Jack Andersson

At the End of Everything ”La muerte no llega con la vejez, sino con el olvido.” — Gabriel García Marquez A myth of the dreamer, the poet, and the fool—dead and reborn. Read more… https://write.as/jackandersson/at-the-end-of-everything/ #poetry #poetrycommunity #writing #writingcommunity #psychography #automaticwriting #autofiction #novella #diary #storytelling #myth #akashicrecords #scifi #sciencefiction #neonoir #dystopia #utopia #fascism #anarchism #transhumanism #shamanism #futurism #luciddreaming #dreaming #clairvoyance #cryptesthesia #telepathy #consciousness #collectiveunconscious #femmefatale #transgender #oneironaut #poet #writer #author #dreamer #fool

At the End of Everything ”La muerte no llega con la vejez, sino con el olvido.” — Gabriel García Marquez At the End of Everything moves outside familiar narrative lines. It unfolds through memory, dream, and shifting perception, guided less by plot than by an inward current that circles, fractures, and briefly clarifies. At its center are Jack and Lya, lovers bound by a quiet tension within a world that feels both recognizable and slightly unmoored. Scenes recur in altered form; moments echo rather than resolve. Meaning gathers gradually, through accumulation instead of progression. The experience may unsettle. That, too, is part of its intention. The form follows the instability it reflects, yet beneath the fragmentation runs a steady refusal of numbness—a commitment to emotional candor even as coherence thins. https://write.as/jackandersson/at-the-end-of-everything #poetry #poetrycommunity #writing #writingcommunity #prose #storytelling #automaticwriting #psychography #autofiction #scifi #sciencefiction #anarchism #transhumanism #fascism #dystopia #telepathy #empathy #cryptesthesia #clairvoyance #poet #author #writer

I’m Jack. Swedish indiepoet, anarchist, and full-time literary troublemaker. Born in 1965—or 2165, depending on your cosmic calendar. I surfaced from a vacuum somewhere off-grid “på Dal,” in the Valley—a forested corner of western Sweden, brushing the Norwegian edge of things. Now I keep watch on a rugged Ukrainian island off Odeshchyna’s southwestern shore. In the salt winds of Gypsy Corner Bay we’ve raised “Nove Sonce”—New Sun—where anarchism and poetry carve their signatures into stone. A subliminal haven for the restless. Avant-garde? Perhaps. True? Only in parallel realms. Three books of poetry have appeared in Swedish, signed with my full earthly name—John Douglas—the whole formal incantation of it. They already exist in English, translated and waiting; perhaps, in some distant season, when lost hope finds its orbit, they will step forward and speak again. Some call me an “unpoet”—or, more accurately, a writer of “unpoetry.” I can only assume that means I’m either too far ahead of my time or hopelessly lost in it. But let’s be clear: I don’t write unpoetry. I just write—letting language wander through the void. The prefix “un”—that small act of defiance—once fueled the “unartists” of the sixties who declared life itself the work. Life as Art—Art as Life. Beautiful heretics. Unnamed. Unmade. Undone. Somewhere out there they’re still drifting—cosmic visionaries in faded tie-dye, preaching tenderness while tending their semi-automatic machine guns. #introduction