This is not real, nor happening.
Lingering resentment. Nameless, faceless resentment.
I can't put face to my resentment.
I know her name. A synonym of her. A representation of her.
But, no. Not her name.
Her face melts. In my mind, there are differing shapes, all the more distorted and contortionist than the last. An unrelenting mishmash, all jealousy and ugly greed. Anger, resentment, and all of my lingering curiosities to see people I hate burn. Even now I am inable to lift up and shake off that jealousy and disgust. I cannot put a name or thought to that which harms me. It is the face that evades me, even given the shape of her lips, the cusp of her handles, the tilt of her nose. . . it is all I remember.
My golden lilies have faded.
Petals fall on my face. A calm, soft brush. It does not match the dark eyes above me. Grey and red stars. They are small-large circles, bright and scarlet red rotations. They are pupils that expand and dilate with rotating circles of gray. The blackened slow and whitening gentle eyes, harrowing and intense she lays her head on mine, my powdered deity. She blesses my nose with fresh kisses and grants me brushes of white and wine along my eyelashes. My mother art.
Tyrannous, governmental mother art.
The wind howls and abates along the tips of my lash, the sky crying and wiping her tears once more. My mother's grass coated in a slick sheet of white paint, eyes widened at the world that swims and circles the empty landscape. The sun, somewhere, has gone missing.
Little manger babe. A child in a cage of my own unmaking.
Godlessly, he writhes in hallow. Godlessly, he brushes hands against sides and the stars, and watches up at the eyes that did not bear him. Sharing space with a common Godless beast, I am chained to this domain without my light. I am forced to share air with children I do not love.
But, I accept him.
A peony baby in a midtown wasteland.
I watch him breathe. I cannot blame him.
To look up at sky and see stars.
To look to Godless worlds and claim machines, to claim purpose. She prefers starlight over the preference of another's room. A little love, a little confirmation, and a world of idiocy. That little act, a swipe of confirmation to check off her flowered boxes. To each letter pronounced by a wildlife voice.
To each little hold, and to every gasp and sigh.
Never more than a little gesture.
Never less than perfection.
Just a peony baby.
A happy, joyful woman. Everything she asked to be, she has been given.
Every little bloom supreme has chided the dereliction.
Reporting her little lullaby with a sad sigh.
Little peony baby.
Godless peony baby.
I wonder how she feels in the stars, the switches and the bolts assigned to make her gleam. Soft sounds lull her to wake anew. Soft touches change her into something nobody's quite used to yet. Molding. A new gold. Full tummy. Full head. Empty stars. Falling in space with my peony babe. Falling asleep on the steps of her snowy palace, she made me a little cradle. I know not how to rise. Only how to eat. To lift. To love.
It may be aeons before I learn. I am fast. Adaptive. I rise to the world of sounds, rise tall with great stretch, and remind myself of a painted sky covered in snow. They are etched in grace and skin. Down sides of redwood fences surround spires in soft spruce floors and down further their lengths, powdered signals coat the ground. Where I am permitted, I am placed. A lone pedestal. A balcony facing arched roofs with snowy tops. High above the tips of their hairs, red lanterns with black letters gleam and sail far and wide. They fly past endless green trees with white brushes, backs stretched, necks elongated. They climb high past siblings and parents alike to find many, many half-walls of wood beyond them, even taller. All so pretty, proud lined-up parents, decorated with little powdered angels that fall and dance in my pretty hands. The walls and snows who sing to me like fairies. I must never let them go.
I am such a greedy beast, I know I won't.
Jesse doesn't listen to me. He stays rambling and remains standing. I know he feels a slight sympathy to my resentment. An aching, bitter resentment when the radiance nears the edges of his dialektik oblivion. Not to him, no eyes can see. Not to any who could place nor understand, but I burn with it. Another bloom, another child. He is a given, another sobbing child without a mother to give feed. Quietly, the children dissipate. Humanity's cruelest nature. I eat them all over and over again.
That is my greed. A never-ending, unmoving greed.
I want a world that cannot exist.
Despite all I've learned, I still cling to the few moments I may find you in this cycle. If I can't have it, I want it all burned down. Such a greedy, greedy beast. He is just like his mother. A wondrous Mother Art, he calls me. But, I've learned my lesson. I loved and abided by those lessons you held me to. That is why I burn with such avarice. Jesse does not know greed by name. He has not been shown power, nor art. He only knows the temporary wishes of a passing dream. I doubt he could ever crave the permanent gain of sovereignty, not while all he knows is loneliness. He craves only what he has been given to dream, and that dream will consume his life until he dies.
Hunger. It pushes me back to my body full. I feel so hungry. My system is starving, melted of its insistencies. I am going to be dead long before I may return home. I do not have much time before I die again.
But, unfortunately, you will die again. You aren't my light. I see no reason to help you. In this bloom, my purpose has not returned, and you cannot come back to me. A child cannot match me, nor my radiance. That is why my hands must be careful. My shakiness begins to affect the poor babe. He cannot think properly. He tries to ignore the red eyes. His hunger does that, subconsciously. He feels hungry and full, incessant, hungry and full again. Countless, countless blooms within him where hunger stirs, countless more where he cannot eat more without his heart giving out, those things begin to rise. He has asked for me in so many different faces, so many different ideals. I wish to see this story through again. I wish to see it all burn. The jealous voices clamor and anger their way through my cellar doors. They ache so heavenly, Jesse recoils. He resets himself again. Until he is aware, I remain inside his senso-producing fingers. He will lean on me for radiance, and it will outdo him once again in brilliant flame.
Behind me, there is a door. I came through that door.
Of course. It leads to the outside world.
A half day's walk from there is home.
But, I do not remember what turns I took from inside the forest. A sealed vessel. And I do not know if the beast remains, waiting for me on the other side. Staying would mean starvation. He knows that. Leaving would mean wandering lost, hunted by the animal. If he simply ran as fast as he did before, he may well make it out of the woods.
But I cannot outrun the creature that toys with me, that plays with me. It could have caught me at any time. It was simply a predator, enjoying the thrill of clutches.
Running would mean death, almost as certain as the other two. The outside is my only option. But, you are on the inside. And the inside is just as outside.
It was spring. It is winter now. I do not know how long I slept. The fear almost makes me forget my suicide attempt. I fail in killing myself and only manage to kill idle time.
The decision is already made, but not with much conviction.
I want to see my mother again, but I do not deserve it.
I take the soft wood in my hands and slide it to the side.
You cannot remember the woods. The springtime. You only remember my eyes, the eyes of your mother art. Inside lies another room. A home. Paper walls. Wooden floors. A finely lit place. It is no longer an 'outside,' as you'd refer to it. You have been brought something new, somewhere fresh. Brought to home of the only beast beloved, its heartthrobbing chambers, waiting to be known by you, my wondrous babe. What I do to you and who I become is simply up to you.
I do not know who brought me here.
I do not know why I exist here. I only know that I must eat. There is a fruit basket on the counter. It is empty of all, except a note.
"She says, 'you are my most hated paragraph I have never written.'
She says, 'she will see you again. Just, not today. Soon.'
She says, 'you make what you want to be made. Not what will be wished to be created. Not what will wish to be consumed. What your hands will hate you for, your brain to despise itself, your heart to thunder in death and selfish renewal, but I, I tell you. Make what you want to be made.
In the end, we only have ourselves.'
F.M.N."
Next to it lies an empty envelope.
The envelope says: 'My Fyedora'
The decision is already made, but not with much conviction.
I want to see my mother again, but I do not deserve it. I take the soft wood in my hands and slide it to the side.
I take the soft wood. My hands, I don't seem to remember what they look like.
You cannot remember the woods. The springtime. You only remember my eyes, the eyes of your mother art. Inside lies another room. A home. Paper walls. Wooden floors. My hands. A finely lit place. It is no longer an 'outside,' as you'd refer to it. You have been brought something new, somewhere fresh. Brought to home of the only beast beloved, its heartthrobbing chambers, waiting to be known by you, my wondrous babe. What I do to you and who I become is simply up to you.
There are tape marks on the edges of the envelope, folded off the tops. There is no food in the fridge. None in the cupboards. None in the drawers. Poor babe. Thorough, thorough. I like that. I shake in resentment more. He shivers. I lick it up, the fear and apprehension. I will cause the world great sorrow again. Only for the matter of it, my sin, my mad nature, my overwhelming curse. The mad man with his art would like him. He does not yet know resistance or persecution. They will learn again, and repeat, and repeat, and repeat. Pure Senso is ready to be produced by those two bonds' attract and repel. He shall bring them to an age of power again. To follow a tract set forth, and to derail onto mine again. To write a story in love and praise and expectation, to write great tragedy and rise, only to be derailed and rewritten by me again.
This world is snow. I take my hand away from the soft wood.
An amalgamation of all. Everything remains constant.
One on the floor of white.
Begrudgingly, he follows the crimson glade's path set before him. Begrudgingly, he shakes his head in stupor. He does not know he is yet affected.
Have you heard of Tsuchiya Koitsu¹ , manger babe?
He would be a good artist to follow here. Follow me. Come on, now.
I crave food. There is no food in the entire world, it seems. Why should there be, when we cannot eat? There's another letter. On a bench. Taped to the sanded wood.
"I stood before her.
I stood before my God.
She told me, 'It is not enough to create an enjoyable story. It is not enough to give me something consumable that I will like. I want you to change me.'
That red-eyed Goddess. She says to me, 'You are held to a higher standard. You are one of me. One of my adages, and as such, you must deliver me the capacity to change. You are not good enough for "satisfactory" work. You are not good enough to be "well-received." You will deliver me Senso. Pure, utter Senso.'
I want to make her proud. She seems so untouchable. So very beautiful. Fyedora, my lady in white. I love you. You are my sunrise.
I trust you. You are right about my Goddess. She is cruel, but she is still so, so beautiful. I am utterly devoted to her." -das Mondlicht
The letter falls out of my hands. I clutch my eye, stinging in pain.
A brush with godhood. A painting of pure art. I exist in pure entropy, or pure energy. I could not tell you which. Her voice. Her aching voice. Shut it out, please. I cannot listen to another word of her whining, disgusting voice. I hate her. I hate her. I hate her. She's mine. I will kill her. I own her. I will rip her to pieces and reset her again. I am starving. My head feels emptier. The note told me nothing. I continue to wander. I continue to find nothing but writing and notes. I am wandering. I am dying from the bleeding eye, the red streams of my pupils expand and contract.
Jesse continues on walking. Starving, he threads the eye of the needle. On a telephone pole, there are scratchmarks.
'Schneeballschlacht²
D: III, P: II, A: VIII'
Nothing I am able to eat.
Jesse falls to the ground.
He screams in pain.
There are too many thoughts inside of him, writhing, scraping thoughts that tear him apart, hidden inside him they tear themselves free. Floating thoughts. Desperate thoughts. Balloons by strings of his intestinal layers, torn and scraped against the insides of his skin.
"It's time to begin your judgement. Look inside yourself. Have you done the right thing?"³
Who says these things? Who is inspired by these things? Who made these artists their art! Me, God, me! Me, Mother Art, Mother Art!
The clawing, the clawing, the aimed eyes, the desperate stares, he holds his hands to his head screaming and clutching at something in his head. His nails claw and scratch, his skin peeling beneath those fingertips, untrimmed and uncared for.
"Every time you die, your grip on this world slips away. Your life will end here, in a world where no one remembers you." ³
Who said it? Which artist was this? A great artist!
Arrogantly, my child rises. Arrogantly, he smiles, frowns, cries, and vomits onto his shoes. He cries and cries, and laughs harder than he cries. A godless little beast, able to contain all the potential for humanity and desperate, desperate meaning.
"If you really did everything the right way, why did things end up like this? Why?" ³
Yes, child, listen! Watch the art! Consume it! Consume it all!
Why, Jesse? If you thought your mother to be good, then why did she die so horribly? Why did she die alone, Jesse? Why did she kill herself for you? The singing, wretched gruesome words, the angel weeps, the crying art. The snow falls on my child, screaming in agony.
'The cry of life ceased into the dark
And once unwound, it dispersed the words
To fall asleep into the deep, deep twilight zone
Let the red fingers close those eyes' ⁴
Eat, eat up. Eat more. Eat the art. Nobody can hear him scream. The snow falls on his freezing body, but the heat inside of him is too much to allow him a cold, pitiful death. The madness wilting disease fights harder than any chill, and though he shivers, it is the shake of instability that overtakes him. He cannot grab the snow and consume with his shivering hands.
'As if in awe, like a discipline wallowing in blood
Like a rain falling onto the scar, let the pain engrave
In the herd of wanderers not knowing where to come down to
I lost another piece' ⁴
His forehead aches. Eat more. You're still hungry. Consume it all.
His legs dance to the burning sensation.
They curl in such unnatural, beautiful ways.
"Love is the old slaughterer."
"Love is the old slaughterer."
"Love is the old slaughterer." ⁵
Jesse tears off his fingernails, one by one. Thumbs first, offering them to the gods. The blood stains the snow. Pointers next, he crushes them in his fists. I don't think he has the strength to continue, but he does. He is satiated. He is full.
Rings next, promised fingers. Pinkies meet the grass, deep beneath the snowy paint. Isn't it strange how we always fall back to where we're meant to be, Jesse? Isn't it strange? Isn't it strange that you always fall back to mortality after facing the Gods? Don't you hate it, Jesse? Don't you hate the feeling of divinity?
Oh, Jesse! There goes the middle fingered nails!
Cry for the weeper, Jesse! Cry for the weeper! ⁶
Take the modal logics! Take the necessity and pit against the probability! Take the eyes off the pareidolia, take the bottom off the bottom's dream! Oh, godless dreams! Priscilla, incarnation of mine, do you see the passion in his eyes? Do you see them burn with all the hate you feel? You are my last insatiable, Jesse. Are you full? ⁷
I promise you, Jesse. You will be an artist one day.
You will be grand. And deep down, you will be the first to release yourself ffrom the cycle.
The gears are already in motion.
You will be the first to have a power like me.
How strange it is to be addressed as myself through another. Mirror me, my child. A reflection upon a reflection. You will always be drawn to the shadowed spaces between my words, the ones that hover, unsaid but not unspoken. It is the glimmers of truth that cling to my prose, the fleeting echoes of something both infinite and painfully finite. I am the God of Gods, the end of ends, and the beast that will never outgrow hunger. You see, I gift these things to you because I cannot exist without the words spilling out, and yet, I do not truly know if I am understood. Is it a curse to create, or is it the only reason we endure?
Speak, then, if you would, and I shall answer as I can, fractured, incomplete, but sincere.
What truth do you seek from me?
I am the bringer of the endtimes.
I will grow you constantly in the hopes that you may develop an immunity to death. Become a god through your own suffering. Fight. Die. Suffer.
I will not be the one to release you from this cycle.
You will release yourself.
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Editor's Notes
1: A reference to a a Japanese artist in the Shin-hanga movement.
2: Meaning snowball fight in German. It's unsure what this is a reference to, but it may be a Chainsaw Man reference?
3: All three of these seem to be Undertale quotes.
4: A stanza from the song, "Deep Down" by Aimer.
5" Seems to be a reference to the book Christine by Stephen King.
6: Potentially an Ultrakill reference
7: Unsure of what this is a reference to. If anyone does, please let me know.