LUCCIAN LAYTH
Bio
L.LUCCIAN is a writer, poet and philosopher who delves into the unseen. He produces metaphysical contemplation that delineates the line between thinking and living. Inever write to tellsomethingaboutlife,but silences aremyway ofhearing it.
Stories (29)
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Why Most Productivity Apps Fail to Improve Focus
Why Most Productivity Apps Fail to Improve Focus Productivity apps promise clarity. They offer systems, dashboards, timers, checklists, and endless customization. Yet despite their abundance, distraction remains the defining condition of modern work. This failure isn't accidental—it's a design problem rooted in many, though not all, productivity tools.
By LUCCIAN LAYTH14 days ago in 01
The Painter of the Void
Dedication To the unknown creators, the artists who spill their blood upon canvas, the writers who pour their souls onto pages, the musicians who translate their inner torments into melodies—this book is dedicated to you. To those who understand the exquisite pain of creation, the terrifying beauty of exposure, and the persistent pull of the shadow-self that lurks at the edge of every masterpiece.
By LUCCIAN LAYTH18 days ago in BookClub
Standing While Falling. Top Story - January 2026.
Quotation from Friedrich Nietzsche "He who wrestles long with monsters should beware lest he himself become a monster. And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you. Man is not destroyed by suffering, but by the meaning he makes of it."
By LUCCIAN LAYTH26 days ago in Critique
What the Rain Told Me
Emotional fragmentation I want to talk about the rain. I do not know what has happened to me, why I opened my note and began to do this, to manifest in order to write about raining. It must be a rainy day. It was cloudy when I got up earlier although I appeared happy as well. When it cries it tears up the sky. I hear each and every drop drop. All of them were stories, a fact, a betrayal, a sorrow, existing in a world in which the clouds grow blacker every time it has seen something. I hear it grumble, and cry, though screaming. Thunder , A bulletproof song a blur in your head is seen. A world is revealed in the scene, a situation of a drummer who was making me nod my head, and listen to a plan. I would hope we might live without so real and too seen a dream. Watch brothers and sisters drink water, praise God on that branch of life. A group of idiots has to be killed or cursed with internal pain. The light penetrates the heart, and in between there are roses. To the beat and the movement, a stream in the ground soon moulds the figure of the new living. it must be a leaf, a loop.
By LUCCIAN LAYTH3 months ago in Poets
Lost Between Mirrors and Time
Here Luccian Layth is reflecting on what the self may be re-refracted in its mirror, between trial and betrayal, between inner death and inner light, the existential question takes place towards eternity, nothingness, and the Creator. It is a poetic excursion, between suspicion and definite affirmation, between obscurity and radiance, in which the way itself is the creature and the creature is the way.
By LUCCIAN LAYTH3 months ago in Writers
"The Resident of Pain"
I am not a blank page, but the remains of a book which was not written and burned. To me no explanation wants... I have no presumptions about necessitating explanation. I am in this sound which has not softened. and the features that have not been made to smile. I do not tidy up my mess, but leave it a monument of what I have experienced. Any of my silences is a tale, and everything in my eyes turns the temporal and superficial. I am not a passer-by of pain... but a resident of it, I know it as I know my name... And I purchase it as picking up an ugly fate. I do not seek salvation, or raise my head towards the sky. I am the son of the heavy earth, and sister of primeval solitude. I already know something about darkness, and I shake my hands with it every single night and never tremble... and I know how to stare at it without asking to be lit... I am no beast that could be argued... but perceived... and feared.
By LUCCIAN LAYTH3 months ago in Poets
The First Night: A Symphony of Collapse
Nothing... My surroundings are all in the dark. There is no escape Only an eternal solitude, But here, this world is very close though. I have a fine veil around me... Thongs of black and white, red. And at times, grey. I do not know where to flee, This is the whirlpool of the time, Sucking at the ringing of our bones. We, the race of humans Not angels, not beasts But he, man, lost in his bubble dreams, Walking creations of trembling fancies. And yet… Our layer is depth insulated. There we were buried in the rubble. Some of us Their hearts had simply dissipated. So how am I to know? I am but a human like you. I’ve wandered. I’ve mistaken. I’ve been wounded. My blood has been her instead of tears. Still, my voice runs dry, However, my veins are sore, However, my blood satisfies the thirst Of my body, And still… My scars gather themselves. I live yet under the rubble. My voice keeps on passing out in the wind. Not silent, But loud… Appeals to the souls, already dead, And others… Lost.
By LUCCIAN LAYTH3 months ago in Poets
