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God spoke to me as a child. In shadows dancing round a fire. In bone grinding chant. In visions that could only be apocalypse- spheres the size of universes in slow collision, infinitely matched forces in opposition- and at the interstices, at the place of contact, a... Hole. Something composed of opposites. A pinpoint with horrible density, an absolutely unyielding softness, the contemplation of which tastes like madness. God's voice sounded through this hole, or maybe it was the hole, the very effect of that terrible chant shredding the sanity of reality itself. It sounded, and felt, and... Envisioned.
The worst thing about God's chant is the recursion. The chant is like entropic poetry- it begins by utterly entrancing the listener, rhythmically stripping away volition- then proceeds to describe, in excruciating detail, the disintegration of everything- while simultaneously enacting the description. Concepts, language, selfhood, meaning- all these things start to erode- in a visceral, tactile way. The recursion begins almost immediately- the chant itself, and the listener's comprehension, is subjected to the same terrible process- thus begins a cascade effect in which each "stanza" starts eroding but never finishes, because that process itself begins eroding, and so on. The instant that the recursive process is recognized, that recognition becomes subject to the chant- and so there is a sort of acceleration in which realizations occur and are summarily disintegrated, faster, the chant is louder, encompasses more, grows more terrible, bigger, faster
Forever.
And that. Is the true terror. There was no explosive finish. No end at all. No new beginning someday. Apocalypse forever, always growing more apocalyptic.
I was eight years old.
God spoke to me this way, with slowly decreasing intensity, for about three years. Sometimes I think a part of me is waiting- that I've been warned, somehow- about selfhood, about fragility, about the indifferent universe.
I should be more grateful to my brain chemistry for insisting on a general feeling of well being, but maybe that's just my way of spiting god.
The worst thing about God's chant is the recursion. The chant is like entropic poetry- it begins by utterly entrancing the listener, rhythmically stripping away volition- then proceeds to describe, in excruciating detail, the disintegration of everything- while simultaneously enacting the description. Concepts, language, selfhood, meaning- all these things start to erode- in a visceral, tactile way. The recursion begins almost immediately- the chant itself, and the listener's comprehension, is subjected to the same terrible process- thus begins a cascade effect in which each "stanza" starts eroding but never finishes, because that process itself begins eroding, and so on. The instant that the recursive process is recognized, that recognition becomes subject to the chant- and so there is a sort of acceleration in which realizations occur and are summarily disintegrated, faster, the chant is louder, encompasses more, grows more terrible, bigger, faster
Forever.
And that. Is the true terror. There was no explosive finish. No end at all. No new beginning someday. Apocalypse forever, always growing more apocalyptic.
I was eight years old.
God spoke to me this way, with slowly decreasing intensity, for about three years. Sometimes I think a part of me is waiting- that I've been warned, somehow- about selfhood, about fragility, about the indifferent universe.
I should be more grateful to my brain chemistry for insisting on a general feeling of well being, but maybe that's just my way of spiting god.
no subject
Date: 2018-05-15 02:17 am (UTC)From:i still have nightmares about tsunamis.
you have seen it.
maybe the concept itself, of escape, disintegrates? thus the need of it? the doom?
no subject
Date: 2018-05-15 06:43 pm (UTC)From: