Hypnagogic dreams and Night terrors - Similarities and differences

 

Seein' things. The New York Public Library Digital Collections, 1904

For some of us, bedtime might be or look like the quietest part of the day, but the mind doesn’t always follow the script. Two of the strangest nighttime experiences - hypnagogic dreams and night terrors - show just how unpredictable the borders of sleep can be. Both can be vivid, unsettling, and hard to explain, but they come from different stages of the night and carry different meanings in psychology. Let’s step into this twilight zone between calm rest and unsettling visions.

What are Hypnagogic dreams?

Hypnagogic dreams appear in the very first stretch of sleep, during the transition from wakefulness into slumber. The name comes from the word hypnagogia, that drifting, hazy state when your thoughts start slipping into dream-like images.

• They often happen when you’re chronically tired, stressed, or ill.

• The imagery can be vivid, fragmented, and sometimes strange enough to feel more like hallucinations than dreams.

• They usually last a short while, but they can feel drawn out - 20 to 30 minutes is not unusual.

• Many people report them ending suddenly, with a jolt awake or a sense of falling.

These experiences can be fascinating or frightening. Imagine lying down exhausted and suddenly finding yourself seeing shapes, hearing voices, or falling into a scenario that seems real - until it snaps off in an instant.

What are Night terrors?

Night terrors, on the other hand, belong to a very different category of sleep phenomena. They usually occur during deep non-REM sleep (often in the first few hours of the night). Unlike nightmares—which occur in REM sleep and are remembered as stories - night terrors are more primal and physical.

• A person may sit up, scream, thrash, or appear terrified, but remain completely asleep.

• Unlike hypnagogic dreams, night terrors are often not remembered in detail the next morning.

• They are more common in children, though adults can experience them too, especially under stress.

• Episodes can last a few minutes but feel longer to anyone witnessing them.

In short: night terrors are outwardly dramatic, while hypnagogic dreams are inwardly vivid.

Photo by Manuel Bonadeo

Similarities between Hypnagogic dreams and Night terrors

Despite their differences, there are overlaps that can make them confusing:

1. Timing in the night - Both tend to happen in the early part of sleep, not toward morning like classic REM nightmares.

2. Triggers - Stress, exhaustion, and illness can increase the chance of both.

3. Intensity - Whether inward (hypnagogic) or outward (night terrors), both can feel much more extreme than an ordinary dream.

4. Emotional weight - Fear, confusion, and a sense of unease are common after either experience.

It’s easy to see how someone could wake from a hypnagogic dream in a panic and mistake it for a night terror, or vice versa.

Differences that matter

But the differences are just as important:

• Awareness - Hypnagogic dreams are more like surreal experiences you can remember vividly. Night terrors often leave little to no memory.

• Body vs. mind - Night terrors are physical, with shouting or moving around. Hypnagogic dreams are more mental and internal.

• Stage of sleep - Hypnagogic dreams occur as you’re falling asleep, night terrors during deep non-REM sleep.

• Age factor - Hypnagogic dreams can happen to anyone, but night terrors are much more common in children.

Think of it this way: hypnagogic dreams are like your brain running wild on the way into sleep, while night terrors are your body sounding alarms in the middle of deep rest.

Everyday and cultural examples

Writers and artists have often taken inspiration from these states. Hypnagogic dreams, for instance, resemble those fleeting images you might get when nodding off during a lecture or while sick in bed—half dream, half reality. Many creative people, like Salvador Dalí for example, reportedly used this state to spark ideas.

Night terrors, however, echo something more primal. They look like ancient fear breaking through, as if the body is acting out a survival response without the mind’s involvement. It’s no wonder folklore across cultures speaks of demons or spirits sitting on the chest at night - attempts to explain experiences that felt real but left little memory. Night terrors and nightmares blend and are often an inspiration of an incredible artistic achievements. One of the most famous artistic interpretations of that sensation is Henry Fuseli’s 18th-century painting The Nightmare, with its heavy, dream-demon sitting on a sleeping woman’s chest. The image captures exactly the mix of helplessness and dread that night terrors can cause.

Corner portrait, Photos_frompasttofuture

Why they fascinate and scare us

Psychologists study hypnagogic dreams to better understand the blurry border between waking thought and dreaming. Neuroscientists look at night terrors as clues to how the brain cycles through non-REM and REM sleep. These states can be a reminders that sleep is not just a rest - it can be a whole other, frightening landscape of the mind, and a place of terror or unease.

The myth of Lucifer

 Photo by Adrian Rosco Stef

Few figures in myths and religions changed on the surface but kept most of their essential meanings as much as Lucifer. For some, he’s the fallen angel of Christian tradition, cast out of heaven. For others, he’s a symbol of enlightenment, rebellion, or even misunderstood heroism. But if we peel back the layers of history, we find that Lucifer isn’t a single figure at all—he’s a mosaic built from fragments of older myths, reinterpretations, and cultural needs.

The Morning Star in Antiquity

The name “Lucifer” originally had nothing to do with Satan. In Latin, it simply meant “light-bringer” and referred to the planet Venus when it appears in the morning sky. The Greeks called it Phosphoros or Eosphoros, also meaning “light-bringer.” It was a poetic way to talk about the beauty of dawn.

Venus, photo by Zoltan Tasi

Over time, this celestial body became a metaphor. A bright star rising and then fading—what better image for ambition, hope, or even tragic downfall? The biblical prophet Isaiah used “morning star” in a taunt against a fallen Babylonian king, and centuries later, Christian interpreters read it as a reference to a rebellious angel. Thus, Lucifer was born from a linguistic twist: a planet mistaken for a person, a metaphor reshaped into myth.

Echoes of older gods

If Lucifer represents rebellion or opposition, he stands in a long line of mythic figures who played similar roles:

• Seth in Egypt – rival to Osiris, breaker of order, often feared yet essential in cosmic balance.

• Prometheus in Greece – defier of Zeus, bringer of fire and knowledge to humanity, punished for his gift.

• Osiris himself – though a victim of Seth, he symbolizes death and rebirth, another cycle of fall and return.

Lucifer can be seen as a fusion of these mythic roles: challenger, bringer of forbidden wisdom, and symbol of downfall followed by transformation. Each culture projected its own anxieties and desires into such figures. For the Egyptians, Seth represented the chaos of the desert; for the Greeks, Prometheus embodied the dangerous thrill of human progress. For Christianity, Lucifer came to embody pride, rebellion, and the risks of seeking power equal to God.

From angel to devil

The shift from “morning star” to devilish figure came gradually. By the early centuries of Christianity, Church Fathers like Jerome and Augustine connected Isaiah’s “morning star” with Satan’s fall from heaven. Milton’s Paradise Lost later gave this figure his most famous literary form: a proud angel who would “rather reign in Hell than serve in Heaven.”

This Lucifer wasn’t simply evil. He was tragic, even charismatic—a figure readers could almost sympathize with. That ambiguity is precisely why he endures: he speaks to both fear of rebellion and admiration for defiance.

Lucifer in modern occult traditions

By the 19th and 20th centuries, Lucifer had taken on new meanings. Occultists and esoteric writers began to reclaim him, not as a devil, but as a symbol of enlightenment. Aleister Crowley, for example, blended Lucifer with Prometheus, celebrating him as a figure of illumination and freedom from dogma. In works like his poem Hymn to Lucifer, Crowley reframed the light-bringer as a symbol of creativity, passion, and resistance against moral rigidity.

In these circles, “Luciferian” doesn’t mean devil-worship—it means honoring curiosity, independence, and the pursuit of hidden knowledge. The myth shifted again: from fallen angel to bringer of fire, knowledge, and artistic inspiration.

Pop culture’s Lucifer

Lucifer has been just as busy in film, music, and art as he has in theology. Kenneth Anger’s Lucifer Rising (1972) turned him into an icon of mystical rebellion, mixing Egyptian imagery with 1960s counterculture. More recently, comic books, Lucifer TV series, and even pop songs present him as charming, witty, or misunderstood—a far cry from the horned demon of medieval imagination.

Even mainstream entertainment plays with this dual image. Sometimes he’s the ultimate villain, other times he’s the rebel we secretly root for. This flexibility keeps him alive in the cultural imagination.

Human hands in rituals and pop culture: Sacred symbols and horror icons

 

Person raising both hands, photo by Nahid Hatami

The hand as a symbol of power

When you think about it, hands are one of the most expressive parts of our body. They can show a sign, a  signal, comfort us, threaten, bless, or reject. Across history, this symbolic weight made them central in rituals. A raised hand often meant authority, as if channeling strength from beyond. In ancient Rome, emperors were depicted with their right hand raised, a gesture of control and command. In many cultures, the palm was marked with paint, ash, or blood to show connection with the sacred.

The hand wasn’t just an object—it was a tool to link the physical and the spiritual. Tracing a handprint on stone or raising palms in prayer created a visible sign of belief. Even today, you’ll see politicians or priests lifting a hand to call for attention, echoing traditions of power, thousands of years old.

Hamsa hand, photo by Ripley Elisabeth Brown

Rituals of protection and fear

The open palm has long been a defense against evil. In the Middle East and North Africa, the Hamsa hand—often an open palm with an eye in the center—was carried as protection against the “evil eye.” Its meaning spread into Jewish and Islamic traditions, where it symbolized divine watchfulness and safety.

At the same time, hands could be symbols of fear. In medieval Europe, the severed hand was a punishment and a warning. To lose a hand meant to lose honor and power. It is no coincidence that stories of witches often mention hands stirring potions, casting curses, or leaving claw-like marks. Rituals involving hands always balanced between healing and harm.

Hands in folk traditions

If we turn to oral traditions, the hand is everywhere. Folk healers placed hands on wounds to “draw out” sickness. Palmistry—reading the lines of the palm—spread across Europe and Asia as a way to predict someone’s future. Even if most people didn’t fully believe in it, the idea that your hand could “reveal your destiny” remained fascinating.

Epic poetry and myths also made the hand a measure of strength. Heroes crush enemies with bare hands or leave bloody handprints as signs of victory. The hand is not just flesh—it becomes proof of human will and force.

Freddy Krueger - toy collection, photo by Kike Borland

From sacred rituals to today's pop culture icons

Fast forward to modern times, and the hand still carries its old weight—but now in different costumes. Think about horror films. In A Nightmare on Elm Street, Freddy Krueger’s glove with blades turns the human hand into a terrifying symbol. The claws remind us of primal fears—being hunted, being torn apart by an animal. But the fact that it’s a human hand controlling them makes it worse, mixing human intent with predatory violence.

Or take Evil Dead II, where Ash’s possessed hand attacks him. The scene is grotesque and funny, yet it taps into the idea that our own hand—something we control—could turn against us, which is also a frightening thought. This reversal of roles echoes older fears found in rituals: that what gives life can also take it away.

Hands also appear in modern pop culture as gateways to other worlds. The recent horror film Talk to Me centers on a ceramic hand used in a ritual to summon spirits. The object is fictional, but it plays on real traditions where a hand connects the living and the dead. What makes it effective in film is how familiar and intimate a hand is—we all know its touch, so seeing it linked to the supernatural feels unsettling.

Street photography, Berlin, Germany, 2001

Symbols of rebellion

Even outside horror, hands appear as signs of rebellion or solidarity. Raised fists in protests, or hands joined in concerts and rallies, show collective strength. These gestures might not be labeled as rituals, but they work in the same way: channeling human energy into a symbol everyone understands. So in these cases we come back to the element of power - here hand again becomes the symbol of power, but it's a different kind, usually against injustice and corruptive authority.

The psychology of touch

From a psychological perspective, hands and palms are central to how we connect with others. A handshake, a pat on the back, or the intertwining of fingers tells us more than words often can. Studies in human biology and psychology show that skin-to-skin contact lowers stress and strengthens social bonds. That may explain why rituals involving hands—blessings, vows, greetings—are nearly universal across cultures.

Even today, when someone says, “I’ve got it in hand,” we understand instinctively: it means control, readiness, or competence. Our language remembers the deep link between hands and human identity.

Why the hand still matters

What makes human hands and palms so enduring in rituals and culture? Maybe it’s their duality. They can comfort and destroy, give and take, protect and threaten. That’s why they remain such powerful images across belief systems and pop culture. Whether carved into cave walls, lifted in prayer, or turned into Freddy Krueger’s weapon, the hand never loses its meaning.

And here’s the thought I can’t escape: every time we clap, wave, or raise a hand, we’re repeating motions that once had sacred weight. So we still carry fragments of those rituals in everyday life without realizing it.

Collective Consciousness: Psychology, sociology, and living traditions

 

Sculptures, Trude Jonsson Stangel

What do we mean by collective consciousness?

The phrase collective consciousness sounds abstract, but in practice it’s simple: it’s the set of shared ideas, values, and stories that tie people together. It’s the invisible thread that lets individuals feel part of something larger than themselves, whether that “something” is a village, a nation, or even humanity as a whole.

In psychology, it shows up in how shared experiences shape memory and identity. In sociology, it’s about how communities and societies hold together. Either way, it’s a way of asking: How do we end up thinking, feeling, and remembering together?

The sociological lens

Émile Durkheim, one of the founders of sociology, made collective consciousness central to his work. He saw it as the glue holding societies together. Without it, he believed, individuals would drift apart into chaos.

Durkheim pointed to rituals, traditions, and moral codes as the main carriers of this shared awareness. A community gathering for a harvest festival isn’t just having fun—it’s silently reaffirming its identity. Everyone leaves the event feeling a little more like part of the whole.

  Emile Durkheim

Modern sociology often traces this idea into new forms: television, mass media, and today, social networks. A viral image or meme can function almost like a mini-ritual, instantly uniting people around the same joke, symbol, or cause.

The psychological side

Psychologists often look at collective consciousness in terms of shared memories and emotions. When a community faces something momentous—a war, a disaster, or even a celebration—its members don’t just remember individually. They create a collective memory, a mental anchor that can last for generations.

Think about how people describe historical events like the fall of the Berlin Wall or September 11. Even those who weren’t alive at the time often speak of them as if they carry some part of the memory. That’s because these moments sink into the collective awareness of entire societies, shaping identity in ways both subtle and obvious.

Oral traditions: Stories as carriers of collective memory

If you want to see collective consciousness at work, look at oral traditions. Long before books or writing, communities relied on stories, songs, and poems to carry their values and history.

One of the oldest examples is The Epic of Gilgamesh, from ancient Mesopotamia. This tale of a king seeking immortality wasn’t just literature—it was a cultural mirror, showing what its society thought about friendship, mortality, and the meaning of life. In its time, it played the same role as a communal story passed around a fire, only now preserved in clay tablets.

We see similar roles in other epics:

• The Iliad and The Odyssey in ancient Greece, shaping ideas of honor, war, and adventure.

• The Kalevala in Finland, a 19th-century compilation of oral poems that became a cornerstone of national identity.

• Serbian epic poetry, performed to the sound of the one-stringed gusle instrument, keeping alive the memory of battles, heroes, and values across centuries.

What unites all these examples is that they weren’t just stories for entertainment. They were the way entire communities carried their identity forward, generation after generation.

Literary traditions

When these oral traditions get written down, they change form but keep their function. Gilgamesh became part of world literature, Homer’s poems became foundational texts of Western education, and Serbian epics were collected in the 19th century during national awakenings.

Once in writing, these works gain permanence—but they also invite reinterpretation. Each generation reads them differently. For some, The Epic of Gilgamesh is about mortality; for others, it’s about power and responsibility. The same is true for Homer or Serbian epics: they can be war stories, moral lessons, or even just cultural pride, depending on the needs of the time.

Collective consciousness in modern culture

It’s easy to think of collective consciousness as belonging to the past, but it’s alive in modern forms too. Pop songs can become generational markers. Movies and TV series shape how people imagine the world, sometimes more powerfully than textbooks. Even internet culture—with its memes, trends, and shared references—creates a kind of instant collective awareness.

Sometimes it’s lighthearted, like everyone repeating a catchphrase from a TV show. Other times it’s deeply serious, like global reactions to major political or humanitarian events. The speed has changed, but the mechanism—the building of shared thought—remains the same.

Why it matters?

Collective consciousness is easy to overlook because it doesn’t always feel like something we choose. But it’s what makes communities hold together. It’s why people hundreds of years apart can feel moved by the same story, or why strangers on the internet can feel connected by a single shared image.

And there’s a fascinating paradox here: while we often think of ourselves as individuals, much of what we value and remember comes from this shared reservoir. Our favorite songs, our national legends, even the jokes we pass around are pieces of a bigger picture.

Déjà Vu: The strange glitch in our minds or something more?

 

A couple of black cats sitting next to each other, Viktor Talashuk

That odd feeling of repetition

You’ve probably had it happen: you walk into a room, hear someone speak, or glance at a scene, and suddenly it feels as though you’ve been there before. But you know you haven’t. That unsettling yet oddly familiar sensation is known as Déjà Vu.

Most people shrug it off as just a brain hiccup, but it’s more fascinating than that. Scientists, psychologists, and philosophers have been trying to explain it for centuries. Is it a trick of memory? A glitch in perception? Or something stranger, as mystics once suggested? Let’s explore the phenomenon in detail, blending psychology, neuroscience, and a little bit of cultural history.

What does Déjà Vu mean?

The term comes from French and translates literally as “already seen.” It was first popularized by the philosopher and psychic researcher Émile Boirac in the late 19th century. Before that, people certainly felt it but didn’t have a tidy word for the experience.

     Émile Boirac in 1917

Déjà Vu usually lasts just a few seconds. It arrives suddenly, gives you the eerie sense of recognition in a new situation, and fades as quickly as it came. Importantly, it’s not just about memory—it’s about false memory, that mismatch between what your brain tells you and what you logically know.

Psychology and memory

From the perspective of psychology, Déjà Vu often points back to how memory works. Memory is not a perfect recording device; it’s more like a reconstruction process. Each time we recall something, we rebuild it from bits and pieces stored in the brain.

Some psychologists argue that Déjà Vu happens when there’s a brief overlap between short-term and long-term memory. For example:

• You process an experience a split second late, and by the time you consciously notice it, your brain registers it as “already stored.”

• Another theory suggests that a familiar element—like a smell, a sound, or even the layout of a room—triggers the memory system, creating a false sense of recognition.

In either case, the psychology of Déjà Vu suggests it’s less about premonition and more about the quirks of how humans store and retrieve experiences.

The neuroscience angle

Moving into neuroscience, the picture gets even more interesting. Researchers have studied Déjà Vu using brain scans and by examining patients with epilepsy, since the phenomenon sometimes appears before seizures.

Key insights include:

• Temporal lobe connection: The temporal lobe, especially the hippocampus, is central to memory formation. Overactivation in these areas can produce feelings of familiarity, even when the situation is new.

• Misfiring signals: Some scientists suggest Déjà Vu may come from a momentary “misfire,” where two neural pathways activate at once—one for present perception and one for memory.

• Healthy brains too: Although it’s linked with epilepsy in research, Déjà Vu is common in perfectly healthy people. Roughly 60–80% of adults report experiencing it at least once.

In other words, Déjà Vu could be your brain testing and cross-checking memory systems, a kind of self-audit that occasionally produces a strange sensation.

Déjà Vu through history

While psychology and neuroscience give us scientific explanations, Déjà Vu has long fascinated people outside of science. In earlier centuries, before the vocabulary of neurology existed, such experiences were often explained in spiritual or mystical terms.

• In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, spiritualists interpreted Déjà Vu as evidence of past lives or psychic sensitivity.

• Ancient traditions sometimes framed it as a glimpse of destiny or divine repetition.

Though these interpretations don’t hold up scientifically, they highlight how universal and unsettling the experience can feel.

Everyday examples: When does it happen?

Most people notice Déjà Vu in everyday, casual settings. You might experience it when:

• Walking into a new café and feeling as if you’ve been there before.

• Hearing someone say a sentence in exactly the way you imagined it once.

• Traveling to a new city yet sensing the streets look oddly familiar.

The feeling is usually gone within seconds, replaced by curiosity—or sometimes a shiver down your spine.

Pop culture and Déjà Vu

Because the phenomenon is so strange and relatable, it often shows up in popular culture:

• Movies: The Matrix (1999) famously used Déjà Vu—symbolized by a black cat repeating its movement—as a sign that the simulated world had been altered.

• Music: Artists from Iron Maiden to Beyoncé have songs titled “Déjà Vu,” using the concept as a metaphor for repeated emotions or cycles of life.

• Literature: Writers from Charles Dickens to Proust hinted at experiences resembling Déjà Vu long before the term was common.

The use of Déjà Vu in pop culture often leans on its eerie, glitch-in-the-system feeling, making it a perfect metaphor for repetition, fate, or hidden realities.

Interesting facts about Déjà Vu

Here are a few lesser-known details that add flavor to the topic:

• Younger people tend to report it more often than older people, suggesting it may be tied to the brain’s developing memory systems.

• Stress and fatigue can increase the likelihood of Déjà Vu, possibly because the brain is more prone to processing “slips” when tired.

• There’s a flip side called jamais vu, where something familiar suddenly feels strange and unfamiliar—the opposite experience.

Why we keep talking about it?

The fascination with Déjà Vu isn’t just about curiosity—it taps into deeper questions about how memory defines our sense of reality. When your brain misfires, even for a second, you realize how fragile the line is between what’s real and what’s remembered.

It also connects psychology and neuroscience with everyday human experience. You don’t need to be a neuroscientist to notice the odd, fleeting déjà vu sensation—it’s a shared puzzle that touches almost everyone.

So what is Déjà Vu, really? The best current answer is that it’s a small but revealing quirk of the brain, born from the way memory and perception sometimes overlap. Psychology frames it as a slip in how we store experience. Neuroscience suggests it’s a quick surge or misfire in the temporal lobe. And history shows us that people have always been intrigued by it, from philosophers to musicians.

Lovecraft and Fractal Geometry: Infinite patterns in strange worlds

 

A mandlebulb fractal, Brendan Sapp

 

Introduction: When literature meets mathematics

Sometimes ideas from very different corners of human thought seem to meet in the middle. H.P. Lovecraft, who wrote his unsettling tales of cosmic horror in the early 20th century, never lived to see the usage of the term fractal geometry, a branch of mathematics that really began to develop in the 1970s through the work of Benoît Mandelbrot. And yet, when you place Lovecraft’s descriptions of alien cities and impossible landscapes next to the shapes we now call fractals, the connection feels immediate.

Why does it work so well? Is it just coincidence, or is there something in the way our minds respond to patterns that makes both Lovecraft’s writing and fractal geometry point toward the same sense of mystery? Let’s walk through these strange similarities.

What is Fractal Geometry?

Fractal geometry studies shapes and patterns that repeat endlessly, no matter how closely you look. A good example is a coastline: from far away, it’s jagged. Zoom in on a small section, and it still looks jagged in almost the same way. That repeating, self-similar quality is at the heart of fractals.

Unlike classical geometry, which deals with circles, triangles, and squares, fractals often appear irregular, rough, or infinitely detailed. The famous Mandelbrot set is a perfect example: generated from a simple formula, yet filled with spirals, tendrils, and smaller copies of itself that go on forever.

When you think about it, doesn’t that endless repetition feel like something out of Lovecraft’s imagination—structures or beings that stretch into infinity, beyond our ability to comprehend them?

 Howard Philips Lovecraft, June 1934

Lovecraft’s Non-Euclidean Geometry

Anyone who has read Lovecraft will remember his fascination with what he called non-Euclidean geometry. In The Call of Cthulhu, sailors stumble upon a city where angles behave in ways that simply don’t exist in the human world. In At the Mountains of Madness, explorers in Antarctica find ancient ruins with proportions so vast and so strange that their senses falter.

Lovecraft wasn’t using “non-Euclidean” in a strict mathematical way. For him, it was a description for geometry so alien and unnatural that it couldn’t be fitting within normal human experience, which was fitting within his fascinating worlds. Yet this idea, of spaces that twist and repeat in ways that don’t fit our intuition, sits very close to the feeling that fractal geometry can give.

Overlaps between Lovecraft and Fractal Geometry

So how exactly do these two worlds—Lovecraft’s horror and fractal geometry—speak to each other? A few clear overlaps stand out:

1. Infinity

Lovecraft’s monsters and settings are endless in scale: whether it’s the vast void of space or the immeasurable and indescribable bodies of the Old Ones.

Fractals reveal infinite detail. You can zoom forever and never reach the end.

2. Alien Shapes

Lovecraft’s beings are often described as impossible to fit into human categories, with tentacles, ridges, and branching forms that break anatomy.

Fractal images naturally produce branching trees, curling shells, and shapes that look alive yet unnatural.

3. The Sublime

Lovecraft’s stories are built on the terror of the unknown—the shock of facing something too big for the human mind's comprehension.

Fractals strike a similar chord: simple equations that give rise to patterns so intricate they feel overwhelming.

Lovecraft's literary passages that feel “Fractal”

It’s one thing to talk in theory, but let’s look at a few examples in Lovecraft’s stories that sound almost fractal-like in hindsight:

R’lyeh in The Call of Cthulhu: The city of Cthulhu rises from the sea with alien proportions, endless in its scale, with angles that repeat and twist. Many readers imagine it as something close to a fractal city—spirals within spirals, towers that echo each other at different scales.

The ruins in At the Mountains of Madness: The Antarctic city of the Old Ones is built with layers of repeating structures, from murals to tunnels to halls within halls. It feels recursive, as if exploring it means falling deeper into the same structure over and over.

The growth in The Colour Out of Space: The alien “colour” spreads through the land in creeping, branching forms. Its spread resembles fractal diffusion—an organic growth that repeats itself in unpredictable but familiar ways.

 3D fractal render, Caden Torney

Why does this connection resonates with us

Of course, Lovecraft never knew about the concrete term of fractal geometry. But the reason the connection feels so strong is that both touch on the same emotional and visual space: the awe of infinity.

Lovecraft built that sense of awe through fiction, by describing spaces and beings that bend and defy the rules of reality. Fractal geometry arrives at the same feeling through mathematics, where a simple rule generates infinite complexity. Both lead us to the edge of comprehension, and beyond, where wonder and fear mix.

Fractal Geometry as a lens for Lovecraft

In our time, artists often show fractal alien landscapes, and more often than not, viewers describe them as “Lovecraftian.” Why? Because the spirals, jagged towers, and organic shapes resemble the very cities and creatures Lovecraft hinted at.

You could even argue that fractal geometry gives us a visual key to something Lovecraft could only suggest with words. His descriptions of non-Euclidean geometry now have a modern mathematical counterpart. Looking at a fractal feels like stepping into one of his stories: the same strange beauty, the same sense of dread.

Conclusion: lnfinity in two languages

So, is there a direct historical tie between Lovecraft and fractal geometry? Not the direct one, in the sense that he knew about the term and used it. But he knew about non-Euclidean geometry. The themes of his writings and the looks of fractal geometry echo each other. Both point to an infinity that overwhelms the human mind, going against simple and anthropocentric systems, whether told through equations or through eerie tales of the Old Ones.

Perhaps that’s why fractal geometry feels so at home in the world of Lovecraft. His "monsters", his cities, his landscapes—many could be seen as visual metaphors for the complex themes of his and our time and similar to patterns we now explore with fractals.

What about you, dear reader? When you look at fractal images, do you feel a hint of Lovecraft’s worlds creeping in? Or do you see them as purely mathematical, without the cosmic dread? I guess the answer depends on your interest in Lovecraft and preferences in literature. Share your thoughts below—I’d love to hear how others connect these two.

Owls and their symbolism through history

        An Owl, 1780-90 Oil on panel Artist: Moses Haughton (the Elder)        

Owls have fascinated humans for thousands of years, appearing as potent symbols in mythology, art, and folklore across the globe. Evidence from prehistoric times shows owls depicted in cave paintings, carvings, and early rituals, suggesting that even our earliest ancestors recognized their unique presence in the natural world. The owl’s silent flight, nocturnal habits, and piercing gaze made it a creature both intriguing and mysterious, a symbol of wisdom, intuition, and hidden knowledge long before humans developed written language or complex spiritual systems. 

Owls in ancient civilizations

In ancient Greece, the owl was sacred to Athena, the goddess of wisdom and strategy. The tiny but keen-eyed bird came to represent knowledge, vigilance, and the ability to see what others could not. Coins, pottery, and writings frequently depicted owls as marks of intellectual insight and divine protection. Similarly, in Rome, owls were considered messengers of fate, harbingers of both caution and revelation.

Across Native American traditions, owls were revered as guardians of sacred knowledge, spiritual guides, and protectors of the dead. Some tribes also considered them warnings or omens, reflecting the owl’s natural association with the night, the unknown, and the unseen world. In Asian cultures, owls symbolized luck, protection, and mystery, while in European folklore, they were often linked to witchcraft and the occult. This ambivalence highlights how human perception of owls has always intertwined nature observation with spiritual and cultural interpretation.

Symbolism across time

From prehistoric depictions to modern storytelling, owls have maintained a dual nature in symbolism. In many cultures, they embody wisdom and insight, yet also carry warnings, omens, or associations with death and the supernatural. Their nocturnal habits and haunting calls have inspired awe and fear alike, reminding humans of forces beyond ordinary comprehension. Literature, art, and mythology repeatedly use owls as metaphors for vigilance, foresight, and hidden truths.

Even in contemporary urban settings, owls appear in art, logos, and films as symbols of mystery and intelligence. Their enduring presence across millennia shows that humans instinctively link the natural world with symbolic and spiritual meaning, a connection that is often forgotten in daily life.

The owl’s symbolism is not only cultural but also ecological. Observing owls in the wild demonstrates qualities humans admire or usually strive for: patience, stealth, and acute awareness. These traits contributed to their enduring role as metaphors for intelligence, discernment, and deep perception. Even today, when many myths and symbols are considered unnecessary, encountering an owl can spark a reflection on our place in the natural world and remind us that there are mysteries beyond human understanding.

On a more practical level, owls are also keystone predators in many ecosystems, controlling rodent populations and maintaining ecological balance. Their silent flight and sharp senses emphasize the interconnectedness of life, making them perfect symbols of both the practical and the spiritual lessons embedded in nature.