As Vivências

Dreaming Snowmen Around Skyscrapers [6]

In the sanctum of my oneiric abode, where fevered warmth pulsates through illusory halls, the radiance of artificial stars—flashlights, those modern Promethean flames—casts upon the walls the phantasmagoria of my most primeval dreads. These shadows no longer plead for convenience nor dare encroach upon the nebulous edge of my awareness. Yet, amidst this chiaroscuro of mind and soul, my gaze remains unwavering—riveted upon those towering monoliths of steel and ambition: the skyscrapers. Upon their vertiginous footfalls I shall forge my frostbitten dominion—an empire not of gold, nor marble, but of homunculi glacialis—snowmen, emblems of transience and silent rebellion.

Far removed from the sirens of terrestrial allure—the sun-kissed maidens of hedonistic summer—I labor. When the snow effigy succumbs to solar crucible, what emerges is not mere water, but a man—sweat-slicked, delirious with dreams, yet dissonant with festive mirth. A being ill-suited for jubilant holidays, a revenant among “summer bummers,” ghost-riding through joyless heatwaves.

Above me, the clouds have conspired to build their own clandestine commune, and within the confines of my chamber, a fool—perhaps myself—pirouettes in manic syncopation to invisible hymns. He labors to the rhythm of persistence, until the breath of winter stirs once more. I will accept naught but my vision incarnate: triumphant, unassailable, absolute. And still, the finest revelation lingers just beyond cognition, like a sphinx behind the veil.

He—this spectral companion—might at any moment leap backward into the locus of mirth, the primal agora where illumination yields only veracity. But who is he? My paramour, my psychic entanglement, my guardian of threshold and secret. Yet within him coils a forbidden appetite: a clandestine hunger to ascend, to seek still loftier firmaments beyond the vaulted sky—a Babelian obsession. When I roused him, struck with brutal clarity, I found no sobriety left within—only a gleaming sarcophagus, radiant as guilt, mirroring the horror of unvarnished truth.

The morrow marks the anniversary of my mortal arrival. I have sculpted three snowmen, each a simulacrum of the fragmented trinity of self: id, echo, revenant. They no longer perish beneath the sun’s tyrannical eye. Why? Because once, in a forgotten yet fateful moment, I grew too sharp—too honed in pain and understanding—to be undone. My sketches bled upon the parchment of reality.

“…I know why I’m here,” I whisper into the void—
To sow affection, to taste agony, and to become the snowman sovereign beneath my own soaring citadel of dreams.