I penetrate the dim light, yet into the heart of the darkness of imagination.It is a sweaty sound flowing through pulsating veins.It is the suspended breath when the eyes half-open.It is the apathy of an imposed, marked infinity; the impotence to live.It is the free expression of disgust—and the joy of indulging in it.

There is no gaze, no reading, no labor.Everything clings perfectly to the crusts of our darkest feelings.A filamentous dust, when blown, ignites; a black rust that bites, corroding a thin layer only to adhere… yet, as it forms, it protects you.

Dark boredom protects, for it is born in solitude, and with solitude, it forges an iron shield against the mediocrity lurking behind the door of daily life. It is soaked in black ennui, capable of digging deep within to uncover and transform into a gift.

Black ennui, in opening you, casts you into another dimension—far from all trivial and certain contamination.There is no certainty in dark boredom, for it is experienced within you, becoming part—crust, bark—of your deep, hidden forests.A lonely flute in the mist of the self.

“Demonic is the void, and boredom must be understood as a nothingness that penetrates all reality.”“Those who are disturbed—they are the chosen ones, the nobility!”“I am something more than an illusion for weary men.”

Boredom implies a moment of reflection upon ourselves—a contemplation of our position in the world, demanding a time that always seems to lack.What is tedious does not dissolve man but fertilizes humanity along the horizontal line of life: it delivers us to mortal horizontality, far from all baser natures.

Boredom is a necessity—it forces man to labor within himself and his existence, not on a smooth surface, but within the fears of needs, where the game of boredom is arduous. Miserable desire digs into the linear treasure of eternity, transforming into deep, circular joy—accustomed to the thrill of capture.

Reacting to the dull calm of associations, freeing oneself from accusations of emptiness, sharply restraining libido—where, in nocturnal insomnia, the impossible becomes possible through the monotonous stimulus of the psychotic sound of the material sea of the outer world.

External perception subtracts behavior, evoking aromas of sap and vanilla; connected to vetiver and the complexity of patchouli from Sumatra, Singapore, and Borneo, it demolishes the wall of the hyperactive—where empty time takes shape as a horizon of possibilities.

It is no longer about spending time, but accepting its inexorable flow.The mist of the lost—of living—thickens in the heart, in the enchanted forest of cedar woods, upon the damp carpet of heliotrope, lover of that solitude that keeps the eyes half-open.

In the infinite question of lost and rediscovered Time, elevated reason ferments emptiness within emptiness—with the story of a myrtle, born of barren soil, rising and embracing lavender, tracing a straight road built upon transgression—the primary dark source of the pursuit of satisfaction.

The spirit of life thirsts for novelty, for constant change, occupying every corner of the soul like a fog—like sleep that prevents movement—intoxicating for being nothing but someone within the continuous sound of a supreme power.

Because ennui_noir, with its horizontal language, seeks to manifest how things truly are—about ourselves.