Pinned toot

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

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.

cw: dissociation 

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.

cw: blood, gore 

Cities are entropic hot spots. Miniature heat deaths occur every day, vanishing populations into seas of low frequency noise when the smoke and sweat and sound become too great to bear. Physical instability gives way to physical tranquility. These never last, though, as physics cannot relieve itself from its duties until cosmic time runs out. Only these attosecond pockets of obliteration offer solace from the job.

The cities, of course, perceive none of this. All they perceive is the heat.

Turn your mind inside-out and burn objectivity to the ground.

The spinal cords of giants are common housing on kaiju-infested worlds. Their durability renders them resistant to most forms of hypergiant impact, and the sight of the dead colossi is enough to scare away most smaller forms of life, too afraid to confront what brought down a God.

cw: gore 

Every object is a bullet when fired fast enough. A spaceship at 0.9c guts a planet, a mind overclocking at 20 prognostications per second blows all consciousness apart in its wake, a stationary spear lances endless stationary gods as it sits.

Void is not bound by the restrictions of matterlight. Dissolve yourself into vacuum and accelerate your nothingness to the stars. Just make sure you don't reform midway there.

The birth of the universe marked a break in the totality of nothingness, a fissure cutting through walls of immaterial and pillars of void. Higher above us, a city wonders how long it is until their buildings collapse.

Demons exist in places where gods aren't. We ascribe the divine to pockets of cognizance, realms where our senses can understand the world's workings, all while Tartarus floods in to consume what lies past.

To confront the unknown is to confront the burning eyes of a thousand spectral bodies; to view the peripheral is to view the tangled limbs of your vision's border.

Humanity is an impostor species. While billions of empires glitter with the minds of beings birthed into physics itself, here we are, chemical amalgams, emerging from the morass of a dead planet to claim a sapience forged from stagnant mud. What are we in comparison to their life? What are we but liars?

Angel who's body is a shell. False wings are drawn on the sides. The cracks are still.

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