chimeric chronicles
@demianboras.bsky.social
Books, art, writing—my toys of delirium. I dissect them to feel my own pulse, not truth’s. I write for my vanity, my delight; all else rots in the pit of the irrelevant. Each line—a theft from the sacred, a sneer at the ghost that names itself Meaning.
When I look at Caravaggio, I see the ego incarnate in light and shadow — not this herd of painters and writers who beg for approval. Their “art” is nothing but obedience disguised as expression. The crisis is not of talent, but of self — no creators, only servants.
November 8, 2025 at 8:19 AM
When I look at Caravaggio, I see the ego incarnate in light and shadow — not this herd of painters and writers who beg for approval. Their “art” is nothing but obedience disguised as expression. The crisis is not of talent, but of self — no creators, only servants.
Hiroshi Sugimoto OPTICKS
Sugimoto’s Opticks — colors bleeding like open veins of light. The purity of pain in prism form. Each hue screams without sound, a delirium of vision. Even silence rots under that sterile perfection. Beauty? A wound pretending to be eternal.
Sugimoto’s Opticks — colors bleeding like open veins of light. The purity of pain in prism form. Each hue screams without sound, a delirium of vision. Even silence rots under that sterile perfection. Beauty? A wound pretending to be eternal.
November 6, 2025 at 1:12 PM
Hiroshi Sugimoto OPTICKS
Sugimoto’s Opticks — colors bleeding like open veins of light. The purity of pain in prism form. Each hue screams without sound, a delirium of vision. Even silence rots under that sterile perfection. Beauty? A wound pretending to be eternal.
Sugimoto’s Opticks — colors bleeding like open veins of light. The purity of pain in prism form. Each hue screams without sound, a delirium of vision. Even silence rots under that sterile perfection. Beauty? A wound pretending to be eternal.
Balthus paints as if time had stopped just before sin. His figures hover between innocence and provocation, silence and tension. Every gesture is a whisper of scandal, every shadow — a confession unspoken. He paints dreams that refuse to wake.
November 3, 2025 at 5:19 AM
Balthus paints as if time had stopped just before sin. His figures hover between innocence and provocation, silence and tension. Every gesture is a whisper of scandal, every shadow — a confession unspoken. He paints dreams that refuse to wake.
Van Gogh - his brush screams where reason falls silent. Colors clash like the last convulsions of a mind unhinged, beauty wrenched from torment. The light is obscene, the night unbearable; every stroke a testament to suffering masquerading as art, every hue a revolt against the peace we crave.
October 21, 2025 at 8:08 PM
Van Gogh - his brush screams where reason falls silent. Colors clash like the last convulsions of a mind unhinged, beauty wrenched from torment. The light is obscene, the night unbearable; every stroke a testament to suffering masquerading as art, every hue a revolt against the peace we crave.