LUCCIAN LAYTH
Bio
L.LUCCIAN is a writer, poet and philosopher who delves into the unseen. He produces metaphysical contemplation that delineates the line between thinking and living. Inever write to tellsomethingaboutlife,but silences aremyway ofhearing it.
Stories (31)
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Chapter VII: The Ontology of Silence
From every corner of experience quiet, in its variations, is the sound of existence itself, the sound of absence. Silence has varied qualities. Think about the silence of dawn in the woods where the light of day pierces the top of the trees each moment like God holding its breath a split second longer; unmistakably old silence vibrating with memories of a forming world. Or, consider the silence of the city at sleep, thick with human noise, its asphalt heating up from the day's activity, not yet dissipated, a whole inhabited unconscious simmering like neurons firing in synchronization. Or, think about the silence before storm, a stretch, poised like a bow-and-arrow, the sound of silence true, always an inevitability; and, then there is the silence after-storm the world emerged as if it was hollowed out from a gutting, shaken pure everything is deemed newborn
By LUCCIAN LAYTH10 months ago in Confessions
Chapter III: The Painter’s Paradox — Creation as Annihilation
There is a man whose artwork is not composed with a brush dipped in paint, but rather dipped in existence itself. The bristles of his paint brush, dipped in a white so bright it worships the very idea of painting, are believed to be the extract of the very marrow of the soul itself. Each stroke is not just light on canvas, but light imagined; he contains the power to release light into the fathomless void lurking around the periphery of life. He is a painter of the endless dark, a witness to a subjectless mute whose silence speaks louder than any tangible utterance. Language fails here; any word on the edge of the subject's tongue is siphoned away, absorbed, dissolved, and regurgitated onto the dried slick of basanit slate as pigment. What else could it be called but a sacrament? His brush as chalice; his white, the dictated libation of a soul grasping at meaning in its own frailty.But as the light escapes his brush, the shadow is also introduced.
By LUCCIAN LAYTH10 months ago in Psyche
Chapter XVII: The Sovereign of Shadows
The wind shrieked, calling me through the hollow arches of my empire, and shared the whispers of those from which I had long departed. They did not capitulate, they did not bend the knee—those stubborn flames in their unyielding commitment who were steadfast in grisly devotion to my cause even while I drifted into infinite nothingness. I stand now before the stripped down bones of my empire, their magnificence reduced to chambers of resonating echo and thrones of dust. *Why have I returned?* The question coils in my heart like the serpent of eternal regret. Perhaps it is the burden of promises I once scarred into the flesh of memory now bleeding through the cracks of time. Or perhaps it is the truth that solitude, even from this frayed kingdom, is a reprieve from the honeyed mumble of humankind. Humanity—how shameless a pantomime! They murmur constantly of virtues they loathe, and in the very next breath, dive into the sins of their own disdain. Their laugh, a knife—that roasts, and their kindness, a mask stuck to rotten flesh. I have tasted their "compassion," a goblet of vinegar, and spit it back into oblivion. They are the architects of their own suffering, bringing offerings of opinions about the innocence of gutting like lambs to a slaughterhouse. Weakness masquerades as strength in their world—a monstrous breeding from the bones of gentle chitterers.
By LUCCIAN LAYTH10 months ago in Psyche
"Sightless Stars and Scarlet Ink: The Unseen Love of Ada and Layth"
Letter I – From Ada Manssouri to Layth Soufi Casablanca, 14 August 1942 My Dearest Layth, This evening, with the call to prayer still reverberating in my ears, I draw my fingers along those engravings on the parchment which read out your name. Although my left eye is shrouded in darkness, to me, you look elaborately exotic—the twitch of your smile, the inflection in your voice when you mention the stars. Remember that night we took a walk on the roof? You told me the constellations while flexing your grip around my palm. From the stories you narrated, it seemed like they were woven together with magic. You mentioned that Orion’s belt was a bridge between souls, and I swear the universe shifted to make us feel closer to each other.
By LUCCIAN LAYTH11 months ago in Poets
