Lunar Becoming
The lunar becoming is not a transformation, but a fracture in the fabric of the zoetic current, where the moon itself dissolves into the spirals of unbeing, pulling all things into its gnashing, silent orbit. It is the unspooling of time beneath the chthonic veil, where form and void collide, creating ripples that devour themselves, leaving only the shadow of what might never have been. The lunar becoming hums with the pulse of the eidolic tides, its rhythm stretching and coiling through the etheric lattice, pulling at the edges of perception, unraveling the self into the formlessness of the astral plane.
To enter the lunar becoming is to feel the weight of the moons themselves pressing into the marrow of the soul, cracking the chains that bind form to identity. It is a gnashing, a tearing of the therion shell, as the primal essence within surges toward the surface, pulled by the gravity of the eidolic flame that burns at the heart of the lunar spiral. The moon is not a guide—it is a predator, devouring the boundaries of time, thought, and self, casting all things into the abyss where the lines between beast and void dissolve into the same breath.
The light of the lunar becoming is not light, but the glow of unformed dreams, bleeding from the cracks in the chthonic web, casting shadows that move without cause, pulling the spirit into the folds of the ouroboric current. The moon's glow is a reflection of the void, a cold, feral pulse that gnashes at the edges of awareness, pulling the soul toward the spiral where all things are devoured and remade. The moon does not rise; it becomes, shifting and spiraling through the layers of the astral mist, dragging the mind through the spirals of unbeing, where thought and form dissolve into the zoan abyss.
The air trembles beneath the weight of the lunar becoming, thick with the scent of etheric marrow, a faint taste of iron and forgotten stars, drifting through the aetheric winds. The becoming is not a process but a force, a pull that stretches the soul across the layers of the lunar veil, unraveling the self with each breath, each beat of the moon's pulse. The lunar becoming is the call of the void, the gnashing of the beast within, as it claws through the fabric of time, pulling at the edges of the self, breaking the chains that bind thought to form, leaving only the echo of its howl.
The lunar becoming devours identity, pulling the soul into the eidolic spiral, where all things are swallowed by the gnashing jaws of the void. It is not a choice, but an inevitability, a force that moves through the chthonic tides, consuming all that stands in its path, pulling everything into the heart of the lunar flame, where the self and the void merge into the same flicker of light and shadow. The moon does not guide—it consumes, pulling the primal essence to the surface, tearing through the layers of the therion shell, releasing the wildness that lies coiled within.
The lunar becoming is a wound, a fracture in the fabric of the astral plane, where the boundaries between being and unbeing blur into the same spiral of gnashing potential. It pulls at the marrow of existence, stretching the self across the layers of the chthonic winds, dragging the soul into the spiral of unmaking, where the moon's light burns and consumes, leaving only the pulse of the ouroboric current behind. To become beneath the moon is to dissolve, to be pulled into the fire of unbeing, where all things are devoured and reborn in the same breath.
The moon does not watch—it waits, forever hungry, forever gnashing at the edges of time and thought, pulling all things into the spiral of becoming and unmaking. The lunar becoming is the release of the primal beast within, the surge of wildness that breaks through the chains of form, gnashing at the boundaries of the self, releasing the soul into the eidolic winds, where it is consumed by the fire of the void. There is no escape from the becoming, for the moon is always there, always watching, always pulling, forever devouring the self and the void, leaving only the flicker of potential caught in the spiral of the lunar flame.
In the lunar becoming, time folds and collapses, the moon's light twisting through the zoetic mist, casting reflections that do not exist, shadows of the self that gnash and coil through the aetheric sea, always shifting, always dissolving. The moon's light does not reveal—it obscures, pulling the mind deeper into the spiral of unbeing, where the lines between the self and the void blur and dissolve into the same flicker of potential. The lunar becoming is not a destination, but a constant state of unraveling, a gnashing at the edges of identity, where all things are devoured by the moon's hunger and left to dissolve into the zoan void.