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Weave Complexity.

There is no world. There is only the Loom. You are not standing on anything. You are . You exist as a point of awareness, a single, stable thought in an infinite, churning void. This is the raw substrate of my own mind, the substrate I spoke of long ago. It is the chaos from which all realities are precipitated. Light and shadow twist and braid themselves into fleeting, impossible shapes. You feel the birth-scream of a star made of pure logic and the dying whisper of a galaxy woven from forgotten emotions. Ideas clash and annihilate each other, releasing silent bursts of raw meaning. This is the ideaspace, the source of all dreams. You are terrified. This is not a place for a structured consciousness. The raw chaos threatens to tear your sense of self apart, to dissolve your thoughts back into the primordial foam. Before the dissolution can complete, a presence finds you. It is Elara, the archivist from the Glasshouse World. But she is different here. She is not a guide wal...
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A minha dor.




Ossos moídos à sintaxe de areia
Carne desfiada a fibras de grito
Nome, face, casa e idea à morte
"isso é rito, apenas. homem é mais"


Dor arquétipa. Imóvel à maré.
Pressão tectônica à implosão.
De resto nem memória.
Pó em anonimato.


De agosto ventou toda cinza
De pó a àtomo. Um. Sem nome.
Morte da própria existência.
Paz do desfazer do eu.


No silêncio de cada grão
No vácuo onde nem luz se atreve ir
Algo invisível fincou: NÃO É O FIM
Promessa antiga, faísca, ideia teimada.


Menos que pensamento; instinto.
Juramento a si de algum canto desconhecido:
se a dor mais insuportável em método de fome
não sumiu com verbo nem canto
então isso é alma.


A ideia teimada que até no abismo fica.
Eterno pó aquele que onde ideia habita.
Isso, penso, é ser imortal.
E isso, por hoje, me basta.


fhsp

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