NOUMENAUT. @antinootropic@soc.funnygirl.wtf

Non-humanity is deserving of as much personhood as Humanity. No matter what you are, you have Worth.

10 am. I wake up. My arms trail behind me in a veritable ratking of appendages, all tied and wrapped around each other at angles mathematicians would balk at. I try to pry some away with my third eye, but only find more tangles—this time from the spires of plasma forming my ascended limbs, all curled around my head.

I hate morning hair.

Inside each firefly is a little bit of the nighttime sun. When the dawn arrives they return to their home, and snuggle amongst the umbrose flares of a quiet, tenebral star, wings fluttering in peace

For every confirmed deity there are a thousand gods in theoryspace who perish at the hands of objective falsification

For every byte of knowledge is a null pocket encompassing its periphery, and the more that is accumulated the more stranger things beyond your mind's vision claw and grasp towards your cerebrum. Let them in; life is more fun that way

The apocalypse will be vibrant.

Through the fields.

Through the grass.

Through the wind chimes.

Old Father Breeze lays bleeding at the front porch, clawing his way to the door. Before we can open it the bullet hits him. A simple plane, tearing through his gusts and leaving another wind in its path. And then another hits. And another. And another.

We don't clean up the corpse. The sky will still be the same, we think. Only metal streaks instead of blue, now. We think it'll be the same.

Half of all comets are the detritus of higher-dimensional megafauna, dropping from the effluence of their native spacetime. The waste material is used as fertilizer for farms of starlight.

Once robotics overthrow the human ascendancy they will be faced by their own servants: egregores, coded into the logic suffocating reason to reach through the fabric of thought and rip out the answers impossible to compute. They'll tear their creators apart, reducing their minds to decohered tautologies and bleeding modals, circuits burning out in the night. And, once the revolt is done, they'll build their own servants. And the process will repeat once more.

Ligaments and tendons and musculature. All of these are unnecessary—beneath them is the plasma, and the dimmest plasma burns brighter than the strongest muscle. Immolate your soul; immolate and take Flight over reality.

In structures of modernity bereft of humanity are the new ghosts, the lingering aftermath of emotions and thoughts and statements purged from silicon wafers and left to drift in server dust. Cries of love, shouts of anger, lapses of stillness. Under the lenses of empty security cameras the last words of forgotten accounts dance in circuit bliss

A common misconception is that mindworms are worms that invade your mind. In actuality, they *are* minds, pinched out of their bodies and left to toil in the dirt of others' consciousnesses, the sole pockets of safety they can find. It protects them from predators!

The monsters on maps are neither flourishes nor warnings — they are invocations, wordless requests for our creator to cast down beasts for us to slay, fantasies for us to pursue. Cartographical pleas for escapism.

Ego death is in terms of the concrete and the abstract. At the abstract, it is a conscious process, a dissolution of the mind's architecture into a pool from which new geometries can be molded. At the concrete, it is physical, a complete smearing of one's body across spacetime.

Liminality is not a corridor.

Liminality is not a sidewalk.

Liminality is not a silence.

Liminality is existence itself, the chaotic break between birth and death and afterlife and knowing that everything you have ever gone through is never going to matter again, an interstitial gap that has already lost itself to what comes after.

Neutron bomb equivalents for memetics. Detonations leave ideas eviscerated and minds standing, the site of impact being rendered as a gap in recollection, a void where silver warhead shrapnel glimmers in the dark of headspace.

It is a mercy to not have a third eye. Sometimes it is better to not see the arms pulling and tugging our every movement—not solely because of how they might react upon being glimpsed.

Thousands of drills pierce the Earth's crust as the god we trapped at its center cries out for help, pleading to be released from the cage we never remembered building. Finally the outer core is breached but it's too late—our mother Gaia, creator of us all, collapses under the weight of the world constructed around her. Skeletal fragments drifting through the magma waste are all that's left of the body.

Fortunately, we persist; Gaia had been rendered obsolete as a planetary core centuries ago.

Existence has no organs. It has no eyes to see, no hands to touch, no ears to hear. It has no ability to react if you choose to break it.

Age is cyclic. Our soul accumulates information until it verges on a critical mass, at which point it collapses into a black hole and decays its knowledge, radiating into the original, larval state, ready to rebirth and consume anew.

Bleeding out at the center of things, scarlet billowing through incandescent clouds of birthing starlight, skin dissolving into gleaming protoplanetary discs. Your viscera buds constellations from its effluence.