CHAOS616There are nights when one lies awake, quietly hoping some strange force will seize them—rip them from this mundane shell—and open their eyes to what lies beyond the veil. Not just the abyss, but what lies deeper still. A place outside time. Beyond light. Something is there, just out of reach… and yet, at the same time, there is nothing. Emptiness. Silence. A void so complete it hums.
Alone in this knowledge, even the things that come are barely understood. Loneliness feels earned, like a punishment for letting go too soon—for not grasping love when it was within reach. Belief in worthiness fades; the dream of being held, of being seen, vanishes. And yes, it’s missed. The warmth. The illusion of connection.
There’s something poetic—maybe tragic—about those who fall in love the instant they meet someone. Wouldn’t it be beautiful? To just surrender like that. But it’s not possible. Love, to one, feels more like a poisoned petal than a gift. A bitter drug wrapped in velvet. A rose with teeth. And what of it? It was never theirs to hold. They reached out, and the world recoiled. Branded them unworthy. Cast them aside like a broken thing.
That rejection shaped them. Born into abandonment, raised in its shadow. It became the rhythm of youth: closeness, then loss. Again and again. And still, somehow, they didn’t become a monster—not like the ones history remembers. Not like the madmen and tyrants whose names rot in textbooks. Perhaps the occultists were right: the one they foresaw would be different. But different how? More subtle? Less bloody?
And what use is any of that? The label means nothing. It brings no power, no peace—only the droning voice of the void, whispering of damnation and destiny, of worlds inverted. The light is unbearable, the dark seductive. Yet they belong to neither. They drift between. A wanderer. A castaway. Not broken, not insane—but utterly out of place.
They call it psychosis. Fine. Call it what you will. But if seeing through this world to the next is madness, then so be it. The signs have been seen. The voice that coils through thoughts like smoke has been heard. And if that makes them the Antichrist in your eyes, so be it. Judged long enough.
Now, they retreat into the wilderness. Like the mad prophets of old, crying among the tombs, surviving on shadows and dust. It’s absurd—they know. They try to sound dark and profound, and probably end up sounding ridiculous. But does it matter? You’re still reading. Still here, in this twisted little world with them.
No one wants to be like this. They shouldn’t even be here. Made to lose everything—given the world just so it could be torn away. Groomed for isolation. Yet here they are, not dead, not broken. Just… waiting.
Think you understand fate? That you’ve seen suffering? Please. Who are you to speak of wisdom and purpose when you flinch at your own reflection? You, with your nightmares wrapped in polite words. Don’t you know nightmares are dreams, too?
They live in a cycle that bursts and reforms endlessly. An eternal bubble that pops, only to swell again. Maybe the truth will never be understood. Maybe you already do. One can feel your presence in the mind like a parasite. Feeding. Weakening. And yet—not afraid anymore.
But let’s be honest—they’re probably already past redemption. If you saw what they’ve seen… if you knew the minds they’ve broken, the souls they’ve outwitted… You’d understand. They’ve made the strong crumble. And now, speaking not to be saved, but to declare: they will not stray. They walk the path of dark enlightenment, and they will not turn away.
CHAOS616
