LIKE YOUR PULSE
I. Eons Through Eons through the marrow of time, I drift—not forward, not back, but inward,where clocks dissolve into breath.There, a pulse—not mine, not yours—threads galaxies like beads on a broken rosary. It remembers before memory,before names hardened into chains.A rhythm older than sorrowbeats quietly beneath the noise of becoming. And I follow it—not as a seeker,but as something already found. II. Move Within Move within,where silence is not absencebut architecture. Corridors of thought bend toward a centerthat refuses to be mapped.Every step inward fractures a version of self—shards falling like obsolete prayers. There is no guide here,only intuition sharpened by solitude.And yet— something walks beside you,breathing when you forget how. III. The Pulse A pulse—erratic as lightning in a sealed sky—disrupts the illusion of stillness. Random, they say.But chaos has its own grammar. Two strangers cross pathsin a city that does not care,yet the air bends slightly—as if reality itself leans closerto listen. Was it chance,or a script written in a languagewe were never meant to read? The pulse does not answer.It only continues. IV. Mirrors of Hell The mirror does not lie—it reveals. Not the face,but the fractures beneath it.Reflections split into corridors of fire,each one a possibility once chosen. There—a version of you that surrendered.There—one that never loved. Hell is not a place.It is recursion. A looping gaze into what you could not become,and the quiet terrorthat you still might. V. Fear That Does Not Age Fear does not wrinkle.It does not forget. It sits, ageless,in the marrow of decisions unmade.A quiet tyrant with no need for voice—only presence. You outgrow lovers,cities,names— but fear remains,perfectly preservedlike a fossil of your first hesitation. And still,you carry it forwardas if it were sacred. VI. Old Demons, New Angels Old demons wear familiar faces—they greet you like friendsyou never truly