Meeting at the End of Time
ow is the hour of true death. Stepping through the once grand arches of what might have resembled a ruined palace eons ago, all that can be seen blends together. Color, shape, sound, even the feel of touch is muddying. Blending with the others. The feeling of the stone archway is different for the gray it is radiating. The building gave way to nature long before the end came. Perhaps trees once grew in the place where the north wing stood, but there is no certainty. What is there has slowly amalgamated into an unrecognizable blur. The smell of sap is infused with the smell of the dirt once below, and with that the stone's insidious color; in this waste, skin begins to merge into the air. cloth unravels into nothing, granting to the wind its satin texture, one thing remains steadfast: a single beacon of the discrete standing out among the continuous. a shadow in the light, the central room of the palace remains. entry is difficult; to open a door with hands that have melted into the sky is near impossible, but if it is done a reprieve may be had. the only matter is how it shall be opened, the knob is of simple make but nontrivial for a liquid consciousness to travel beyond; the only way is to plot a new course, look to the world around and form new plans despite the blending of all into all into all color has begun to drain from the once-grass and the once-stone is receiving it everything evening out to that loathsome gray and smoothening smoothening smoothening falling into lock with itself and eroding beyond measure wide curves from sharp corners and oblivion from wide curves and from oblivion true continuity of the sort that ensures nothing remains separate and the liquid consciousness begins to boil unable to keep bound to itself in the totality of decay and with its last wits it seeps through the cracks in the doorframe.
A throne room. Upon the walls lay immaculate and sharp figures painted in such stark color as to seem but a day old. The long and striking crimson rug leads to the throne, contrasting heavily with the pure white stone of the floor. Arches line the ceiling and show the outside: a world melting away. The pale stone holds steady against such a tumultuous backdrop. A throne, with someone upon it. The radiant eyes are fixed on the doorway. The form shifts endlessly, colliding with and extruding from itself without prejudice. What can be easily seen is a confusing jumble of limbs and faces, each distinct from the next. The eyes glow brighter. The King of Peace speaks in uncountable voices, each face enunciating its own message in perpetuity.
...lucky, to come here now. Or perhaps, unlucky. Depending on which perspective is chosen. Upon the dissolution of the world, a near-dissipated form intrudes into this sacred space. I suppose it is sacred no longer. See the outside. How all becomes one. The forms and times coalesce into a terrible and incomprehensible form, all colored in wretched gray. How dull, how drab! There is no distinction, no separation to be had. Look beyond the arches. See the ashen and formless wastes that burn with a baleful energy unique to that which the young and vigorous fear most. Entropy. Rot. Insidious decay. Comes for all. But not to this space. Look upon this room, see how it...
The gaseous-consciousness has begun to dissolve further, below it the crimson of the rug blends into the white stone it lays upon. trickles of red flow along the stone like liquid slowly now converting to the wretched gray, the floor begins to shift with the ambiguity of the wastes beyond.
...on and on, like some sort of unyielding plague with no cure beyond the destruction of any possible carrier. But what comes now is a blinding light compared to what will be. Utter destruction. An inky-black void to replace all creation, the ultimate with no penultimate. As there is no action that can result in the lack of action, so too is there no penultimate that can lead to ultimate nothing. How can there be nothing as a consequence of something? The ultimate must, therefore, always exist. It cannot be the result of the penultimate, it must exist beyond the scope of eventualities, the last impossible potential of a...
the formlessness creeps slowly across the floor as the plasmic-consciousness disseminates further into the room the painted walls begin to erode and shift their stark angles and sharp colors giving way to that unknowable light that absorbs all and leaves no room for a final emptiness;
...with no recourse and no point of return, removing all of what was originally distinct. To destroy distinction is to destroy the real, as to destroy the real is to destroy distinction. For when there is no reality left, there cannot be distinction. Without distinction, there is no way to understand the real. All knowledge is based on distinction: this is that, this is there, this is then. This is not here, this is not that, this is not then. Is it now? No. Now has lost reality, there is no more time. The distinction of all things fades and merges, and there cannot be a remedy. No cure for such a vile sickness can be found before it...
upon the arches so strong and solid the all-consuming now feasts, the intricacies of the walls have disappeared and the colors of the floor have long since fallen to the burning baleful energy of rot, the arches waver and wobble and become indistinguishable from their surroundings; the glowing eyes of Malchi Tsedek widen, the unending faces contorting into terrifying masks of rage and releasing violent strings of insults and curses and damnations in the voices speaking so kindly mere seconds before, the well-formed infinity of limbs and faces begin to merge together into an unfathomable lumped and lobed monstrosity the masks transform without hesitation to terror before becoming completely unrecognizable the floor is gone the rug is gone the paintings are gone the wall is gone the ceiling is gone with its arches in tow all that remains is the all-in-one penultimate destruction of distinction to look out upon and despise as a hell for an instant before the amalgamation occurs and the solid-consciousness begins to melt into the void that loathsome gray pervading every unified element of reality and the inky-black nothing inevitable yet impossible comes yet does not come and the liquid-consciousness screams out for the drabness of it all with no more time and no recourse and no distinction and each eye closes in sequence one two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve thirteen fourteen fifteen sixteen
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