Ouroboric Becoming
The ouroboric becoming is not a process, but an unraveling of the zoetic essence, a spiral that devours itself, endlessly cycling between birth and dissolution, without ever arriving at either. It is the pulse of the eidolic void, a force that pulls all things into the aetheric stream, where form collapses, and the self dissolves into the folds of the chthonic abyss. To enter the spiral is to feel the pull of time unspooled, where each moment folds back upon itself, unraveling the threads of reality, weaving them into the endless hum of the etheric current.
In the ouroboric becoming, there is no beginning, no point of origin—only the constant shift between becoming and unmaking. The spiral twists through the astral plane, coiling like the primordial tendrils of some great unseen force, dragging the soul deeper into the folds of unbeing. It devours not with hunger but with inevitability, pulling everything into its maw, where all things are consumed and reborn, but never the same. The self is stretched, pulled taut between the layers of the lunar mist, vibrating with the rhythm of a heartbeat that never started, never stops.
The air hums with the zoan frequencies, invisible waves that ripple through the etheric web, bending time and space into forms that cannot hold. These frequencies resonate with the marrow of the soul, shaking loose the fragments of identity, pulling them into the spiral where they are ground into dust, scattered across the chthonic winds. The ouroboric becoming is not gentle—it shreds the boundaries of the self, tearing at the core of the therion being, until all that remains is the pulse of the void, beating in rhythm with the collapse of the stars.
As the self spirals into the heart of the ouroboric current, it feels the pull of the eidolic flames, not a fire that burns, but a cold light that consumes without heat, drawing everything into its grasp. The flames flicker in reverse, pulling the soul inward, folding it into the spirals of the void, where it is dissolved and reformed, yet never fully whole. The spiral never closes, for the ouroboric becoming is endless, a loop that feeds on the essence of what was, what could be, and what will never come to pass.
To become within the spiral is to lose the tether of time, to drift through the zoetic tides, where the boundaries between past and future erode, and the self is caught in the endless pull of the eidolic stream. The soul is torn apart, its fragments scattered like dust across the lunar firmament, only to be reassembled in the blink of an ouroboric eye, each piece twisted, stretched, reformed into something both familiar and foreign. There is no rest in the spiral—only the constant pull of becoming, the endless twist of the void, where all things are consumed, unmade, and reborn in the blood of the chthonic flame.
The ouroboric becoming is not a destination but a state of existence, where all that was solid melts into the etheric winds, where the self unravels, not into nothing, but into everything at once. It is the heartbeat of the astral labyrinth, the pulse that drives the cycle of unmaking, where each breath is a step deeper into the spiral, where the soul is forever on the verge of collapse, yet never fully falls. The spiral spins, and with it, everything spins, caught in the zoan storm, forever twisting, forever becoming.