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In the quiet twilight, where the horizon touches the sea, the sky began its symphony. The first note was gentle, a mere whisper as the celestial bodies took their positions on the grand stage of the universe. Stars flickered into existence, each one a soft hum in the growing melody of light.
Clouds, those ethereal spectators, swayed to the music. They twirled and spun, painting patterns of shadow and glow across the canvas of the evening sky. With every movement, they resonated within our hearts, plucking at strings we never knew existed.
And there, amidst the symphony of the cosmos, our souls found the harmony. The music of light played within us—a melody so pure, intertwining our waking moments with the dreams that cradle our deepest desires.
It was in this orchestra of existence that we fell in love with life. Each heartbeat a drum, each breath a note, contributing to the grand opus of being. We were both audience and instrument, lost in the beauty of the music that played endlessly, a testament to the light that shines within us all.
As the night deepened, the symphony crescendoed, reaching its peak with the arrival of dawn. The music of light did not cease; it merely transformed, promising to return with the next twilight, to once again play in our hearts and remind us of the love that binds us to this ever-spinning world.
Lost
“Passion is passion. It's the excitement between the tedious spaces, and it doesn't matter where it's directed...It can be coins or sports or politics or horses or music or faith...the saddest people I've ever met in life are the ones who don't care deeply about anything at all.”
Nicholas Sparks, Dear John
“Nothing great in the world was accomplished without passion.”
Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel
“Sometimes we can choose the paths we follow. Sometimes our choices are made for us. And sometimes we have no choice at all.”
― Neil Gaiman, The Sandman, Vol. 4: Season of Mists
Tumblr I Ipernity I Photo Vogue I art commerce
This is a straight shot--just the reflection from coated glass.
Each night, I stood before the sea, its surface shimmering with the light of distant stars. I called it the "Doorway of Dreams."
One night, as the auroras danced across the sky, a flash of light appeared for a moment, and I stepped through. I found myself on the shore of a world bathed in twilight, where the ocean sang in harmonies of light and shadow.
There, I met a reflection of myself untouched by sorrow. His eyes held the spark of unbroken joy, and his laughter was the melody of a heart that had never known loss.
"Welcome, my friend," he greeted, his voice felt so familiar. "I am what you once were, the essence of your forgotten dreams."
In this world, the stones bear words of wisdom, and the ocean will quench your desire for truth.
With each step, the weight of my grief lifted, replaced by the lightness of being I thought was lost. Looking down I saw, a pool of water as colorful as life itself.
I peered into the depths and saw my reflection whole, a tapestry of light woven from the threads of my experiences. I understood then that my losses were not just endings, but also beginnings, shaping me into the dreamer I was meant to be.
As dawn's first light caressed the horizon of my own world, I stepped back through the Doorway of Dreams, carrying with me the restored fragments of my spirit.
And so, back in my world my stories took on a new life, infused with the hues of hope and the resilience of a heart reborn. For I had seen a world where every loss was but a path to finding oneself again, in the eternal dance of light and dreams.
Lost
Even in lockdown it is hard to ignore history. I know the names on the closest Stolpersteine. Tatty remnants of the wall dead-end random streets. In May someone working on an allotment thought they had unearthed a WW2 bomb and one of the neighbours refused to evacuate, “if I lived by it for all these years why should I be moved now?” It turned out to be a bit of rusted pipe.
"I'm alone, but his promise has given me purpose to carry on. I'll be waiting for him. Always."
-Viara
Viara is one of the two wardens of the soul realm. She absorbs sorrows and regrets from the souls of the dead, and 'digests' them over time. The pool of emotion in her belly can get overwhelming, which she responds to by either holding or massaging it.
After Viara's brother, Syvon, began rebelling against his purpose, she attempted to contact someone from the mind realm. Reaching the Dream Warden who had a connection to soul manipulation, her contact attempt opened a rift between the two realms. A calculated risk she took. The flood of unpurified souls struck down as a beam on Monarth, knocking him unconcious. He spent the following 3 years in a coma in a dream.
Having established a connection to his soul, Viara kept trying to make contact via his soulscape. Unsuccessful, she found a pathway to his mindscape, though she couldn't keep her form. Having to apply to the rules of his mind, her mindscape form divided into a dozen reptilian creatures which Monarth dubbed the Kirkan. By interacting as them, she gradually helped Monarth out of his coma and left her request for help at long last.
Monarth traveled to the Soul Realm, where they met properly for the first time. Learning about her duties and solitude in the Soul Realm, Monarth felt sympathy for the Sorrow Warden. But time was short as rifts were opening, so Monarth took battle against Syvon. Being overwhelmed by Syvon, Monarth decided to take the battle to a different realm, forcing Syvon and himself to a large rift that was sucking them in. Before disappearing into the rift he promised Viara to return one day.
Viara took this to heart and is still waiting.
---------------
That story summary was longer than I expected to write it.
Anywho, this Viara's version 2 in more appropriate colors. She was never meant to contain gunmetal, but until now I didn't have appropriate pieces to make that a reality.
Just like the previous version, her body shape is inspired by Mewtwo.
In the ethereal expanse of dreams, there existed an ocean born from the whispers of the night. Her name was **Aurelia**, and she was the essence of all dreams, a realm where reality blended with the fabric of fantasies.
Aurelia's waters were not bound by the laws of the waking world. Here, the colors were more vivid, the sounds more melodic, and the air imbued with the magic of slumbering thoughts.
In this dream, there was a dreamer, a poet named Lost, whose heart was a vessel adrift in the sea of creativity, searching for the muse that would ignite his verses with passion.
One night, as Lost surrendered to the arms of sleep, he found himself standing at the edge of Aurelia's shores. The ocean beckoned him, its waves a symphony of liquid light, inviting him to dive into the unknown.
"Explore the depths of my soul," Aurelia whispered, her voice the echo of every longing heart. "Let the light that filters through my essence change the way you perceive the colors of your world."
With a leap of faith, Lost plunged into the dreamtide. He swam through the waters of Aurelia's heart, where the secrets of the mind and heart were not hidden but celebrated, each revelation a verse waiting to be penned.
The peace of twilight reigned supreme, and in its embrace, Lost discovered the treasures he sought. Aurelia's dream was a canvas, and Lost's spirit, the brush that painted his deepest emotions in strokes of serene blues and vibrant corals.
As dawn approached, and the dream began to fade, Lost emerged from the waters, his soul no longer lost but found. The absence of Aurelia's ocean was a thought too sorrowful to bear, for it had become a part of him, a sanctuary for his poetic spirit.
And though Lost awoke to the world of the living, the ocean of dreams remained within him, a constant reminder of the beauty that lies beneath the surface of our reality.
Lost
Mind Scapes: Sights that bent my mind a bit and made me take a second or a third or a fourth look.
For a Utata Big Project.
The sky blushes with a soft, rosy hue,
As day bids farewell, and the sky turns blue.
Gentle breezes whisper secrets untold,
In the twilight's embrace, stories unfold.
The ocean's lullaby, a soothing song,
plays in my mind all night long.
Stars will soon dance in velvet sky,
A celestial ballet, catching the eye.
Shadows lengthen, merging with the night,
Creating a tapestry of dark and light.
The world slows down, in this tranquil hour,
Revealing nature's quiet power.
Footsteps on the shore, a fleeting trace,
Moments of peace in a sacred space.
In the echoes of the evening's glow,
Dreams unlock, the things I'll know.
Lost
you must do the effort to read the comment Jerry wrote with the reference photo. , i tried to
express in a somewhat naief way
probably , a tiny bit of his
mindscape, what a great word !
In the twilight realm where the ocean embraces the sky, there existed a sea of thoughts, vast and mysterious as the deepest trench. These thoughts, like currents, ebbed and flowed beneath the surface, concealed in shadows cast by the doubts that clouded the mind's horizon.
Once, there was a thought, delicate and fragile, like a bubble rising from the ocean floor. It was a dream, a wish for light, yearning to break free from the shadowy depths. But around it, darker thoughts swirled like stormy waves, threatening to engulf it in their tumultuous embrace.
Yet, the dream persisted, ascending slowly, determined to reach the surface where the sun's golden rays promised freedom and clarity. As it rose, it gathered other luminous thoughts—hopes and desires trapped in the undercurrents.
Together, weaving through the dark, a dance of light amidst the abyss. They spoke of a new life, of the strength found in unity, and the power of a single thought to change the course of the tides.
And then, just when the surface seemed too far, dawn approached. The first light, tender and hesitant, pierced the water's surface, unraveling the darkness with gentle fingers. The light, like a symphony of hope, played upon the waves, revealing the hidden beauty of each thought.
The dream, now not alone, breached the surface, greeted by the warm embrace of the sunrise. It shimmered in the light, no longer a prisoner of the deep, but a beacon for all those who still wandered in the shadows.
For in this ocean of thoughts, light always finds a way, illuminating the concealed with a special grace. It reminds us that even in the darkest waters, there is a path to the surface, where dreams are unveiled, and thoughts are set free.
Lost
"An energetic young Toa of Fire created in the aftermath of the Mindscape universe who uses her Burning Flail and Mask of Magnetism to protect her friends."
Hope you're happy, because I'm not. I deleted over three hundred of my pics on this account just to get this MOC to you. I don't know what I'm going to do the next time, or if there's going to be a next time. So thanks Flickr.
A man moves among the crowds, quiet and composed as a wasp. He knows where he is, though not quite how he came to be there. He regards the throng of people with both suspicion and indifference; indifference because they do not exist for him as individuals, but suspicion because he knows an individual exists among them. He is unable to recall if he’s looking for that person or if that person is looking for him, but he knows somebody is there, somewhere in the mass of humanity, and while he dreads their meeting, he is also anxious for it.
When the Mahri failed their mission and Mata Nui died, as a last hope, the Toa transferred the minds of the Matoran into the database that once housed the Great Spirit's intelligence. However, they found Teridax waiting for them, and he was determined to rule one way or another. He infected their friends such as this Le-Matoran to become his police force. They are easily identified by their red glow and immoral masks such as this Noble Crast. Each "Processor" unit is equipped with twin Stun Spears that can stimulate intense agony in those they touch.
For more on the "Mindscape" universe in which I placed this character, you can see my blog entry.
Gosh, seems like I've been away for a little bit. Frankly, between working my self to death at my job and finally hitting the end of that MOCing streak I've been on since September, I've had a hard time putting parts together lately. So I did what I always do when I'm short on inspiration: choose two stupid colors that I know I'm going to regret and make something out of them. And boy, did I regret this. No wonder I haven't used my five unique bright green pieces before, or the ten unique trans-red parts. I got halfway through this MOC before I even thought it was worth finishing.
Generally my mind is full of words, bits of sentences, people speaking in broad accents, jumbled up with songs and images. But if someone asks me to depict my inner landscape (which I suppose is the same thing as a mindscape) everything goes completely blank, a white page or a white canvas.
So it was hard to think up a series of mindscapes for the Big Project. Then I saw a skyful of clouds, and when transferring them from my phone came across this quote I'd photographed from Isabel Allende's book which had spoken to me when I read it, and thought the quote and clouds might fit together. Whether they constitute a mindscape I'm not quite sure.
Altocumulus stratiformis perlucidus: a sign of a forthcoming storm
That horrible moment when there are only two options:
Instinct or Ideals,
Fear or bravery.
Stand your ground,
or run for your life.
“Passion is passion. It's the excitement between the tedious spaces, and it doesn't matter where it's directed...It can be coins or sports or politics or horses or music or faith...the saddest people I've ever met in life are the ones who don't care deeply about anything at all.”
Nicholas Sparks, Dear John
“Nothing great in the world was accomplished without passion.”
Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel
"I'm alone, but his promise has given me purpose to carry on. I'll be waiting for him. Always."
-Viara
Viara is one of the two wardens of the soul realm. She absorbs sorrows and regrets from the souls of the dead, and 'digests' them over time. The pool of emotion in her belly can get overwhelming, which she responds to by either holding or massaging it.
After Viara's brother, Syvon, began rebelling against his purpose, she attempted to contact someone from the mind realm. Reaching the Dream Warden who had a connection to soul manipulation, her contact attempt opened a rift between the two realms. A calculated risk she took. The flood of unpurified souls struck down as a beam on Monarth, knocking him unconcious. He spent the following 3 years in a coma in a dream.
Having established a connection to his soul, Viara kept trying to make contact via his soulscape. Unsuccessful, she found a pathway to his mindscape, though she couldn't keep her form. Having to apply to the rules of his mind, her mindscape form divided into a dozen reptilian creatures which Monarth dubbed the Kirkan. By interacting as them, she gradually helped Monarth out of his coma and left her request for help at long last.
Monarth traveled to the Soul Realm, where they met properly for the first time. Learning about her duties and solitude in the Soul Realm, Monarth felt sympathy for the Sorrow Warden. But time was short as rifts were opening, so Monarth took battle against Syvon. Being overwhelmed by Syvon, Monarth decided to take the battle to a different realm, forcing Syvon and himself to a large rift that was sucking them in. Before disappearing into the rift he promised Viara to return one day.
Viara took this to heart and is still waiting.
---------------
That story summary was longer than I expected to write it.
Anywho, this Viara's version 2 in more appropriate colors. She was never meant to contain gunmetal, but until now I didn't have appropriate pieces to make that a reality.
Just like the previous version, her body shape is inspired by Mewtwo.
In this black-and-white composition, the ropes symbolize the invisible forces that shape and bind our thoughts. Are we held by external hands or by the intricate webs we weave within our own minds?
The rain begins to fall in irregular spasmodic waves, pock-pocking against the bobbing umbrellas, creating a tympanic white noise that unsettles the man’s nerves, disrupting his ability to process the low-level, broad-spectrum input of crowd movement. A woman begins to whistle, a thin atonal sound; to call it a melody would be a lie. The man’s unthinking arhythmic stride stutters. For a moment, he almost panics. He feels for the reassuring weight of the weapon in his coat pocket, knowing the motion itself would incrementally increase the turbulence in the flow of the crowd.