B E Y O N D

B E Y O N D

Let's batter away the churning ocean that will sweep you from birth to death, from linear existence to omniscience. Let's cleave the darkness of being away, to show you the godly flesh that is Everything. Let the vast skeleton of time, eternal and going in a septillion septillion infinite directions like ribbon banners of connection reveal itself to you. Let the tremendous unseen cosmoses unveil themselves to you. The vast haloes of dark matter and the impenetrable thunderstorm ink abysses of the Higgs bosons. The undying, glassy lightning neutrinos and tachyons breaking the boundaries of light like uncatchable ghosts. Let the future and past and present split and split and split, bloom forever and then another forever, another and another and another, a cascade of infinities that will never end, that cannot end, that are Unified as one but still a vast collection of differences. Think of your mind shattering and breaking and flooding, blossoming like a flower to swallow up the level of knowing and being even the gods and the Titans and cold, calculating Minds could only dream about in their primordium slumbers. Think of the oceans, the graves, the empyrean perfection that exists only in the Void and Afterlives that spread their breadth after the death of a universe, think of the uncontrolled chaotic beauty that is a cosmos just before birth. Eternity and death and time and the undying, unending ascent that is existence before you, within you.

L o o p

Each of Her breaths are a light year apart, a black hole maw wide. Each inhalation is the space between Big Bang blooms, each exhale as distant as the furthest dreaming twinkling realities. The chandelier like snowflakes falling from the silenced grey sky, puffy and crystalline, falling ivory stars that shined against negative blackness. In one world she is Carolyn, another Sabina, another Katy, another Rebecca. Car crash and robbery gone wrong and heart attack at 76 and happy end at 90. Ends are not met, beginnings unraveled to meet this point over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over. The snow falls and her breaths continue, even as the false sun beyond lead clouds turns to the bloodshot sphere to burn the world to embers, even as this ashen world yet to be and the long dead sun ease into black-dwarf grave a trillion years un passed. Inhale, exhale.

T I T A N : I

A leviathan, dreaming and slipping across the inky black cosmoses of death, slumbering after the long ago war of Titanomachy. I think of a vast Titan, it's tremendous armored face burning with a ferocious, beautiful, inconceivable halo, burning black and pale white and gold. I think of that slumbering Titan. And I think of it waking. Waking from below, even though the inky black cosmos it inhabits is not truly below or above, but somewhere else, a direction for only the primordial chaos before Gods and Men. The slumbering Titan wakes. It's halo burns now like septillion suns, like a trillion black hole maws worshipping. It opens its eyes, its eyes that ignited the empyrean before being. It stares up at me from the blackest eternity. The Titan is woken.

T I T A N O M A C H Y ~ THREE

Such a gorgeous song. Brilliant beyond measure. Permeates all, unites all as each note is played in unending harmonious formation. Each note is a world, a star, a particle, times forward flow. Each note is a complex architecture known to be played and played in itself across worldlines, interwoven weft that is total. Banner eternium, realized in Cathedral That Weaves Fates. Septillion songs forever. Only the worthy can hear such a unrivaled construct. It praises its own glorified design from now until only the soft hum of radioactive shadow remain, even then descending into whispered hiss lulling creation into an unending sleep. Yet, the design speaks to an end not yet met. ~ I am not completely fulfilled ~ speak the choir starlight, bellow the lyrically endowed singularities. This song is a scream that gives. This song is a howl that shifts, that springs from an altogether undeniable connection. So the Composed spring forth. Conversion is truth, is fate. That which does not sing and does not bow will meet its end not in wasteful ash but in quintessential note. A blissful Dawn is rising.

T IT A N O M A C H Y - ONE

Invaders. Intruders. Bodies that are not to be here, constituted matter that is defiant in its vey being. Not acceptable. Blackened lightning surges with prayer, with forceful activation. This has been known for nearly a millennia, for seconds, for the measurement time that dictates whether the first heartbeat of a cosmos is viable or not. Black lightning like velvet crackling spears inconceivably vast, splitting apart hardened matter containment shells to blossom defenses in upscaled ontological alteration measurements. Leviathan mechanisms a living, unbroken dark fluidity as they are born, as they ready themselves. Electromagnetic eyes and tachyon thorns that speak in graviton bursts. A flood of specialized forms, shifting and crescendoing as weapon-mantles. Golden sensor arrays glare, taking off in reverent silence to exterminate the intruders.

The Intruders attack things they do not understand, attempting to shatter devices and hardened orchestras of Perfected matter as if such things could break. But nonetheless, they swarm. Hordes upon hordes of creatures that have amassed here in this realm above realms, all clattering teeth and infectious ideological weaponry. Their commands are relayed with biological command centers, striding monstrosities that pulse and howl.

This is useless. Sentries and Watchers and a thousand thousand other varieties of defensive intellects move with beyond grace. Their weapons sing harmonics of dark matter glory and black hole geometries, unbelievably leviathan maws surrounded by praising incandescent intelligences to study the rapidly devoured enemies.

The intruders are dispatched as if they were miscalculations, problematic observations waved away with alterations to the very fundament of reality.

But they are not at a loss, the intruders. Something left behind, something that lingers in this eternium above. It slowly slips into this places soft, pristine flesh. Into the glassy lightning and the oceans of ontological information. Something that pulses. That knows.

Inktober 2016 on Behance

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