05/16/2026
The Descend and the Blueprint 🚞 🧭
It was not a man who kissed me.
It was emptiness
dressed in the warm skin of a human being.
His arms were soft as a thousand-year-old dream,
long as the body of a serpent,
wrapping around me
in an ever-tightening embrace.
Inside him was darkness,
like a house abandoned by the soul.
And when our lips finally met,
there was no tenderness.
There was passage —
a shift from one density
of the spacetime tunnel
into another dimension.
As though I had fallen through a crack in the world
into a place
where I had always known everything,
yet forgotten to remember it.
Afterwards I ran through academic corridors,
listening to lectures
while carrying within me the breath of the Alps,
the clean air of the future,
and somehow,
I arrived in time.
The train had been waiting for me all along,
though there were other passengers too.
The doors closed
like the eyelids of initiation.
Across my back I wore a mesh of iron —
a chainmail, not armor.
Armor isolates.
Mesh filters.
I no longer wanted war.
Only a permeable protection
for a heart that had returned from fire.
In my hands I carried a great fire extinguisher —
not a sword,
but an instrument of regulation,
as though the soul had known beforehand
how much fire still awaited me.
And from the iron mesh
nails kept falling —
some bent,
some old and worn,
rusted by history.
Lived matter.
Not perfect knowledge,
yet somehow still useful to others.
People pulled them from the pavement
like relics.
I had not even realized
how much iron I carried within me.
Then a woman began to guide me.
Through schools filled with children,
some with eyes far too old for their age.
Across ferries.
Through layers of dream
nested inside one another
like Russian matryoshkas of the soul.
Until I entered an apartment
that smelled of Europe,
of wood older than my suffering,
and of the silence of people
who no longer need to prove anything.
On the wall hung ancestors
dressed in blue robes.
They did not look wealthy.
They looked noble.
They looked like those
who knew something.
The woman showed me a blueprint —
two halves of the world
joined into one body,
one coherent whole.
And then light emerged from her forehead,
and another plane opened.
I saw mountains.
Soft, limestone mountains,
carved into tender, pointed forms,
strangely enchanting.
People climbed them.
And descended from them slowly,
like pilgrims returning
from a place
where they had remembered
who they truly were.
And she said without words:
"Here, the treasure will be hidden."
And I understood
it was not about the painting.
Not about money.
Not even about knowledge.
But about that moment
when a human being,
after surviving psychic death,
ceases to be a ruin
and becomes a map.
