Faultlore

Faultlore

Faultlore

I know nothing, but I listen.

The things I hear are useless, just hearsay and folklore.

My mind is a sieve, the stories fade to vague shadows and whispers.

But the shadows congregate and coalesce, and the nothings gain substance and form.

Shallows nothings become an endless abyss, gnawing at the edges of my mind, demanding my attention.

I try to move away, but the darkness spreads in all directions. I try to remain still but the darkness pounds against my skull.

My connection to reality fades while my connection to unreality intensifies. My flesh remains anchored but my perceptions drift into the feverdream from which I may never wake.

The walls in front of my eyes are only rumors. The sounds that kiss my ears are but echoes of echoes. I know I have moved but I am certain I have not. It is all a mirage that fades away the harder I try to focus on it.

The abyss draws strength from the contradiction of its enormity and formlessness. Should I try to reason with it, my mind will be lost in its endless labyrinthine cacophony. I must give it form by inscribing its true name for all to see and know.

My task is complete, but now I am hollow. Did the darkness take part of me with it, or was it filling that which never was?

The abyss from which I drew my inspiration, oh how I ache for the return of her warm embrace.

My mind races with her sweet everythings, my heart trembles as I glimpse her depths.

I know I cannot merely be with her, I must be taken over and consumed.

I am her vessel, her canvas, and her sacrificial altar.

I need to be lost in her depths.

I am the abyss.