Waking up in the Necropolis Gully BK began her precarious descent into the Necropolis Gully , a name lost to a small number of archaeologists and rogue explorers. The crevice itself was a scar on the ancient landscape, a vast, yawning chasm that plummeted into the planet’s geological memory. As she rappelled down the sheer, moss-slicked wall, the air grew thick with the smell of damp earth and mineral deposits, a primal scent that felt undisturbed for millennia. Through her helmet augmented simulation, illuminating the colossal, jagged stones that formed the gully's walls with data. It was here, wedged deep within a natural alcove, that she uncovered the remnants of forgotten structures and life-like sculptures. These were not mere ruins of a collapsing city; they were foundational outlines, crystalline supports , and fused-metal segments hinting at a magnificent, but tragically unfinished, urban vision. The architecture was abstract, alien, and perhaps too grand for any tourist...
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Lost and Gone
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Lost and Gone
Poem:
Funnelled into this tunnel
We tiptoe on an obscure path, sinking further into acceptable societal norms. Our leaders are the shining stars of opportunity, hope and desperation. We are wearing modernist chains as productivity symbols. We continually inch forward. Bound by their unspoken agendas.
The tunnel shields us from the glimmer of what could be. We carry the burden of shattered aspirations. We forgot them as the junk of continuous acquisition minced us into meta pulp. What drives our reluctance to deviate from this tunnel?
The way towards a post-capitalist society are intertwined with our innermost galaxies. Can we continue waiting for the moment we can see clearly through the fluorescent lights? Years and years? Generations and generations? Lost and gone.
Story:
Our footsteps echo in compliance on a dark path. Every person watching is a unique shadow, a beautiful and intricate figure composed of unfulfilled dreams and values. We carry chains mistaken for rhythm, our procession of self-imposed burden. The tunnel, an artificial cocoon, becomes a womb of obscurity. We are like Sisyphus, carrying the weight of unfulfilled potential, dissipating against the hard surface of routine. We have the power to step out of line, to break free from our invisible shackles. Yet we stay silent in this parade of shadows and echoes. Is it fear or comfort that holds us in this spectral dance? To break free means facing the unknown, the blinding light of possibility. But we created this tunnel, and the map of the stars is etched on its walls, waiting for us to look up.
Description:
Embark on a metaphorical journey through the 'Tunnel of Self-Reflection.' This video art piece captures the essence of walking a path paved with echoes of our choices and the silhouettes of dreams yet to be fulfilled. As you watch, consider the chains of habit and the weight of potential within us all. Are we comfortable in the darkness, or are we ready to step into the light of the unknown? Join us as we explore these profound questions in a hauntingly beautiful setting. #PathToSelfDiscovery #UnfulfilledDreams #MetaphoricalJourney
Keywords:
Metaphorical Journey, Self-Reflection, Unfulfilled Dreams, Life's Path, Philosophical Art, Echoes of Choice, Chains of Habit, Potential and Fear, Comfort in Darkness, Breaking Free, Self-Discovery, Artistic Interpretation
This artwork is protected by U.S. and International copyright laws. Distribution and/or modification of the artwork without written permission of the sponsor is prohibited.
Necropolis Gully Ancient Fertility The only sound in the deep quiet of the crevice was the crunch of my boots on the debris-strewn ground. Towering stone walls, draped in vibrant green moss , rose on either side, making me feel like an intruder in a forgotten tomb . My matte-black suit , a product of a future this place could never have imagined, felt profane against the ancient rock . Then I saw it: a weathered, silent figure standing in the path. It was a statue of a woman , carved from the same stone as the gully but shaped with clear intent. Moss crept up its base and clung to its form like a second skin. This impossible artifact, an architectural anomaly in this raw, natural fissure , stopped me. My steady, determined posture belied the storm of questions raging in my mind. The statue stared forward with blank, unseeing eyes, a silent witness to a history I had just stumbled into. My mission was to find my crew, but this place, this silent, stone woman , was a new, un...
Psychological Anchors The characters thus embody the classic dichotomy between logic/control (BK) and emotion/instinct (JB), a tension that becomes central to their survival when their advanced technology fails and they are forced into the realm of the psychological (the anomaly). They represent two vital, yet opposing, parts of the human response to existential chaos : the attempt to catalogue and talk through the terror, versus the primal urge to act and accept the turmoil. Psychological Anchors video What's the real story behind space tourists BK and JB ? Their identities are in constant flux—changing race, age, and form. Host Alex and guest Dr. V dive deep into this "multiverse" concept to explore the two constant, warring psychologies at the heart of the Subi crew : BK: The ultimate planner, driven by logic and an internal narrator . JB: The ultimate instinct, driven by raw, non-verbal emotion and anxiety . How does a logical mind handle " Paraknowing "—...
Cryo Unit: confirmation and protocol The voice, a sterile, disembodied presence that has become as familiar as my own thoughts, began its report. "Status: Your Brass Monkey cryo-unit is engaged. Internal temperature regulation is optimal." A faint hum, almost imperceptible through the thick insulation of the unit, confirmed its words. I felt the gentle thrum of the cryo-fluid circulating, a constant reminder of the fragile balance being maintained within my metallic sarcophagus . "External forces, such as extreme G-load, confirm the slingshot maneuver is active, exploiting Delta-Nine traffic gravitational pull for maximum velocity." The words brought with them a subtle shift in pressure, a barely discernible tremor that resonated deep within the reinforced shell of my vessel. Delta-Nine, a scar of immense antimatter , was now a critical point in our journey, its colossal gravitational field bending space and time to propel us into the unthinkable anomaly. Are w...
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