Long ago—before she wore a crown and ruled the Clockless Tower Kingdom—she was only a girl. A clever, pretty thing with daisies in her hair, who asked too many questions and read too many books. She lived by a river where the current braided itself around smooth stones. One afternoon she followed a Sphynx cat into the woods—furless, affronted, ears like unfurled sails. He led her to the stone skeleton of a chapel that rose from the mountain like a broken fang. The windows

They won’t believe me. Not truly. But I must write it down before the memory softens at the edges. Before it slips into the realm of dreams, where it does not belong. Her face must remain sharp. It was dusk—three nights past—when the wind dropped too suddenly, and the gulls began their tight, silent wheeling inland. I was just a mile from shore, hauling in an uninspired catch, when I noticed the sea was moving wrong. Not choppy. Not storming. Just... spiraling. As though some

I am only a bird. They think birds don’t understand the affairs of the heart. But I tell you, there are mornings so drenched in secrets which are not meant for the storybooks, that even the sky turns its face away. A goldfinch sees many things from his perch—things that would shrivel the innocence of daisies. That morning was different. The castle stood as it always had: indifferent, stately—its single spire cleaving the gauze of a pearl-colored sky. A bell in the tower rang

Close your eyes. You are sitting before a table—a real table, not the imagined one. There is fruit here: dewy strawberries still warm from the sun, grapes, a gleaming crisp apple. A slice of cake, rich with layers of raspberry cream, tilts delicately. A pale green pitcher anchors it all—classical in shape, curved like the neck of a swan, a vessel fit for myth. These are real. Tangible. You could reach out and touch them. But wait. You press a candle into a cupcake’s swirl of

She arrived one snowless winter night, barefoot beneath a velvet cloak stitched with golden runes. A fox moved beside her like a living flame, its fur catching the last remnants of light. She did not knock. She crossed the threshold of the lamplighter’s cottage in silence, settled herself beside the hearth, and waited...

Tarot, at its most potent, is not about fortune-telling. It is a language of symbols that speaks directly to your subconscious, your soul’s native tongue. When approached with reverence, the cards do not merely reveal—they converse...

There exists a place just outside the bounds of linear thought—a slip in the weave of time—where cherry blossoms bloom at the same moment their fruit ripens. It is neither spring nor summer, but an eternal Now, a garden suspended in the dreamscape of the soul. And if you find yourself lucid—truly lucid—you may walk beneath these trees. It is a place where the mind quiets and the heart begins to speak. Here, the duality dissolves: the maiden and the mother are one, the seed an

There are dream figures who do not come and go like weather. They return. You wake remembering them. Their gaze lingers behind your eyes. For me, it is always the little yellow bird and the masked woman in black. They do not arrive together. One night, the bird lands on a branch just outside my window, glowing like gold leaf under moonlight. Another night, the woman appears in a corridor of half-light, her gaze both fierce and forgiving. She wears a mask shaped like a bird’s

What defines a painting as museum-worthy? Is it merely the technical prowess? The originality of its vision? Or is it the psychological depth that leaves us changed? Let us consider The Dream Within the Corridor as a living example: a surrealist composition where Renaissance elegance merges seamlessly with metaphysical intrigue. She sits at the threshold between worlds—poised, yet unreachable. Her stillness hums with hidden tension. Draped in vermilion silk and crowned

To stand inside the moment captured in this painting is to experience the metaphysical from within the angel's own essence. You are part of the painting and the painter, the sea and the salt, the question and the revelation. You are not visiting a dream. You are the dream, wearing the body of divinity like a second skin. It feels euphoric. There is no gravity here, only grace.The dress you wear is made of silk: green like forest shadows. It catches starlight and flickers opa

Every creative act begins not with clarity, but with a flicker in the corner of consciousness. A half-seen image, a feeling without language. For this painting, it began with a single closed eye —just a gesture in the upper corner of the canvas. Not literal. More a presence than a shape, the suggestion of something turned inward. The sensation of something watching from within. The creative mind, ever fluid, ever playful, asks: What if the closed eye became the moon? Suddenly

It begins not with nightfall, but with the awareness of night. The slow surrender of day does not soothe—it accuses. The ceiling wears the color of ash-glazed pearl and the walls sigh in gentle empathy. You lie still, not dreaming, observing your own failure to fall asleep. Sleep does not evade you—it forgets you. As if your name were lost from some divine roll call of the drowsy. Thirty hours have passed since you last surrendered to slumber. Yet no yawn, no drift, no mercy.

What Makes Great Art—A Case Study of “The Thirteenth Question” In an age where art is often measured by shock value, scale, or algorithmic reach, it’s worth pausing to consider the timeless elements that truly make a painting “great.” Great art transcends trends. It holds a mirror to the soul of both the viewer and the creator.

After many years of regular, deep meditation—thousands of hours spent wandering the quiet halls of my own mind—I discovered something...

Ever had one of those moments where you think of someone and—ping—they text you out of the blue?

Your attitude toward life and your experiences shapes your happiness. True fulfillment is not found in fleeting pleasures but...

Art has a way of transcending time and space. Paintings, in particular, serve as portals to different worlds, emotions, and even dimensions.

Sometimes, the truest version of ourselves isn’t something we create in the present—it’s something we uncover from the past...

Creativity often requires a daring walk at the edge of sanity. It’s like an evening out with someone you know you shouldn’t date...

Journaling unfiltered free associations is a bona fide exercise in self-discovery. The process is simple: grab a notebook, set a timer...