Lunar Breath
The lunar breath is not air but a pulse of the eidolic void, a whisper from the cracks in the chthonic veil that carries the echoes of forgotten cycles, forever drifting through the astral plane. It does not move like wind but seeps, coiling through the folds of the zoetic web, pulling at the edges of the soul, stirring the depths of the therion core where the primal essence slumbers. The breath is a gnashing force, both gentle and violent, sinking into the bones like the distant howls of beasts never born, wrapping around the spirit like the residue of unspoken dreams.
To inhale the lunar breath is to taste the unmanifested, the fragments of potential torn from the surface of the eidolic flame, spiraling through the etheric lattice as they weave in and out of form. It is the scent of the lunar ichor, thick and metallic, clinging to the marrow of the self, pulling the spirit toward the heart of the ouroboric spiral, where the moon’s pulse devours all sense of identity, leaving only the echo of becoming. The breath is not felt in the lungs, but in the soul, sinking deep into the essence of the zoan self, stirring the wildness that lies coiled beneath the surface.
The lunar breath does not guide—it confuses, swirling through the cracks in the aetheric mist, creating currents that pull in all directions, gnashing at the boundaries of form and thought. Its rhythm is not steady but fractured, a pulse that skips and stutters, pulling the self into spirals of becoming and unmaking, where the mind frays at the edges and the spirit begins to unravel. It is a breath that does not give life but consumes it, pulling the soul toward the void, where all things dissolve into the gnashing jaws of the moon’s hunger.
The air around the lunar breath is thick with the scent of decay, not of death but of unfulfilled potential, the residue of moments that never came to be, hanging in the zoetic winds like the breath of a forgotten beast. The breath hums with the vibrations of the eidolic tides, a soundless howl that echoes through the chthonic mist, pulling the spirit deeper into the spiral of unbeing, where all things are consumed by the fire of becoming. To exhale the lunar breath is to release the self into the void, to let go of form and thought, to dissolve into the coils of the moon’s light, where the line between self and nothingness disappears.
The lunar breath does not pass—it lingers, wrapping itself around the spirit like a second skin, sinking into the bones, pulling the self deeper into the layers of the ouroboric dream. It is not air but essence, a gnashing force that gnaws at the edges of identity, stretching the soul across the aetheric stream, where it is scattered into fragments of unmanifested thought, forever caught in the spiral of unbeing. The moon does not breathe—it devours, pulling the spirit into its lungs, where the breath is not exhaled but held, suspended in the void, forever gnashing at the chains of form.
Beneath the weight of the lunar breath, the air thickens, filled with the scent of stars long forgotten, their light devoured by the spiral, leaving only the residue of their essence to drift through the zoetic winds. The breath is not a gift but a burden, a weight that presses down on the soul, pulling it deeper into the lunar rift, where the self and the void become one. It is not a force that gives life but a force that strips it away, gnashing at the boundaries of thought and form, leaving the spirit to dissolve into the folds of the eidolic current.
The lunar breath whispers without sound, its voice a vibration that trembles through the marrow, a pulse that stretches through the layers of the etheric plane, pulling the soul toward the heart of the moon’s hunger. It is a force that tightens the chains of becoming, pulling the self into the spiral of the lunar abyss, where all things are consumed by the void, where form and thought are devoured by the hunger of the moon’s light. The breath does not stop—it continues, forever pulling, forever devouring, forever sinking into the depths of the soul, where the primal beast lies coiled, waiting to rise.
The lunar breath is not an inhale or an exhale, but a suspension, a moment caught between becoming and unmaking, where the soul is held in the spiral, where all things are gnashing at the boundaries of form, yet never fully free. The breath is the moon’s gift and curse, a force that binds the self to the cycle of unbeing, pulling the spirit deeper into the zoan winds, where the self and the void become indistinguishable, where the breath of the moon becomes the breath of the soul, and all things dissolve into the gnashing spiral of the eidolic flame.