a b r a c a d a b r a

dreams & nightmares

[abracadabradreams]

Some moons ago I had a dream where I drew the Death card from the tarot, after moving through several events of despair and emotional flooding. I felt completely abandoned by myself — as if I no longer knew how to inhabit my own body. I begged for help between sobs, dissolved in tears. That dream illustrated perfectly what I was living: something needs to die.

Something needs to die in me so I can break out of this cycle. But how do you become someone you never were?

Between insights, conversations and revisitations of trauma, I realized I actually needed to go back — to face what was left behind, to remember who I was before it all. Everything that devours me begins there. So that is my starting point. This death, in truth, is a chance to choose life.

Because the feeling that I needed to die never really made sense. Trauma had already killed me. I was already dead. I didn't need to die again — I needed to find life after trauma.

After that fateful event, I became a living dead. I never allowed myself vitality again, nor the hope of finding meaning and desire in what surrounds me. Even the things that ignite me most I could never truly touch.

Then last night I dreamed I was visiting a tucked-away café in my city. I was welcomed with a bath of honey on my hands and books filled with everything I most wish to understand. I felt desire for all of it. I felt there was something there for me — but somehow I also felt it could never really be mine.

When I woke up, I found the answer to everything.

Die before you die — it pulses with a life that wants to be lived. Now I know the path I need to walk. And I will live in search of that honey.

[abracadabradreams]

Fear isn’t to be killed, but to be ridden.

[abracadabradreams]

I want to talk about my oldest and deepest relationship — the one I have with fear.

I've been afraid for as long as I can remember. But it was never about monsters or strange creatures. I was brave about those. While my brother cried, scared of the Big Bad Wolf, I — the younger one — stood up, ready to face him.

My fears were different. They started early, but they were more about the future. I always had the feeling that something was missing in the present. At school, fear showed up in the form of learning — or rather, the fear of failing. Or worse: not even trying, afraid to fail. Fear drained my curiosity. I started to shut down, to retreat inward. The more I feared, the more distant, odd, and detached I became.

Even as I got older, fear didn’t leave. It lingered, quietly, in my shadow.

Fear of making mistakes. Fear of letting people down. Fear that they’d find out I was a fraud. Fear of getting close. Fear of being rejected. Forgotten. Ignored. Fear of not fitting in. Fear of the fear itself. Fear of trying… and succeeding.

Fear and I became intimate. It freezes me and awakens me. Protects me and sabotages me. It seems like all my emotions are just echoes of it — like I’ve become monopathic, trapped in a single emotional frequency. An endless loop.

But there’s something I love about fear: when it blends with anger. Then I become a creature — wild, untamed, utterly fearless. But not exactly brave — more like feral. Impulsive. Nothing can stop me. That fear flips, becomes fuel. And suddenly, I’m not the one who fears — I’m the one who frightens. And that… gives me a strange kind of thrill.

It might sound scary, I know. But seeing my fear this way reveals its power. After all, doesn’t every “problem” carry its own antidote?

In my case, it’s not courage that cancels out fear. It’s becoming it.

Like putting on the mask that once scared me — and by wearing it, I no longer fear it. I become what I once feared. And in that moment, it can no longer hurt me.

Because it’s not about defeating fear. It’s about embodying it.

As if I’m wearing the monster’s skin — not to conquer it, but to shed the role of the victim. Fear is. And so am I.

[quietlotus]

“Follow your bliss and don’t be afraid, and doors will open where you didn’t know they were going to be.”

— Joseph Campbell

[abracadabradreams]

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☽ I have to change to stay the same. ☾༓･*˚⁺‧͙

[abracadabradreams]

Now my heart doesn’t beat — it collapses. It was replaced by a black hole: silent, hungry, politely destructive. It doesn’t scream. It only consumes.

Each fear clings to the edges of the abyss as if it could escape. Anguish, anxiety, old traumas — fossils of a time that never ended — all twitch like insects under hot glass. The fear of losing you again has lost count. The fear of losing myself… became method.

I’ve already predicted every possible ending — even the ones that haven’t been written. Still, there’s always room for one more unexpected collapse. My chest has become a ruined train station: all disasters arrive, none depart.

At night, sleep tries to come, but the gravity of emptiness pins me to the bed. The black hole weighs tons of silence. And it’s starving. I feel the air being sucked out, as if the room breathes in reverse.

I am the Big Bang in reverse. Beginning and end share the same address: my chest. You, me, us… recycled in my internal collapse. It’s not drama. It’s physics.

My viscera spin in a spiral ballet. Fear struts in armed, dread applauds from the dark — they think they own the stage. They are guests in my abyss: they pay with silence, stay for eternity. Soon, the black hole will swallow itself. And then, perhaps, not even the void will have a place to live. The end offers no promise of rebirth — and that is its most elegant cruelty.

[placeeee]

[abracadabradreams]

You know what’s often even more precious than getting high? Staying grounded.

Sobriety, for those who see the endless entanglement of samsara, can feel harsh. But running from it would also mean running from myself, from the path I chose to walk in this life. Over the past years, I’ve experienced long stretches of complete sobriety — and within that, I’ve found a kind of peace that needs no external aid.

Still, there are moments when I invite the herb to join me. Not as an escape, but as a tool for deeper dives. At times, whether alone or with dear friends, it guides me into a deeper silence, into that cosmic dust that swirls within us. And there is beauty in that as well.

But there’s a different kind of beauty — almost luminous — in moving through the day sober: fulfilling the simple, the ordinary, the sacredness of presence. In those moments, sobriety feels like a quiet superpower. It’s comforting to know that I don’t depend — I choose. And every choice has its time and its altar.

Today, I see the herb as a portal for introspection and delight, not as a constant refuge. In the end, the answer almost always brings me back to meditation — that other path of inner descent.

I’m still learning how to keep my practice steady. Sometimes I recognize that what I seek in the substance is a small spark of what meditation offers me. But they are distinct journeys: one takes me far; the other brings me inward.

And in the end, the question remains: where do I wish to travel today?

[abracadabradreams]

Everything is a perspective of ourselves.

[abracadabradreams]

•*¨*•.¸¸☆*change is the support of stability*☆¸¸.•*¨*•

[abracadabradreams]

Cycles. Spirals. Wheels. Turns. Droplets. Waves. Sea.

There are patterns that repeat — again and again — until we pass through every lesson they hold.

Some cycles stretch across eons, moving through time like an ancient breath. It’s these that keep life pulsing, somehow. They test us. And every time you falter — every time you turn away — you’re swept back to the beginning.

Back to the shore. Back to the wave.

These cycles move like tides. The beach may seem still… but under a full moon, everything shifts. Everything stirs.

That’s how I feel when the cycle returns. Or is it me who returns to it?

I believe some of the deepest cycles don’t begin or end with us. They run through bloodlines, flow through the warmth that keeps us alive. They are tasks left unfinished. They are inherited. Maybe even sacred.

And even after a thousand returns, I still tremble. I still fear. I still grow tired.

But fear doesn’t carry the same weight anymore. Not after waking from that half-death, that almost-life.

Not after choosing to grow. To stay awake. To learn.

Then laughter comes — not soft, not gentle — but sudden. Strong. Like lightning through storm.

I need to become the wave, so I won’t shatter when it breaks.

I want to be the calm between tides — the breath before the pull — to move in and out until I become the sea itself.

The sea that tries to drown me. The sea I keep becoming.

I want to be the ocean — unstable, yes — but so constant in its restless movement that its chaos becomes the only true stability.