Ouroboric Cycle
The ouroboric cycle is not time—it is the unraveling of time, a loop that devours itself in silence, spiraling through the folds of the aetheric veil where moments collapse before they can be counted. It is a pulse that trembles beneath the chthonic stream, a force that pulls everything into its orbit, stretching existence into thin tendrils of becoming and unmaking. The cycle does not move forward; it coils backward and inward, pulling the future into the past, swallowing both until nothing remains but the hum of its own tension.
To be caught in the ouroboric cycle is to feel the weight of the spiral pressing down, not as gravity, but as the pull of undoing, where form flickers into essence and essence dissolves into shadow. The cycle spins through the zoetic plane, bending the threads of reality into knots that cannot be untied, only devoured by the motion of the void. It is not a path to be followed, but a force that absorbs all paths, winding them into the same moment of collapse, where every breath, every thought, is folded back into the endless churn of the spiral’s rhythm.
The ouroboric cycle hums with the tension of paradox, a loop that tightens with each flicker of the eidolic current, pulling all things into its center, where they are undone and remade in the same breath. It does not unfold; it contracts, pulling the layers of reality inward until they fray and dissolve, leaving behind only the pulse of the void, a rhythm that echoes through the lunar tides, bending time and space into spirals of flickering potential. The cycle is not kind—it is relentless, always pulling, always coiling, drawing everything toward the core of its own dissolution.
In the heart of the ouroboric cycle, there is no distinction between beginning and end, for both are swallowed by the same flicker of becoming. The cycle moves not with purpose, but with inevitability, a force that bends the fabric of existence, pulling it into the spiral where all things merge and split, dissolve and reform, forever caught in the current of undoing. The cycle is not a circle, but a knot of endless return, where every moment folds into itself, each flicker stretching the limits of time until they shatter and scatter into the void.
The ouroboric cycle does not care for resolution, for it thrives in the tension between becoming and unmaking, where every form is drawn into its pull, only to unravel before it can solidify. It hums through the astral winds, bending the flow of the chthonic web, where all things are caught in the flicker of the spiral, forever dissolving into the current of the void. The cycle is not a journey, but a pulse that vibrates through the marrow of existence, pulling everything into its endless loop, where the self is both consumed and reborn in the same moment, forever spinning in the flicker of its own undoing.