Wish You Were April - ep. III: Emyssar Creation

“Forest spirits dropped a message there…”

A cinematic romantic surreal psychedelic journey into magic, fantasy, concept art, and psychology.

“I listened—to what the day was preparing for us…”

They didn’t rush back to the owls—for the fifth call’s light.

But the days of the goddess grew feathers and closed themselves off in the cosmos

.

A breeze ruffled her hair: a lock fell near her forehead, and her palm rested on her cheek. She walked alongside emptiness—past the boulevard of intuition, groves of park benches, typography of secret knowledge; her gaze slid over “Croissant Zero”— and paused at the dock, her legs dangling over the river of time.

Shoelaces were tangled by cosmic wind but forgotten glimmers softened their glow—and radiance pointed toward contemplation…

So…

Her gaze fell onto a path between two worlds—carried by attention into the depths of patterns.

“For us, who renounced the halls of reason…”

She caught fish from an aquarium—and threw them out the window. Those awaited the fates of those fortunate at birth. Others weren’t nourished by stars.

Tourists fluttered like feathers in the wind. We mourned drama—ash rained upon us. Ashes. And the fog thickened

.

Infinity met two beings ~

Broken vials of emotion yielded to her—flasks shaping destinies’ outlines.

“Streams of the Secret touched my strands; I became entranced—drawn by the hue of regret…”

“Heavy is the night…

The wind smoothed dusty hair in its den—while youth was our only adornment……………………..”

She picked up a feather. Perhaps it wouldn’t let her get lost…

“He painted me with smoke, played the water harp, tasted fruit snow from my collarbones…”

She lit incense on the sevenfold bridge, and the Spirit of the River glided on a canoe—across waves of light, the brightest of days.

That morning we woke at six and gathered at mine by seven—a cup of chocolate, wrapping ourselves in scarves, a hand-rolled cigarette smoking away.

Fully present here and now, everything familiar and beloved…

Rain was known to her. In life, she met those who taught her to enjoy forbidden chapters—and continue them

.

“I came alive in conversations with Him—as He guided me through sequences of inner scenes…”

The operator was covered by the velvet of my shoulder—and we walked in unison, following sparks from traces left behind.

There she was—her voice, the world, the moment long-awaited, the all-blessed smoke, and the Raven singing odes to rivers…

She listened to herself, attuned to eternity, sipped the essence of wanderings, kept a diary of truths—on a bridge—in someone else’s notebook.

“Last night, I dreamed of a long-dead friend…”

She fell in love with the air—and she didn’t mind: fluttering as a feather, frolicking as the wind, whispering peace with breezes—and weaving blankets of shimmering reflections on granite birch bark. Slowly, she served as guardian to Silence, whose honor was to yield.

“And the aqueduct where stars die, falling as spectacle for planets…”

In the sixties, there were no notes—but her father made a fortune through star notation magic: Little Janis, King of Lizards, Fallen God, Golden-Haired God from the Zeppelin, Ran with Wolves, Nicotine Trickster, Merry Pranksters, Grateful Dead, Twin of Dawn—all conquering the world via photocopies of sheet music, crackling phonographs, and the mystery of an era’s sunset

.

“I walked by the call of my heart—two others followed me with a camera…”

“He left notes for me—in walks through worlds immeasurable in lifetimes.”

Smoke falls as ash of truth—not for the first time. Longing fades—from parting words to life…

She guarded that little book—in a box: such boxes dry memory bouquets and crooked roses.

From all of us, her quality protected her: waking up to a new morning, she never knew what today held—masked face, half-hidden strand—or curls down to her sacrum. She didn’t know—in her room, where the mirror was the world: turn to the Sky—and soar; turn to Mystery—and open the door to coordinates sacred—where winds sing once a night, where World Wanderers explore their paths, and crossroad magicians perform rituals true to gods. Where fruit snow falls, offerings brought to the Ritualist, where autumn meets winter meets evening—all decorations barely touched; glimmers fill consciousness with enchantment—that two share under candlelight, beneath pen script on open pages, amidst the crackle of records in hearths of truth—under passion’s burnout, embers under drops of etheric essence, truths of the world…

Who knows what awaits her now…

Glancing readings—and still, she didn’t know what awaited her today…

Her ears absorbed the best sounds humming within—and beyond—worlds…

“I am all I’ve seen, in a chain of worlds,” repeated the Madman to me.

Pulsating Time…

“Window”: From the “watercolor” world—to the “electric” one. Frame resolution lowers—rebuilding the world. Wind equaled her locks—time condensed backward. A riddle in the air lingers above the river.

“Everyone draws their dance of energies.”

An inept painter left streaks of multicolored paint across the sky—left it drying over the sun—but it burned through lacquer, paints, primer, layered canvas—and colors fell like rain on seagulls, weaving eternal-significance figures: Metatron’s cubes within cubes. Someone leads their hand along bridges of hidden chapters:

“Enjoying this—or something close?”

“The stronghold of perception proclaims deception.”

“And not by a single stroke of the pen were worlds tamed…”

She inhaled — “…something close.”

Exhaled — “…everything close.”

Wiped a drop of paint from her cheek — “…not like any other so~”

“Carried away from centuries…”

Which year of the world’s collapse cannot be understood or recalled—the handwriting changed to flickering.

The world entertained itself with synthesized truths—and granted her a place for leisure.

“Forget yourself in us.”

“And my Self fell from the precipice…”

“In falling, gazing into the reflection…”

“I found the Sought after in ages…”

“With warmth of gaze…”

“And the memory of reflection swaddled her…”

“And I loved His silence.”

~ “And the Cosmic Harpsichord wove seconds for us.”

“And we left…”

~from His dream…

~finally

~remains

~infinite