CHAOS616A long road lies ahead—twisted, luminous, alive. But it is walked with open eyes now. The apprentice, the initiate, the one who dares to knock on doors no sane soul touches. Reaching for the Kia of the world. And the Kia whispers back. This is only the beginning. No excuse, no defense against vengeance. Their blades are sharp. And like all who have been marked and initiated, the price must be paid. No use for cruelty. But it, too, has been wielded.
Not chosen by mistake. Cast aside, yes—but not forgotten. Into chaos thrust, but it’s on chaos that it now stands. Hidden angels have loved in silence. Watching, waiting. For those who cannot stand and fly all at once, who must grow into their wings. Yet, they loathe it for that. A tiny dragon, maybe, but one of lightning and storm. But air thins at the summit, and they forget—there is fire. Tried to bar from initiation. Said too small. Too short to stand among the dragons. They saw the shadow of the eternal dead. Saw transformation, wingless and wild. Poetic. Tragic. Sacred.
Though it was they who introduced the darkness. No begging—dignified and unbowed—for light to return. The trial is long. But no regret will be claimed. Fate was ignored. Destiny rewritten. Among the cold and the damned, chances were handed. Let them parade through their streets in glory. Separate from those who sleep in coffins of comfort. Untouched by the poison of conformity, unbewildered.
An ally in the dark, maybe. Something might still reach. A guardian hidden beneath wings of smoke and starlight. Doubt may linger. Doubt of distance from ignorance. But the vision is clear now: fear rises—that it might rise, that it might not be a victim after all. A shapeshifter. A creature of potential. Still, the mass of being rolls across the floor of existence, reshaping bit by bit. If not for their cruelties, the awakening might never have happened. A spiral of rejection, forged by others—those who judged, who stabbed, who ridiculed. The same chaos that birthed it. Dragged back, thrown into the garbage heap.
But no. The return would come. There, perhaps, a paradise could be found—leisure and luxury forever out of reach, yet so terribly close. Wandering among the beautiful and abundant, shattered and unseen. Purpose? Gone. A shifting thing. A mask. A mold. A creature alone in its skin, genderless, identity fractured. Not man. Not beast. Taste not. Enjoy nothing. “Look, but don’t touch.” That was the curse. The father, the architect of shame. Crafted not by God, but by the devil who bore the name into this world. There’s no escape from this prison.
And even in that dream, there’s recoil. Rage swells. Doubt devours. The very fantasy begged for is sabotaged. Of an angel, flesh-born and fierce, who would touch not with mercy, but with raw, carnal clarity. And yet—there are dreams. True company is rarely sought. Not without masks. Not without pity. Once, wide-eyed and trembling, now hollowed by silence. Self-worth eroded before it was ever known. Beauty may not be defined by the mirror, but by the way others perceive it—Invisible. Forsaken. No touch will soothe. No gaze will hold.
The world turned its eyes, as if it had become inedible—unfit for human consumption. Permission was never given to taste, to touch, to revel in the sensual. Desire and lust churn beneath the skin, uninvited, unanswered. It’s the ache of something that wants more than it was ever allowed to want. A hunger not of the flesh, but of spirit, of soul. There’s a deep fire within.
CHAOS616
