Ouroboric Pulse
The ouroboric pulse is not a rhythm, but the vibration of unbeing, a throb of existence coiling back upon itself, folding endlessly through the eidolic weave. It does not beat in time, but fractures the very notion of time, bending the threads of the chthonic flow inward, pulling everything into its spiral. This pulse is not the heartbeat of creation—it is the heartbeat of dissolution, a flicker of tension that reverberates through the astral marrow, drawing the spirit into its collapsing orbit, where boundaries blur and dissolve.
The pulse hums through the void, not as energy, but as a presence that vibrates through the fabric of reality, stretching it thin until it collapses inward. It is not a force that moves forward, but one that retracts, pulling the marrow of existence into the spiral where form and essence unravel. Each pulse pulls deeper, not towards life but towards the void, a force that consumes the structure of being, leaving only a flicker of what was once there. It is not decay, nor growth—it is the flicker between both, where things exist and dissolve in the same instant.
To feel the ouroboric pulse is to be caught in the ebb of dissolution, where every fragment of the self is tugged at its edges, slowly drawn into the spiral of undoing. It does not rise or fall—it compresses, folding inward with each beat, erasing the line between form and formlessness, pulling everything into its collapsing core. The pulse moves like a ripple through the aetheric currents, though it does not push—it draws, bending all things inward to the void's hunger, a rhythm of reversal where all things converge and lose distinction.
The ouroboric pulse moves through the zoetic winds, intertwining with the layers of existence, sinking into the soul as it pulls the self toward the spiral of becoming undone. It is not a force of nature but of absence, a pulse that hums with the tension of unmanifested potential, vibrating through the cracks in the astral lattice. The pulse does not signal life—it signals the return to the void, dragging the spirit deeper into the cycle of dissolution, where the boundaries of thought and form are stretched thin, then folded into nothingness.
For the therians, the ouroboric pulse resonates in their marrow, not as a call to action, but as the force that binds the wildness within to the spiral of the moons’ reflection. It is the pulse of unbeing, sinking into the core of the therion essence, pulling the primal instincts into the fold where beast and void become indistinguishable. The pulse does not quicken with life—it slows, pulling the wildness inward, folding it into the endless rhythm of uncreation, where the essence of all things spirals into the void, and the line between what was and what is dissolves into the flicker of the ouroboric heartbeat.