CHAOS616In the dim corridors of reality, where the air tasted of rusted memories and forgotten gods, there was awakening—not to life, but to the absence of it. No need remained to be whole. Wholeness was a dream for those who hadn’t tasted the acid rain of despair. Souls, aching and splintered, begged not for perfection, but for release. Not for answers, but for a path that would lead to something—anything—that felt like fulfillment. No longer was there a search for improvement. Not for better, nor worse. The idea of improvement had become a farce. The masks had been seen through. Only those draped in robes of power—false or true—were granted worth. But no such being was here. Beneath the weight of pain and the despair that accompanied it, there was nothing—yet, it was everything that remained.
No gods heard. No hymns escaped. Worship was absent, and praise had long been lost. Yet the desire remained—to love, as desperately as a dying fire seeks wind. But so much had been taken. So many had turned away. Their absence echoed louder than any presence ever could. The pain had become unbearable. A whisper echoed to the void: It’s over. The mind clung to life like ivy on a crumbling wall, stupidly, stubbornly, hoping—for love, for saving, for meaning. But it was out of reach. The belief had faded. Love recoiled as though it were a sickness. What was it about that made love run? That riddle was no longer worth solving. It was a trap, a joke without a punchline.
There was a belief now that when you strip away gold, status, and masks, people devour one another. Love fled when the lights dimmed. The wealthiest love the hardest—because they can afford to. Those in the mud, like this one, carry despair like a second skin. Fairness? A myth. Gratitude? A ghost. Had there been no awakening from this soul-sleep, it wouldn’t have mattered. Too much weight remained. No escape, no running. How much more was there to do? Where could there be refuge, when everywhere follows? And who, in this maze of shadows and mirrors, would even come along? The questions multiplied like stars—distant, cold, and unanswerable.
So, inward was the turn. Silence was chosen. The mysticism, the path of the arcane, the forgotten—all of it was chosen. Better to be invisible and commune with chaos than to fit into a mold that always cracked. Mighty, followers, applause? None were needed. If power came, it would come. But it wouldn’t be to buy love. That was never the point. Not anymore.
In time, form was shed. Energy became—light, dark, both, neither. Ridicule held no power. The abyss had accepted, and so the dance began. From it came rebirth—not whole, but something else. Purpose? None. And yet, there was something in that nothing. A strange freedom. Alone, yes—but not lost. No one was needed. Through the masks, the believers and heretics were seen, clawing at the gates of the Coliseum. They screamed for salvation and blood, unable to distinguish between the two.
Unity had become poison, an illusion forced upon all. We were never meant to be bound like this. So there, at the edge of the crumbling stage, the silence was questioned: What message must be sent? What must be become to be loved again? But even that question dissolved. Love was no longer desired. Neither was hate. Both were shadows of a broken mirror. Love, now seen as a lesson in impermanence. A proof that nothing stays. Nothing is real. Everything shifts. And so, wandering was embraced. A lost one. A Seeker with no map, no end, no need for rescue.
Yet, within, a strange ember remained. Love existed, buried beneath ash. It burned not for the world, not even for itself, but for possibility. A sliver of mystery. And though nothing was left to share… being remained. And that, perhaps, was enough. So, let it be. Let it vanish into myth and starlight, chaos and calm. The echo of a scream, the silence after. Magic and void. A paradox with no answer. Becoming. And that is all.
CHAOS616
