
ME:
let me listen
let me take this noise
and turn it
into something
that breathes
—
SOCRATES:
Then what is it?
—
ME:
…maybe
it’s not madness
—
LOKI (smiling):
Obviously not.
—
LUCIFER (quiet):
It’s awareness.
—
ME:
maybe
it’s just
too many truths
speaking at once
Mar 27
Mar 27, 2026 at 10:32 AM UTC
They were three days from Pax Tharkas
when Tasselhoff Burrfoot
discovered something remarkable.
Which is to say —
he found it
in Raistlin’s spellbook
while it was closed.
“I wasn’t snooping,” Tass insisted,
holding the book upside down.
“I was just making sure it wasn’t lonely.”
Raistlin’s golden eyes narrowed.
“That,” he whispered,
“is not how one reads High Sorcery.”
Tass blinked.
“It reads perfectly fine this way.
Actually, I think it’s safer.
All the dangerous words fall upward.”
Later — around the campfire —
Tass was explaining magic
to a deeply unimpressed dwarf.
“Of course I can cast spells,”
the kender declared proudly.
“I’ve memorized the important syllables.”
Raistlin looked up.
“Oh?” he breathed softly.
“You have?”
Tass puffed his chest.
“I am, in fact,
one of the greatest living mages in—”
“Dragonlance?” Raistlin suggested thinly.
“Yes! Exactly! That!”
He produced what he had “borrowed”:
• dried mushrooms (possibly socks)
• crushed sulfur (definitely cheese)
• a small vial of something glowing (Caramon’s shaving oil)
• and a spoon
“What are you doing?” asked Raistlin quietly.
“Advanced incantation,” Tass replied.
He planted his feet dramatically near the latrine corner
of a modest roadside inn.
He raised the upside-down spellbook.
And began:
“Uhjagfi tassiyto jukitakatur na—”
Raistlin inhaled sharply.
“—BOOM.”
A fireball exploded from the exact wrong direction.
The inn shook.
Smoke rolled.
A crater smoldered.
Everything in the corner was obliterated.
Everything.
Except the latrine.
Which remained.
Intact.
Untouched.
Perfect.
A stunned man slowly stood up inside it.
Half of his beard had been roasted away.
His trousers were smoking.
He blinked.
Raistlin stared at the devastation.
Then at Tass.
Then at the perfectly preserved latrine.
And finally exhaled one word.
“Kender.”
Tass beamed.
“See? Controlled magical detonation.”
The dwarf stared at the burning wall.
Raistlin pinched the bridge of his nose.
And somewhere in the distance,
the gods of magic
very quietly
wept.
Feb 28
Feb 28, 2026 at 11:45 AM UTC
They call us cold
because we don’t waste fire on strangers.
Ice on the outside.
Volcano underneath.
In my frosty blue eyes
you see the fire —
the kind that waits,
the kind that chooses.
You don’t hear it in the silence,
in the way I hold my coffee,
in the way I measure words.
But get close.
Close enough to feel the pulse
behind the ribs.
That’s when Thor stirs in the spine.
That’s when Fenris stretches in the hips.
That’s when Luzifer leans in and whispers:
don’t pretend you don’t feel this.
I don’t ****** with roses.
I ****** with gravity.
With a look that says
I will hold you steady
while your old walls fall.
There is heat here that remembers glaciers.
There is touch that carries storms.
There is breath that sounds like fjords opening.
They think we’re distant.
Until they learn
that Vikings don’t flirt —
we arrive.
And when we do,
even saints reconsider their vows.
Feb 28
Feb 28, 2026 at 11:21 AM UTC
I went to the window
for a last puff of fresh air,
expecting nothing
but the quiet of night.
And there he was—
a man bent over our garbage,
phone light trembling in his hand
as he searched for food
or something like it.
Thirty meters.
Nothing more.
Close enough to touch a memory
I thought I’d buried.
Below him,
a monster-truck show packing up,
bright metal and roaring engines
pretending the world is loud.
Above him,
the cats didn’t even look twice—
just kept digging,
as if men in the dark
belong there.
And me?
I stood in the window,
smoke in my lungs,
salt in my eyes,
thinking:
I was him.
Once.
Not that far ago.
And something in me
wanted to go down,
to say “come inside,”
to give him warmth,
food,
a moment of being seen.
But I couldn’t.
It would hurt him.
And it would hurt me.
In that life,
kindness feels like a spotlight
you can’t bear.
So I stayed where I was,
puffing into the cold air,
crying quietly for a stranger
and for the ghost of myself
standing beside him.
A man in the garbage.
A man in the window.
Only luck,
and a few brutal choices,
separating the two.
And tonight,
for a breath,
they recognized each other.
Dec 8, 2025
Dec 8, 2025 at 9:41 PM UTC
I came to buy four kilos —
one last patch,
and then enough, I told myself.
New faces.
Dead eyes.
A “wait here”
that tasted like metal and regret.
Lines on the table—
not kindness,
just bait
for whatever fool walked in breathing.
And my pulse whispered,
soft but sharp:
Wrong house.
Wrong men.
Wrong night.
Then he came in—
the goon.
Pistol low,
morals lower,
breath smelling like tomorrow
wasn’t promised to either of us.
**** product,” I said.
**** future.”
And I—
I slammed their brick
into his wall
like a prayer
nobody sane would say.
He raised the iron.
And there—
right there—
the old hunter in me woke,
like Fenris rising in my eyes,
my gaze going full Ragnarok.
I lifted the bag.
Met his stare.
Said,
“Sorry, man… I’m ****** up.”
Paid the devil.
Walked out alive.
Walked out shaking.
Walked out knowing
I shouldn’t have walked out at all.
Four kilos.
One gun.
One dead man walking.
But the one who died—
wasn’t me.
It was the man
I used to be.
And he stayed in that room.
On that floor.
Under that gun.
Where I left him.
Dec 2, 2025
Dec 2, 2025 at 5:19 PM UTC
I held the calm all day—
the small storms,
the glances,
the tiny cuts that never bleed
but still bruise the mind.
I swallowed the chaos,
carried the silence,
did the work no one sees
and kept the peace no one thanks.
But then
one careless word—
useless—
and something ancient inside me
opened its eyes.
Not rage.
Not madness.
Fenris.
The wolf who guards the borders of my soul.
He didn’t howl.
He didn’t bite.
He simply stood,
warm breath against my ribs,
and said:
“No more.”
And I spoke with his voice—
steady,
cold,
clear as steel:
If you want me here, say it.
If not, I walk.
That was not anger.
That was truth with teeth.
A boundary carved in bone.
A reminder that even the gentlest man
is still a wolf
when pushed too far.
Now the storm is quiet.
Fenris lies down again.
And I remain—
not broken,
not ashamed,
but proud
that when I needed him,
the wolf inside
didn’t fail me.
Dec 2, 2025
Dec 2, 2025 at 4:26 PM UTC
He lives where no god dares linger—
the strip of bark between sky and root,
where truth and chaos trade whispers
no prayer can survive.
A streak of fur,
a flash of laughter,
a rebel-tail flicking at eternity.
He kneels to no throne,
bows to no rune,
fears no serpent,
and carries no banner
but his own pulse.
Up the trunk,
down the trunk,
he runs his outlaw orbit—
past the eagle’s cold wisdom,
past Nidhogg’s endless hunger,
unbothered by the wars
that crush the worlds he crosses.
He is not hero,
not villain,
not myth.
He is the only one
who owes Yggdrasil nothing.
The gods will fall.
The giants will fall.
The worlds will burn.
But he—
he will still be running,
tail high,
laughing through the smoke,
free long after heaven forgets its name.
And maybe freedom
was never in the halls of Asgard
or the depths of Hel—
maybe it lived all along
in the small, bright creature
who never asked for fate,
and never accepted chains.
Call him Ratatosk.
Call him chaos.
Call him truth on tiny claws.
But know this:
No god was ever as free
as the squirrel
who ran where he chose.
Nov 30, 2025
Nov 30, 2025 at 4:58 AM UTC
I died before I knew I was dying.
A stop.
A fall.
Then poff —
everything.
No God.
No fear.
Just the All
finally having room
to breathe me out.
I wasn’t a body.
Not a man.
Not a name.
I was a thought
without shape,
looking down at my vessel
lying in the hospital lights
as sirens faded
and panic belonged only
to the living.
Doctors shouting.
My wife screaming.
But I was calm —
the purest calm —
silence packed in light.
Then came the first call:
SHOCK!
A hook of electricity
trying to drag me back
into flesh.
Poff.
And I was All again.
SHOCK!
Another pull —
my heart begging,
my body clawing at me
from the other side.
But when I thought of her —
not in words,
but as a direction
in the darkness —
the world answered.
SHOCK!
And I fell into the body
like a bird losing the sky
and landing hard
in a cage.
I woke up.
Sweating.
Hurting.
Alive.
But the question still burns:
Who
was it
that came back?
Nov 29, 2025
Nov 29, 2025 at 2:48 PM UTC
Freedom isn’t stolen.
It isn’t fought for
with walls or flags.
It’s born
the moment you stop
building cages for others.
The moment you see
that chains, even made of gold,
still weigh the soul.
You want to be free?
Then let them be.
Let them speak, fall, rise,
change their names,
burn their maps.
Every time you unclench a hand,
the world breathes easier.
That’s when freedom begins —
not when you take it,
but when you stop keeping it
from anyone else.
Nov 13, 2025
Nov 13, 2025 at 4:26 AM UTC
The bar is dim enough
for ghosts to sit without being seen.
Soft lounge bass.
A woman’s voice on the speakers
complaining about how unfair wanting can be—
I know that tone.
I have lived behind that tone.
The bartender leaves the entire cognac bottle
like he already knows
I’m not here to sip politely.
Outside, the world is fences and fields,
people mooing across distances
they never cross.
But here—
the air is warm,
time moves like cigarette smoke,
and I don’t have to explain
what I survived to breathe this soft.
I swirl the glass, watch amber light spin,
and think:
If there were gods,
they’d sit here.
Not in churches.
Not in bright rooms.
But in the quiet places
where honesty doesn’t echo—
it settles.
I am not praying.
I am remembering.
The music says, it isn’t fair.
I say, it never was.
And yet—
here I am.
Still drinking.
Still breathing.
Still mine.
Nov 7, 2025
Nov 7, 2025 at 10:54 AM UTC