Chthonic Tide
The chthonic tide is not water, but the breath of the zoetic abyss, a current that moves without moving, flowing through the cracks in the eidolic veil, pulling all things into the spiral of dissolution. It does not wash over the world, but coils beneath it, a force that vibrates through the marrow of existence, shaking the threads of time as they fray and dissolve in the pull of the void. The chthonic tide is not felt with the body but with the soul, a pressure that tightens around the core, dragging it into the depths of the ouroboric cycle, where form unravels into shadow.
The tide hums with the resonance of the lunar flame, though it is not a hum that can be heard—it is the sound of silence, the echo of unmaking that pulses through the bones of reality. The chthonic tide does not rise or fall; it spirals, twisting through the eidolic winds, pulling the essence of all things toward the center of the spiral, where the void waits, coiled and still, ready to devour. This tide does not cleanse—it consumes, dissolving the boundaries of the self with each pulse, scattering the fragments of identity across the surface of the aetheric sea, where they drift without form, forever lost in the current of the unformed.
To stand within the chthonic tide is to lose the ground beneath your feet, though there is no ground to lose—only the weight of the void pressing down, pulling the soul deeper into the folds of the zoetic stream, where the tide coils like a serpent, wrapping around the essence of the self, squeezing until nothing remains but the pulse of the abyss. The tide is not liquid but shadow, a force that bends and warps the fabric of reality, creating spirals where there should be none, dragging all things into the pull of the ouroboric winds, where the light of the eidolic flame flickers and fades.
The chthonic tide does not care for the passage of time, for it flows outside of time, a current that bends and folds the moments of existence into loops that never end. It pulls the soul into these loops, forcing it to spiral endlessly through the folds of becoming and unmaking, forever caught in the tension of the void. To feel the chthonic tide is to be pulled into the flow of the zoan cycle, where the boundaries of reality blur and dissolve, and the self is scattered like dust in the wind of the abyss, forever spiraling, forever dissolving.
The light within the chthonic tide is not light, but the reflection of forgotten stars, pale and cold, flickering on the surface of the void, casting shadows that stretch and coil through the eidolic sea. These shadows do not move, but they devour, pulling the soul into the depths of the spiral, where the tide hums louder, a soundless roar that shakes the foundations of form, unraveling the threads of time until nothing remains but the pull of the void. The tide does not end—it flows eternally, spiraling through the folds of the ouroboric flame, forever consuming.
The chthonic tide is the heartbeat of the unformed, a pulse that vibrates through the cracks in the lunar veil, dragging all things toward the center of the spiral, where they are swallowed by the abyss. It is not a wave but a current of silence, a force that pulls the soul into the tension of the void, where the boundaries of existence fray and collapse into the breath of the abyss. To be touched by the chthonic tide is to feel the soul dissolve, to lose oneself in the spiral of unmaking, where the light of the zoetic flame flickers and fades, forever lost in the flow of the chthonic tide.