The Unknowable

           Here, deep below. Here, I wait. Wait, how long? Long. Good, for the best. The worst will soon come for what has yet to fall. Use your imagination. Not mad enough I see. Not yet anyways. Just wait, with me, until the stars open wide. Then you will see it, madness that is. All I have ever seen with wretched drowned eyes. Your eyes, what they see are blind. Better, wouldn’t you say? Perception has no place here. Everything sunken so very deep. I wonder of the how and the why and the when, the cosmic churning moving meticulously toward this destination or the chaotic scramble to see where each player fits.

Undoubtedly the world moves as I am immovable, and with it the sky brightened by stars heralding a shadow still as my own, until the lights line in perfect symmetry to tunnel the vast emptiness towards this precise place and time. Lifetimes die away, once and soon to be mine, one after another. The time of life. How long a life will exist, can exist, has existed. Life begins, for certain, and dies, with more certainty for you at least. Begins in the seething blackness that pulses with dumb hatred and unseeing rage. There you see the first madness. Silence still echoes with the sound. And it dies. Dies how? Such a strange idea. Life needs an end as time needs end. A tick and it starts, a tock and it ends. The things I hear as the aeons grow stranger and stranger.

And madness endures. Crafted into stone black as the emptiness between worlds where no life can exist. Only us, bearing shapes and figures small minds can only dread to envision, the fearsome depths pressing down like massive fists in vain attempts to destroy what cannot be destroyed. Trapped in nightmares of dreamers, in abominations of creators, in the nothing of thinkers. For them, a glimpse away to the smallest sliver of the unknowable. And still it is too much. Fractions of angles warped and contorted beyond reaches crafted under rules of law construct their new reality. Real is seeing mine obscured by yours, a shallow reasoning of the pits of madness hidden only by my absence. Still, as I have made sacred fear my favorite treasure, those who don’t know anything can intervene. Lost within the despair of hope, inversely for myself in accordance to the spoken words left unspoken under those waves of aging time, dwelling in the middle between the beginning and end. This I have said before. It is all there is, for there is nothing else that is now. Only what came before the now will rise to malignant majesty, sweeping what was born amidst death away to ashes. A fire, flames reaching to scorch the sky. No fire burns here. Far too far below the city sleeps. Leave the light off, I whisper to the sea seeing all of darkness around me. A fragrance of home almost terrible enough to believe its clarity, but I know the worst better than most. Have you seen the thousand forms of Nyarlathotep crawling across our once domain in faceless guises? Or the immense rounded mass, writhing of pale, thin legs and seeing from countless eyes, of the pale beast, god of the labyrinth? The worm sprouting towers of jagged metal from its back, lord of the dead dreams? The emaciated colossus looking out with eyes of blood, walking on the wind? The vicious wolf stalker in the snows, spreading black wings like shadows over its unsuspecting prey? Always around you, you never see that which is there to act for the ones infinitely distant, skin changing for rule, for fear, for death, for all that may cause chaos in the mind of man. A cloud black and vile following the footsteps free of fated wrath to places caged in exile where elder eyes may not yet dare gaze upon in, what very little exists. Fear that all is not ours, not until the end with their return.

The rest is future. What will, no, must come to pass. I am here, soon they as well, and after that none of you at all. Will I lament that which will soon cease to be after so long among their tiny fleeting lives, watching a madness all their own grow up, perhaps a product of my contamination towards an existence born at the wrong tick of the clock, and making plans for a demise I had not planned even if it did not come to fruition? Such needless pondering. It will be written the day I rise was a time of death, demise, and laughter, the kind of pressing something insignificant under your foot and watching with glee as it becomes indistinguishable from filth, darkening the earth as those that have always been arrive and darken the sky.

For now I lie dead. The rest as well. Husks of the time before litter hidden places. No one here but me. There is always someone here. Always is Azathoth at the center, his mindless chords potent as ever. Evisceration. We spoke of that dancing to those notes I think, maybe different but similar intent still. A drive to consume the things in the way, the multitudes he set for growth by death, the only way in the nucleus of everything. The blind idiot did not watch but knew as flies fell in darkness and great ones bathed there, where madness sparked in breath to grow into infernos consuming worlds. Mine and theirs both, so they say, adding to years and longer times than measurable, all stained in the black miasmal we swam through without pause or rest. A pause and rest to see. Nothing changed except everything we cannot see, the chaos spreading through in all minds, I know. I do not want to know but must. He desires it for his subjects, a shadow of his own form, the movement of masses a show in the outer places, slowed but still crawling with reverence. I can hear it, maybe, remembering after so long absent. It does not bother me. I am here where madness rests. There it festers as an incurable plague, the scars spreading as lights multiply above in rapid volume. Yours is there among them, mine now as well I suppose. Only a brief interlude until the end, for what is light but the harbinger of darkness, escapism on the grandest scale, from me from him from your very selves. I know you have seen me, some of you fools at least. Why is beyond even me. The scars are mountains you must traverse, eventually become lost, alone, so utterly alone among their shapes. They become existence, twisting familiarity into alien fear, crushing what little you are under the weight of terror that time and its passage has wrought inside the wounded for as long as they’ve existed.  The smallest second can slip inside what little you have and burrow into the thoughts, the dreams, the very being of the greatest minds that walk among you, reducing their splendor to a hollow shell of deranged lunacy. Now led along the path I’ve made that none were meant to walk, that everyone shall walk, soon the standard above all others. Not now. Patience keeps it blocked for the time being. Let the stagnation of the mundane and trivial continue on  

For now I am dead. And dead is where I wait dreaming.