JJFBbennett

  Waiting for Azrael The air in the room doesn't move; it simply presses She has long since stopped looking at the clock, realising that time here isn't a sequence, but a weight. The waiting room has fractured, the mundane reality of plastic chairs and linoleum tiling splintering into a jagged, stained-glass fever dream . High-pitched frequencies of burning red and sickly yellow vibrate against the walls, echoing the frantic noise of a mind that has run out of distractions. She pulls her legs inward and forms a tight knot, dressed in indigo and bruised purple. She tries to find a purpose in her world that refuses to stand still. Every sharp edge of colour feels like a spiritual siege , a sensory reminder that her momentum has been forcibly halted. There is no use in pacing. There is no use in resisting the authoritative hand of the "in-between." To survive this stall, she must stop fighting the current and become part of the stagnant water. She buries her face, lets t...

  I am waiting and maintaining my presence For centuries, artists have shown what it means to wait. Their works capture quiet, tense moments in which every gesture and expression suggests deep emotions just below the surface. One of my favourite artists who explored the theme of waiting is Honoré Daumier. His lithographs and paintings of third-class carriage passengers or people in court waiting rooms are especially insightful. He captures patience, exhaustion, and resignation in their faces and postures, turning waiting into a thoughtful reflection on human life. When I made my digital watercolour, I wanted to capture the feeling of waiting, just as artists before me have done. I used bright oranges and golds to create energy and contrast with the central figure, who appears deep in thought. We have to learn to inhabit the pause rather than just trying to leap over it. I think of it as staying engaged with the 'now,' even when the 'now' feels like a dead end. Instead o...

  The Event Horizon of Regret This is no star map; this is the geography of my own collapse. I am on my knees, the obsidian floor splintering under the weight of what hovers above me. It is a sphere of pure, swirling silence—the Black Hole Mind. It breathes gravity, pulling at the seams of my flight suit, demanding I fold. I try to summon the old fire, to spark some resistance, but my anger manifests only as thin, fractured volleys of violet lightning. They strike the darkness and are instantly swallowed. I am tiny. I am insignificant. And I am being crushed by the density of everything I cannot escape. Be Creative and Innovative with Knowledge John Bennett - AKA JJFBbennett , is an independent artist. You can view and subscribe to my work via  Blogger , YouTube , Flicker , Facebook , Instagram and Deviant Art .  Subscribe to JJFBbennett's private FB hub:  https://www.facebook.com/share/g/18ythpSXPZ/ You can subscribe to my music via  YouTube Music , Spotif...

  Our Psycho-Mythic Descent Here we are Stuck inside this weave You and I Underneath a hum that's ever tightening down, down, down Ever tightening down. Through the glass As if in an ocean Waiting here Always failing to remember who we were, were, were I wonder who we were. You look at me But your eyes are empty In the dark With the silver metal blooming in your mind, mind, mind Blooming in your mind. And the storm Rages on the outside While we sleep Watching all the shattered fragments floating by, by, by Fragments floating by. Here we are Caught inside the amber You and me Leaving all the ghosts of who we used to be, be, be Who we used to be. Be Creative and Innovative with Knowledge John Bennett - AKA JJFBbennett , is an independent artist. You can view and subscribe to my work via  Blogger , YouTube , Flicker , Facebook , Instagram and Deviant Art .  Subscribe to JJFBbennett's private FB hub:  https://www.facebook.com/share/g/18ythpSXPZ/ You can subscribe t...

  I must break free Inside the pod, I arch and lash against the restraints. The hum thickens—translucent waves pressing me down. My motion meets mass. Sound becomes gravity. I hang there, suspended, until resistance teaches me stillness. Be Creative and Innovative with Knowledge John Bennett - AKA JJFBbennett , is an independent artist. You can view and subscribe to my work via  Blogger , YouTube , Flicker , Facebook , Instagram and Deviant Art .  Subscribe to JJFBbennett's private FB hub:  https://www.facebook.com/share/g/18ythpSXPZ/ You can subscribe to my music via  YouTube Music , Spotify , iTunes, Apple Music and Soundcloud To support my art, feel free to donate via JJFBbennett through PayPal    If you want to acquire JJFB's art creations as an NFT - John's Opensea NFT profile is https://opensea.io/JJFBbennett   Copyright This artwork is protected by U.S. and International copyright laws . Distribution and/or modification of the...

Situation - The Tempest’s Reflection JB , a spaceship pilot, has been placed into a cryo cocoon to revive and transform his life essence. Inside the cocoon, he experiences his mind as a "relentless tempest of clashing thoughts, swirling and churning, mirroring the furious chaos outside of the machine." JB also sees his older self trapped in the same transitory state. The Storm in my Looking Glass A cinematic close-up of JB’s face behind the curved glass of the cryo-cocoon . The glass reflects not the room but a "relentless tempest" of swirling dark clouds and lightning , symbolising his churning thoughts. In the storm's reflection, a ghostly older version of JB is visible, trapped and silent, mirroring the pilot's current state. Cryogenic Rejuvenation Chamber - Night This trapped specter is the true mirror of our pilot's current, suspended state: a mind caught between two ages, the man he was refusing to be silenced, terrified of the man he is about to ...

  Vision I - The Violet Firestorm Cryo Chamber — The Silent Scream Psychological isolation A lone cryo pod floating inside a dim spacecraft bay . Inside, a male space tourist is cocooned tightly in glowing nanofiber restraints , frozen mid-thrash.  JB's mouth is open in a scream that makes no sound. Cryogenic mist swirls like incense around him. Violet light leaks into the chamber from an unseen cosmic force , casting long shadows across the pod’s curved surface. The mood is mournful, ritualistic, and terrifyingly calm. Ultra-cinematic sci-fi , photorealistic detail , volumetric lighting , deep shadows. Full Assault — Violet Firestorm Explosive, internal chaos A surreal psychological vision: a male pilot encased in a glowing cocoon of nanoweave , thrashing violently as violet fire erupts around him. Flames are not literal fire but energy — psychic, electric, and cosmic — exploding from behind his eyes. The background collapses into a massive black-violet anomaly with swirl...

  Breathless Strapped in an Alien Cocoon The air... where is the air? The room is sucking it out. It’s blue. It’s cold. It’s the color of drowning. No... no, no, no. Don't touch me! Get it off! The linen... it’s shrinking! It’s sewing my skin together! I can’t... I can’t expand my chest! WAKE UP! MOVE! DAMN IT, MOVE! My hands! They’ve cut off my hands! Why can’t I reach the glass?! SOMEBODY HELP ME! Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. It’s tight. It’s a snake. It’s crushing my ribs. Tastes like copper... tastes like blood. BREAK! SHATTER! Why is there no sound?! I’m screaming my throat raw but the silence is eating me alive! BK! KATCHA! No! Don’t sleep! The needle... the ice! It’s killing the pilot! If I close my eyes, I unspool! I fall apart! Stay awake, you coward! STAY AWAKE! Spinning. Everything is spinning. The floor is gone. The gravity is wrong. I’m falling up! I’m falling into the black hole! LIES! That’s not real! That’s a ghost! My mind is snapping! I’m looking a...

  Piloting and despooling The reality of JB’s confinement is suffocating. The air inside is thin, hot, and heavy with the scent of his own fear. His flight suit, usually a second skin, feels like a lead weight. Through the visor, he sees the control panel—a blur of familiar red and green warnings pulsing just inches away. His fingers twitch, aching to override the sequence, but the shimmering silver nanoweave holds him in a vice grip.  He is a creature of action reduced to impotent stasis, staring at salvation he cannot touch. JB feels the phantom touch of ancient hands as they apply ceremonial linen over the nanoweave. The timeline collapses. He is no longer just a space tourist; he is a modern man drowning in the dust of the ancients, suspended in the liminal space between the cold silence of the cosmos and the heavy, golden air of the afterlife. As the pressure locks against his skull, the final thread snaps. It is the disintegration of the self. JB feels his history, his n...

  Puppet Master The narrow, high-walled passage swallowed the sound of my boot scraping a broken cobblestone, the echo sharp in the dry air. Above, a sliver of unforgiving sunlight cut down, carving deep shadows where the damp, mossy scent of the gully was now replaced by the smell of dust and ancient stone. I paused, looking not just at my gloved hand—the leather scuffed from my descent, but at what was attached to it. Thin, nearly invisible lines, like high-tensile wires , stretched from the articulated cuff on my wrist and disappeared into the air above the path. I tracked them with my eyes until they converged on a small, stone figure standing motionless in the centre of the walkway. It was a crude marionette , barely a foot tall, carved from the same pale, cracked stone as the surrounding walls. Dressed in a simple tunic, its blank, oval face held a radiating sense of expectant waiting. Its arms were held out, palms up. I held the strings. Yet, the feeling was not one of cont...

  Scene 1 It smells like… time down here. Not just damp earth or rot, but something older. A primal scent that’s been waiting in the dark for a millennium. I’m recording this at the bottom of the scar somewhere in the anomaly. In my mind, it's called the Necropolis Gully . My helmet is trying to map it—casting these sterile, digital grids over the moss and the stone—but the data doesn’t make sense. It’s glitching. It’s shuddering against the reality of this place. I don't know why I'm here, looking at ruins. Just... debris. But in the ruins, I found the ghosts of a future that never happened. I was walking over shards of polymerised memories . This was once a city.  It was meant to be the heart of a new world that... simply stopped. It wasn't an engineering failure. It was a failure of existence. Holding that slate, I felt this... weight. The grief of the architect. The "wounds of unbuilt dreams." I realised then that this isn't a graveyard for people. It’...