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The Svart Heritage

"Svart" means black in Norwegian. Our black heritage is the obscurity we carry within. You'll always find me exploring that abyss. Enter, if you will.

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Showing posts from September, 2025

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The Testament of a Pathetic Man

on September 26, 2025

#shortstory #story #testamentofapatheticman #patheticman

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Dreams V: THE LIONESS CUB

on September 17, 2025

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WEDNESDAY'S SEASON 2: AT LEAST THERE WAS A PLOT TO POKE HOLES IN

on September 06, 2025

#wednesdayso2review #wednesdayso2

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Histoire de ma vie

I've never wanted to be a writer. Ever since I was a kid my teachers in school would insist I was good at it but I hated it. Writing felt like the perfect box to put a shy, antisocial child who could never survive in the world. It cringed me. 20 years later, in 2024, I was still miraculously surviving. I understood I couldn't restrain from writing, even though I am not, and never will be, a writer.

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(ENG, FR) Nos ancêtres, ou comme un roman italien a presque tué un homme dans la jungle

❤FELLOW ANGLOPHONES, I KNOW THIS SOUNDS INTIMIDATING, BUT I AM TRYING TO GET INTO A FRENCH UNIVERSITY HERE SO... FEAR NOT, FOR THERE IS (or there will be, very soon, I promise) AN ENGLISH VERSION BELOW👇 Timor, Indonésie "Pardonnez-moi mon français" est une expression idiomatique italienne utilisée lorsqu'on tient des discours inappropriés ou utilise des gros mots. Dans mon cas, j'ai écouté un podcast qui était un compte rendu d'une expérience presque fatale, dans lequel on a vu un romancier italien et un romancier lyonnais. À cette toile d'araignée, j'ai ajouté de l'anthropologie, de la psychologie cognitive et un peu plus de littérature. Dans cette spirale, la seule indécence dont je m'excuse est le chaos de la matière. Nos ancêtres: la littérature peut-elle nous mettre en péril? Italo Calvino, romancier italien Récemment, pour améliorer mon français et me préparer à une expérience universitaire en France, j'ai écouté un très bon podcast. C...

"My door is always open"- a poem

Vilhelm Hammershoi ❤: I won't say much, but this story is inspired by a true accident. Like my memory of it, it's dysharmonic and overabundant. Down in New York's most forgotten suburbs, mom was a pot left on the stovetop with the gas on; Brad was a ventilator. He blew on the flame so much that it cut off, as the gas continued to fill the room. Two different distractions, two fatal casualties. Both went away. Anyone could smell the gas from a distance. But I was doors and windows, closed shut into the suffocating ambience. We were the only ones inside. When we were saved, the police insisted on the danger. A little girl was trapped inside. Nobody. You cried at the thought of near-death. All your dreams in a parade straining away from you. You can't follow them because you don't have wheels. A sofa. An armchair. You've always wanted to visit Europe, but now it looks too many accidents away from you. I wanted the depths of Africa, but how could I deal with th...

Rechercher la finesse de la langue avec un poème, III

Je dors un sommeil éternel à intervalles. Cela commence par un tournement de tête, puis je m'étends, le lit rafraîchissant sur ma peau brûlante, et je dors. De jour en jour, parfois des mois passent. Ce qui m'étonne est qu'autour de moi J'entends le bruit, touffé: des amis qui rient, des avions qui partent La basse qui joue, profonde -L'appel d'un monde musical. Moi- les paupiers doucement serrés- je transpire: La chaleur étouffante de ma coune maléfique! Mais je ne peux pas me réveiller! Je ne peux pas toucher mes dépouilles sacrées! Et comme ça je me repose, un sommeil éternel à intermittence, Jusqu'avant le sommeil final !

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