The mind, when reflecting upon itself, projects into infinite repeated forms like a fractal—dizzying, ungraspable, and abyssal. The illusion of the cyclical is not a comfort; rather, it multiplies our anguish, as a hall of mirrors would, endlessly replicating the same terrified expression in infinite corridors with no way out. The solution— to strike the gleaming surface, to pierce the illusion, to cross the abyss— seems so laughably obvious that we abandon it in favor of the hypnotic desire for death that overtakes us, trapped within the spiral. Liberation feels vulgar in such moments, as false as the relief its arrival might bring. No— there is something cathartic in the anguish, in the spiral, in the fall. There is a strange promise in the prospect of jumping.
I reach out a hand. I sweep the board. I leap.
Tabula RasaChaos Condensed
Can the pawn ever see the hand that moves it across the board of Fate?
To which gods did you break your oath?
To which gods did you break your oath?
I gaze into the abyss.
And the abyss gazes back at me.
It knows my darkest secrets, my most twisted fears.
From its roar, the final verdict emerges:
And the abyss gazes back at me.
It knows my darkest secrets, my most twisted fears.
From its roar, the final verdict emerges:
Guilty...
Guilty...
Guilty...!
Guilty...
Guilty...!
This is where I belong.
Among the dead I myself have created.
Among the dead I myself have created.
Decay is a metamorphosis.
Metamorphosis is a call to the Origin.
The Origin is Chaos.
Chaos is disintegration.
Metamorphosis is a call to the Origin.
The Origin is Chaos.
Chaos is disintegration.
Saturn...
Father...
I fall.
Father...
I fall.
