The Witch-House.
The horizon flickers, and I am covered in sweat, slick with the fear that rattles the subtle structure of my skeleton. It is so very cold, it hurts, my sweat is crystalizing, cutting razor blade paths across the goosebumped flesh of my skin. I am nude to the waist, wading, waiting with jittering, mind numbing anxiety, waiting for the dark space above my head to fill with answers to the mystery of my life, my purpose, waiting for an empty attic to fill suddenly with boxes, boxes of a life once lived, but never experienced.
I spent hours bent towards the symbols before me, hoping to bring these things to life, these things with answers, these things wanting their cut of my soul, my hide, the last true currency, the currency of flesh, blood and bone. I wait with the hitching breath of an prisoner in a trumble, trundling to a guillotine. The silence of this place is intolerable, filling the room up so that I cannot hear my own breaths, my own fevered weeps, they are muffled by the velvet gloom that pervades this place, that is rotting my heart, a cancer that exists outside the body, eating up all hope of those who put the gears into motion.
The blood that stains this place no longer smells, it no longer accuses me, it cannot judge me, for I have extinguished its terrible freshness. Kneeling here, with my palms pressed flat against the alien stone, I understand true love, true devotion towards something you cannot completely understand. I married this ritual long ago, but it was loveless, cold bodies occupying a bed out of convience, but now I love it, I cherish it, every moment when I am away, gathering reagents, I feel pangs of regret, merely wanting to redraw the symbols, assess my mathematics, corrrect the flaws, the deviations. I am making the perfect lover, one who will task me with infinite cruelties, but absolves me by snatching the sadness, the maliciousness from my heart and replacing it with knowledge, it will fill me up with joy and triumph, and it will only make me feel those things when I bring it what it wants.
When I spill my own blood upon the slats, a terrible thing happens. A smell fills the room, a smell of the vacuum, of infinite distances between the spheres of existance, the smell of unspeakable purity, of alien logic, of morals outside the grasp of my coherence, outside every humans understanding. A form is rising in the sea of my mind, parting the waters and I am blinded, it speaks and I go deaf, it reasons with me and my sanity flies, a bird freed from its cage, when it touches me I am paralyzed, where did this...thing come from? What place did this object, this sentient matter sleep, what dreams occupy its terrible synapses as it slumbers in the dread bed it keeps? The awesome machinery of this thing, it is unbearable, it dissects me, it flays me alive, and vivisects me with each terrible moment it is aware of my presence.
It has me now, and I do not want for anything, I cannot escape but why would I? This truly is the highest level of conciousness that I will ever occupy, the sensations I feel cannot even be expressed with words, I feel only in the basest of numbers, I am merely an expansion of an algorithm, long being processed by the brain of some machine, a machine black and crusted with the gore of a thousand worlds sent into its processes, a machine that sits upon the edge of existance and pulverizes the things falling into disrepair. The elegant truth of reality, the reality above and beyond, under and intersecting all of matter, the logic that exists here would cause the Earth itself to collapse upon itself, the deflated eye of a dying god, breathing the last piece of its childish puzzle into existance.
When they find the remnants of my body, all that is left is the pool of sweat, and a splash of material that is identified as human through chemical testing. I am no longer one with the world of humanity, ascension is terrible, but so beautiful it would dash most mens minds, snowglobes upon the rocks, rocks that line the shore of an ocean, an ocean of blood.
I spent hours bent towards the symbols before me, hoping to bring these things to life, these things with answers, these things wanting their cut of my soul, my hide, the last true currency, the currency of flesh, blood and bone. I wait with the hitching breath of an prisoner in a trumble, trundling to a guillotine. The silence of this place is intolerable, filling the room up so that I cannot hear my own breaths, my own fevered weeps, they are muffled by the velvet gloom that pervades this place, that is rotting my heart, a cancer that exists outside the body, eating up all hope of those who put the gears into motion.
The blood that stains this place no longer smells, it no longer accuses me, it cannot judge me, for I have extinguished its terrible freshness. Kneeling here, with my palms pressed flat against the alien stone, I understand true love, true devotion towards something you cannot completely understand. I married this ritual long ago, but it was loveless, cold bodies occupying a bed out of convience, but now I love it, I cherish it, every moment when I am away, gathering reagents, I feel pangs of regret, merely wanting to redraw the symbols, assess my mathematics, corrrect the flaws, the deviations. I am making the perfect lover, one who will task me with infinite cruelties, but absolves me by snatching the sadness, the maliciousness from my heart and replacing it with knowledge, it will fill me up with joy and triumph, and it will only make me feel those things when I bring it what it wants.
When I spill my own blood upon the slats, a terrible thing happens. A smell fills the room, a smell of the vacuum, of infinite distances between the spheres of existance, the smell of unspeakable purity, of alien logic, of morals outside the grasp of my coherence, outside every humans understanding. A form is rising in the sea of my mind, parting the waters and I am blinded, it speaks and I go deaf, it reasons with me and my sanity flies, a bird freed from its cage, when it touches me I am paralyzed, where did this...thing come from? What place did this object, this sentient matter sleep, what dreams occupy its terrible synapses as it slumbers in the dread bed it keeps? The awesome machinery of this thing, it is unbearable, it dissects me, it flays me alive, and vivisects me with each terrible moment it is aware of my presence.
It has me now, and I do not want for anything, I cannot escape but why would I? This truly is the highest level of conciousness that I will ever occupy, the sensations I feel cannot even be expressed with words, I feel only in the basest of numbers, I am merely an expansion of an algorithm, long being processed by the brain of some machine, a machine black and crusted with the gore of a thousand worlds sent into its processes, a machine that sits upon the edge of existance and pulverizes the things falling into disrepair. The elegant truth of reality, the reality above and beyond, under and intersecting all of matter, the logic that exists here would cause the Earth itself to collapse upon itself, the deflated eye of a dying god, breathing the last piece of its childish puzzle into existance.
When they find the remnants of my body, all that is left is the pool of sweat, and a splash of material that is identified as human through chemical testing. I am no longer one with the world of humanity, ascension is terrible, but so beautiful it would dash most mens minds, snowglobes upon the rocks, rocks that line the shore of an ocean, an ocean of blood.