• Vol. 03
  • Chapter 02


Deep down, withstanding a pressure worth thousands of mountains, there lives creatures that do not care to hide what is churning inside of them. The pulse of light that passes from their brains across to the end of their tails shine brightly, marking a trail in the dark abyss which is their habitat. In the most remote valleys, where light falters to reach from the heavens, there shimmers a puzzling beacon attracting predators and preys alike.
Each movement is traced like neon at night. It cannot spot what is in its vicinity just through what they see. It cannot choose not to reflect its insignificant presence into the vast, spacious world. It hopes the best, as it projects its existence on ink, waiting for something to recognize its tincture.
A similar, much smaller life totters by, shining its own light in the ocean, consumed with a quick snag. Why is it, that nature leaves a trait both suicidal, yet essential, to the creature's survival?

Why is it, that George Orwell, Yevgeny Zamyatin, Aldous Huxley broke the ink against such a frightening prospect? Why is it, that Arthur Miller illuminate the state of a broken dream? Why do many writers, reaching the darkest state of mind, the deepest recluse inside their minds' blocks, shine?