THE WAY IT WENT DOWN: WE BURN (Patreon)

Describe everything. Describe every possible thing ever created, done, built, thought or imagined. Just start talking, now. List it all in a gibbering madman squeal that rises in tone to an endless screeching, repeating, list of nonsense that somehow manages to contain the entire world within it. 

I’ll wait.

That all issues from somewhere. And it isn’t you, and on some level you know that. When you’re done, when your words are phantoms wandering through bloody, ruined flaps of skin which were once your face, and have stripped your brain clean, only then, when you are blank and new and open…Only then you might catch a glimpse of the outline of the Unspeakable. It is what is not there. What is beyond all of this. What exists in all of us which we cannot reach. 

It can never be contained within words; because it eats words. It can’t be understood, because thought is its byproduct. It can’t be imagined, because that’s where it interlocks with sentience like a jigsaw; where you end, it begins, and there is so much more beyond that inner black. There is reality, there is fantasy, and then there is the Unspeakable, which contains (and perhaps created) them both. Everything that ever was and more is inside of it. You cannot escape it. 

It made, maintains, and consumes you.

It does not need to be worshipped to enter you, it is your creator. But it is not without beneficence. The joy of creation. That instant of inspiration. The beauty in the spray of a newborn’s brains dashed upon a wall—each is the touch of the Unspeakable. Each is a gift to those who are open to turn their eyes inward. It speaks in paint and song and dance and action and violence and death. It draws its art in great scrawls across the wall of time like a child with charcoal; a wavering line that tracks in new and drastic directions which can never be properly predicted. All that can be said of its choices is that it is certain to remain uncertain. Are they even choices at all, or are they seismic readjustments in spacetime as the universe settles into the rhythm of its pulsing, surrounding, ever-creation? No sane person can ever know. Luckily, only the mad worship it.

Those that follow the Unspeakable worship fear, surreality, and chaos. Their belief and power allows them to unravel the world like a lock, revealing turtles all the way down, a million, billion levels of reality, which open like a Russian dolls, spiraling towards the infinite.

Some say it is the god of humanity, since it seems to manifest through the human mind, but true followers know this is not true. We are simply a local effect in the vast expression of mad creation that sprawls across the multiverses, a tiny swirl of order lost in the eddies and whirlpools of existence, surrounded on all sides by the ever-spreading influence of it, a being beyond space and time and such antiquated notions as location, identity and cause. 

We are the food of thought contained in a tiny mitochondria of the universe, and our dreams, ideas, wants and hopes can burn, a fuel to spin the wheel something more, fuel to feed the great blackness which surrounds and makes us and somehow still isn't us at all. 

We aren’t the fire. 

We are only fuel. 

Like any fuel, we burn.