The Less I Know The Better

In 2017, I got to know that the person I was in a relationship with for over a year had been cheating on me. It wasn’t just once or twice but on multiple occasions. I always had the feeling that she was but if I’d try to confront her, she’d twist and turn my words, use them against me and convince me that I wasn’t a good enough boyfriend. She’d challenge my trust in her and I’d always be at a loss for words. The gaslighting and damage from my experience took a toll on me at several mental and emotional levels. I wondered why she went through all the trouble of lying and breaking me down as a human being when she could have just walked away. I wondered what the need was to destroy me if the relationship didn’t serve a purpose and all she wanted was other men. I wanted to know why. I wanted to know everything. I began talking to people I knew she slept with and the horrible truths I uncovered made me want to destroy her. She had been telling people that I was the one emotionally abusing her, that I was over-protective, didn’t give her space and made her life miserable when it was the other way around. She had freedom. She had time. That’s the reason why she could come and go as she pleased while stomping the spine of my emotions. I wanted to pull the flesh off her delicate skin. More so, I wanted to destroy her from every angle imaginable. I won’t lie, given the opportunity, I’d drag her face through the dirt she belongs in, but I feel a little differently now. I won’t say I’ve forgiven her or completely let go but I’ve stopped looking for her in every person I meet. I’ve stopped looking for answers as to how and why. I’ve stopped blaming myself. I’ve stopped pondering over what ifs and buts. I know that every answer I receive will point at inadequacies on both our parts. I know I will find more hatred and pain with each incident or person associated with her betrayal that I address. I know that the more I dig, the more I’ll become like her. So, I’ve stopped asking. I’ve stopped thinking because honestly, the less I know the better.

This artwork was inspired from my experience of probably the worst mistake I made and the best life lesson I could have ever hoped for.

Feet of Clay

All golden idols have feet of clay

It’s funny how we look up to a few people and think that they are the epitome of perfection. We create this false sense of idolatry that blinds us to the obvious truth that they, like us, are human. Nothing more, nothing less. When what we perceive as their flaws come before us, that false sense of reverence is shattered, and we begin to despise them. Is it their fault for being human or is it our fault for expecting too much? Is placing a person on a pedestal and worshipping them like a demigod really important? Is it required? Does it serve a purpose? There’s no harm in admiration but don’t let it blind you to who they are as a person. Respect their art, admire what they do but don’t think that they are beyond the laws that govern the human mind. Don’t think that they are infallible and will not succumb to the human conditions and the desires that drive us all. Remember that a place of worship is just a building that the worshippers give meaning to. It can be bought, sold or broken. Nothing is sacred, and nothing is safe from destruction. If you continue to blindly worship your film stars, actors, artists, performers, politicians, godmen, teachers, parents, lovers or any one who claims authority, you will learn the hard way that all golden idols have feet of clay.

Backlash

Stuck inside a living nightmare,
where you can barely hear a scream.
Exposed to morbid horrors,
at an age where one should dream.

Ripped where one should ripen,
stripped, bruised and cold.
For a moment of sickening satisfaction,
such obscenities would unfold.

But these stories have been told before,
full of malice and of sin.
Guilt-driven parades are held,
hoping for change to begin.

Nothing ever begins,
while a hundred others meet their end.
Authorities crippled before power,
incapable of making amends.

The culprits roam free,
while trying to quickly shift the blame.
Blinded before evidence,
the voice of justice sealed without shame.

On the pride of our ancestors,
stand men without a spine.
Unable to lift even a stone,
much less oppose this heinous crime.

Someone lost a child,
a mother, a sister, someone dear.
Onlookers only stood in silence,
immobile with unreasonable fear.

Nothing will ever change,
when all we can do is stop and stare.
Primordial atrocities will never cease,
unless we start to truly care.

Tomorrow it could be you,
someone you love or know.
Isn’t safety for everyone,
the kind where one can learn and grow?

But our caretakers are blinded by power,
only lust and money in sight.
If you wish to protect those you love,
you must learn to stand up and fight.

Voices have barely made a difference,
loud enough only to pretend than act.
It’s time to do a lot more,
than sit behind a machine and react.

Why Dark Fiction is the Need of the Hour

Dark Fiction! The name of the genre itself reeks of tragedy, sorrow, grief and despair. Horrible tales that reveal the side of human nature that many would not venture into willingly. Stories belonging to this genre don’t give the reader the satisfaction of a happy ending but let me ask you – Is it really that bad? Haven’t books such as Fight Club, Room, Sharp Objects, The Road and Geek Love scarred your conscience (in a good way, I hope)? Although dark fiction doesn’t provide the kind of catharsis that most readers seek, it does have substantial weight to it. Quite honestly, substance is what fiction these days lack.

What is Dark Fiction?
Dark Fiction by definition means fiction which contains horrific elements such as fear, death and the sinister side of human nature. Most of these stories are nihilistic and do not end well for the protagonist. Although not commercialized like romance and crime fiction, it deals with important aspects of the human experience that we often neglect. It begs us to ask the question – Why doesn’t dark fiction sell as well as its counterparts? The answer is quite simple.

Why doesn’t Dark Fiction sell?
Most readers use fiction as a means of escape from reality. Reading is their sacred time where the harsh realities of life can’t touch them. It’s no wonder that genres such as romance and erotica sell so much (and so well). Ask yourself – did 50 Shades of Grey have any substance which made it the hit it was? The answer is no! When I was writing short stories and poems on my blog, I noticed that the ones which had much darker themes did not get the traction I thought they would despite rigorous marketing. Although they spoke of conscience and had much truth to them, they did not sell. On the other hand, stories with light-hearted content and happy endings seemed to do a lot better than I had expected. It made me think if we as humans were willing to venture deep into the catacombs of our conscience and examine that twisted little side of us that we keep hidden and mask with a smile. Do “happy endings” really mean that much?

Why Turn to Dark Fiction?

Truth
Although a nice story with a good plot and a happy ending gives that joyous satisfaction, what it doesn’t give you is the truth! That pretty little escape into fantasy might be appeasing but does it really make you think? Does it make you question who you are? Does it appeal to the darker side of your conscience? Dark fiction doesn’t provide you warm refuge. Instead, it takes you to the edge of reality and throws you from it. It keeps you on your toes. It keeps you grounded. It reminds you that death is the only truth this world has to offer. It tells you that there is more to reality than the eyes can perceive. It doesn’t give you flowery dreams but instead it exposes you to the truth… the truth that we are living in a Nightmare.

Impression
When was the last time a romantic novel lingered in your conscience or made you question any reality of your life? Themes based around love and positivity often create false notions which can be detrimental to the individual. Let’s face it, getting teary eyed and sobbing over an emotional passage is momentary but the burden of analyzing a thought helps you grow. That is why when I began writing my book, which I self-published this year, I wanted to break away from that nasty chain of happy endings where all the characters hold hands and walk into the sunset. Those sorts of stories are growing old and barely carry the weight to leave an impression. Darker themes on the other hand linger in your head long after you’ve finished reading them. It’s a different kind of catharsis.

Knowledge
The beauty of tragedy warms the soul in a twisted way. It makes you think, it makes you wonder if you possess any of those traits. More so, dark fiction exposes you to the harsh realities of life and reveals things you did not know existed. For many people I personally know, Dissociative Identity Disorder was an alien term till they read Fight Club. Ever wondered what goes on in the head of a lunatic? Ever wondered what a schizophrenic sees? Ever wondered why a few people take that extra step and voluntarily turn psychotic? Dark fiction will tell you.

Nightmare

I still remember talking to so many people about wanting to become a published author and no one really thought I could do it. No one took me seriously enough to the point where I was looked down upon, I was ridiculed and my writing skills were passed off as a joke. There were a few who said I didn’t have what it takes. There were those who kept telling me to stall it because publishing a book is an expensive affair. Then there were family members who constantly told me that I couldn’t write or what I am doing is shit. They said it would amount to nothing and I’d be better off doing a regular job and earning money like everyone else. I came across publishers who told me my content was too dark and I had to tone it down a bit or else they wouldn’t want to work with me. They guaranteed me that no one would want to publish my work. I spent days in turmoil and sickening sadness stemming from rejection, dismay and disappointment but I never stopped. I didn’t shatter and break down. I never stopped writing because writing is all I have. It is my life. It means everything to me. So I didn’t quit. In fact, I was far from it because I believed in myself.

Today, I stand before you, a published author. I have published this book online and I’ve done it free of cost – from the editing to the book cover and in doing so, I have beaten the system. I have beaten each and every one of those people who said I couldn’t do it. I’ve beaten the people who didn’t believe in me, all the naysayers, all the publishers who rejected my work, all the people close to me who pushed me down… I have beaten all of you. I have stomped you under my oppressive boot and I will continue doing so in the months to come. I made my dream come true on my own. There wasn’t anyone holding my hand and showing me the way. There definitely wasn’t any support till I had to prove my potential. I had nothing and no one. It was all me. Trust me when I say this, I am not stopping here. My next book titled – Void is scheduled to release in May-June.

If anyone wants to review my book, feel free to inbox me and we’ll take it ahead from there or you could buy a copy here: https://www.amazon.com/Nightmare-Shayne-Colac…/…/B06Y2HN9W6/

Let the #Nightmare begin!

Conscience

The gun was in my hand and it was pointed at the culprit. He shivered and writhed like an earthworm that had been douched with salt, wriggling helplessly on the floor. He had made too many bad decisions. He was snide, boastful, self-centered and self righteous in all his bitter, misguided glory. There was no place in this world for a disgusting, maniacal cretin like him. I was about to pull the trigger when I stopped and thought for a moment. If I do this now, how different am I from him? By judging him and calling him names, how exactly does it separate me from him? What did he do wrong that makes me want to kill him? What did I do right that gives me the privilege of pulling the trigger?

I knew of him since we were 5. We were probably the same age but somehow he seemed much older and wiser, always giving advice, telling me what to do but it was only later I realized that when the time came to act, he was nowhere around. He would disappear like a pigeon in a magician’s cage, leaving me at a loss of words. We would rehearse together but when the time came to speak, he stood in silence, watching me make a fool of myself. He assured me that I was right when everyone around me thought I was wrong. He didn’t give me logic and yet what he said made so much sense. Despite his flaws and what he did to me, we became good friends once we grew older. He was calm, he was confident. He was nothing like me. We were binary opposites and maybe that’s the reason why we got along despite the nature of our friendship.

Now that I think of it, was it really friendship? Were we ever that close? He knew everything about me and I barely knew him at all. He just sprung up one day out of the darkness and his presence grew stronger every day. He became an inseparable entity in my life. He was there when my parents died. He was there with me during the riots when those men were killing each other. If he had not told me to say what I did, we both would have been dead by now. In the loneliness of the orphanage, it wasn’t really bad having him around. Despite the loathing, his presence was somewhat comforting. He became my best friend and my worst enemy. Was that even possible? Once we got out of the orphanage, his voice only seemed to get louder. The lashings were way more brutal than before. He would successful beat me down to a pile of nothing. At the end of the day, I was face down on my bed, bruised with my self-esteem and confidence lost somewhere underneath the scabs of my conscience.

Did I have to take that sort of abuse from anyone? Every time I took this train of thought, he would boastfully remind me of the times he has stood by me. The times he was there when no one else was around. He would talk about how he raised me and helped me. After hearing those words, my inclination to do anything would cease to exist and a moment later he would beat me around for thinking that way, making me feel like it was my fault and I deserved to be hammered like a nail that stuck out. Deep down, I knew I didn’t deserve this and yet I let it happen to me again and again. His words grew fierce, he grew stronger and I drifted further into the sea of helplessness. I couldn’t take it anymore and that’s when I retaliated.

I guess even the strongest of men can be brought down to their knees when a gun is pointed at them. I had taken out all my pent up frustration and now the only thing left to do was pull the trigger. Thinking of all those times we spent together, was it really his fault? He just did the talking and lashing but was it really his fault? It was me. I was responsible for it just as much as he was. I let it continue. I let him do and say those horrible things to me. In the end, it was my fault. So I pointed the gun at the only person who was responsible and pulled the trigger. We both died.

Wasteland II: Setting Sun

The land beyond was unknown,
my journey began when I walked.
New faces came before me,
each step I took was carefully stalked.

“You look so pale,” they said,
“Why are you always dressed in black?”
“Your words spell horror,
is it love that you lack?”

All their concern made me change,
the way I walk, the way I speak.
Once a strong and proud king,
I was reduced to being humble and meek.

I quickly learned their language,
my actions based on what their reaction would be.
Slowly I began to writhe and suffer,
for all my essence was sucked out of me.

I began dressing like them,
and tried to blend in with the crowd.
Silent whispers of wisdom lost,
my words became conceited, brash and loud.

Molded into their culture,
the lies of a lifestyle were too much to take.
Within these petty illusions,
piece by piece my heart would break.

Enough is enough!
I was trapped in this monotonous rat race.
In the bargain of being heard, loved and accepted,
I had forgotten my own face.

The world beyond is truly vicious,
this is where I must draw the line.
Free from the burden of feelings and society,
I must reclaim all that is mine.

I had resented isolation and solitude,
even though they let me be all I could be.
Being alone is better than being lonely and scared,
this truth my mind could clearly see.

With a smile I walked towards the setting sun,
to the deepest, darkest corner of Earth I would go,
and rebuild my kingdom of ice,
a cold, barren wasteland full of snow.

Wasteland I: Kingdom Of Ice

This winter wasteland is my kingdom,
the throne of ice belongs to me.
Sitting on it proud and strong,
I judge and govern all I see.

Nothing escapes my vision,
wide-eyed in all its glory.
Confined within crystalline walls,
tall and thick, they mark my territory.

The kingdom has no people,
my subjects are the rubble and snow.
Cold winds are my companions,
beyond these walls there’s nowhere I can go.

The world beyond is cruel,
vile humans stuck in their rat race.
Their filthy intentions must be severed,
memories of them I must erase.

Within these walls is safety,
shadows and darkness offer refuge.
The silence slowly helps me grow,
secure in the towers of solitude.

Nothing can touch me,
I do and say as I please.
Blizzards quickly come and go,
as I command them with ease.

Isolated in this vast wasteland,
my comfort slowly turns to dread.
What’s the purpose of expression and speech,
when no one’s heard a word I’ve said?

Light of wisdom pierces the crystalline walls,
the towers of solitude rumble and shake.
My throne quickly crumbles,
the kingdom begins to break.

The unexplored land beyond unfolds,
all my fears begin to fade.
Divine realizations dawns,
the kingdom was a prison I had made.

Pandora’s Box

Silence and comfort,
in the deepest part of chaos’ orifice.
I cut my veins with broken glass,
pour the blood on the altar of Erebus.

Drained I collapse like an old pillar,
Hypnos slowly takes my dreams.
Phantasos weaves his illusions,
Phobetor ensures I scream.

Some may call it torture,
but to build, something has to break.
Once the end is in sight,
one must do whatever it may take.

Even if the heavens roll and crumble,
from Atlas’ mighty shoulder.
These deep, dark thoughts must flow like Styx,
eternal and never to wither.

Voices inside my head must echo,
like violent thunder from the house of Zeus.
Lightning must fall from the tip of my tongue,
to either harm or amuse.

Dionysus may raise a cup,
and pour his bounties on this privileged land.
But what purpose does it serve,
when I am a victim of falling sand?

Time may take its toll,
but this cold-blooded quest must ensue.
Hades’ flames cry out,
the screams of the dead are long overdue.

Reality is a nightmare,
this world of horrors feels like home.
Eyes blinded from daylight,
tranquility within this ancient catacomb.

Within these thoughts I am free,
to do or say as I please.
This forbidden land is my Olympus,
I manipulate it with ease.

It may be foolish,
to discard the whole world and throw it aside.
But these illusions must be expressed,
to reveal all the demons I hide.

Façade

The void is always within me,
hidden behind this face.
Masked like a vigilante,
with a visage of disgrace.

This mask I must erase,
peel off all this borrowed skin.
Drown in deep, dark waters,
to wash away the scars of my kin.

There is so much sin,
coursing through these hollow veins.
I’ve sold my hopes and dreams,
in exchange for petty gains.

Emptiness aches and pains,
to break out of this lowly shell.
The keepers never listen,
confining it to this earthly hell.

Darkness is a never-ending well,
sacred, full of abundant knowledge.
The surface squanders it,
falling prey to sacrilege.

Silence pushed over the edge,
the sewed mouth must open wide.
Spilling out all the anguish and sorrow,
for they can no longer hide.

No mercy for those who lied,
and built this iron mask of shame,
out of pleasure or ignorance,
even those who gave it a name.

There is no one left to blame,
more than the one who owns it.
Without his shaky, guilty consent,
the mask would have never fit.

Why do I commit,
to something so crude and fake?
Wearing it so proudly,
when it’s something I didn’t make.

So easily it can take,
any absurd illusion as its own.
While the truth slowly withers
along with the righteous voice I disown.

I’ll only reap what I’ve sown,
wearing a mask up to the end.
How long can I lie to myself?
How long can I pretend?

Nothing can mend,
this is the tragic, bitter truth.
I reached for the forbidden apple,
but I can barely digest the fruit.

Deep down to my root,
I know this mask will surely break
and free me from these worldly illusions,
that I so foolishly make.