LUCCIAN LAYTH
Bio
L.LUCCIAN is a writer, poet and philosopher who delves into the unseen. He produces metaphysical contemplation that delineates the line between thinking and living. Inever write to tellsomethingaboutlife,but silences aremyway ofhearing it.
Stories (43)
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The First Night: A Symphony of Collapse
Nothing... My surroundings are all in the dark. There is no escape Only an eternal solitude, But here, this world is very close though. I have a fine veil around me... Thongs of black and white, red. And at times, grey. I do not know where to flee, This is the whirlpool of the time, Sucking at the ringing of our bones. We, the race of humans Not angels, not beasts But he, man, lost in his bubble dreams, Walking creations of trembling fancies. And yet… Our layer is depth insulated. There we were buried in the rubble. Some of us Their hearts had simply dissipated. So how am I to know? I am but a human like you. I’ve wandered. I’ve mistaken. I’ve been wounded. My blood has been her instead of tears. Still, my voice runs dry, However, my veins are sore, However, my blood satisfies the thirst Of my body, And still… My scars gather themselves. I live yet under the rubble. My voice keeps on passing out in the wind. Not silent, But loud… Appeals to the souls, already dead, And others… Lost.
By LUCCIAN LAYTH5 months ago in Poets
Chapter XVIII: The Ice Bear’s Solitude,
The Arctic is a land of paradoxes. A place where the sun never rises in winter and never sets in summer; a place where ice glitters turquoise in the moonlight and cracks like glass; a place where the loudest sound is silence itself. It is here where the polar bear; Ursus maritimus, "sea bear" is both king and captive of this frozen throne. To know the ice bear is to learn the language of isolation so profound it becomes a means of survival and an elegy for a world that so desperately strives to remain.
By LUCCIAN LAYTH12 months ago in Journal
Chapter II: The Optics of the Soul
The gallery smelled of varnish and dust, a kind of hideout for creative things. Ivan Nikolayevich stood still in front of the Magritte painting, *The False Mirror*. He felt like his fingers had been unwittingly strumming some invisible instrument. The eye in the painting was huge and never blinked. The swirling blue iris seemed like the sky overhead filled with clouds and completely unsure about answering questions. Encapsulated in the glass was Ivan's whirling stream of consciousness; he couldn't help but wonder if this eye was a portal, or if just the opposite was true, another trap entangling him in another dubious reality. He cycled through the question- is it more advantageous to know a real sheeple world, or to wish it to be something else entirely? Did it really even matter? He could see his own tired, bloodshot eyes in the glass and questioned what person he was in relation to the artwork engulfed in both separate mirrors. There lay two Ivans, one searching for dream awareness and another person desperate to meet the day, the absolute vacant spirit.
By LUCCIAN LAYTHabout a year ago in Critique
Chapter IV: The Fool’s Lament Beneath the Comet’s Eye
Kraków was engulfed in night like a heavy coat that thickened and resisted shedding, as if there were an invisible force rejecting all life around. Inside a chamber dark as the depths of a comet’s tail spilling through a window, glowing a faint grey, sat a man alone. His clothes were a strange mixture of bright red and black, adorned with jingle bells that rang out laughter, as though whatever once caused them to do so was simply an echo now devoid of sound. This man was Stańczyk, the court jester, yet the expression on his face was anything but jovial. He appeared astonishingly forlorn, his haunted gaze lost deep within the throes of a letter weightily spread open on the table before him. All Stańczyk could notice was a broken, worn wax seal that appeared flaccid like human desire, and the letter whispered softly with the simple phrase 'Smolensk is lost.'
By LUCCIAN LAYTHabout a year ago in Psyche
