Ouroboric Tide
The ouroboric tide is not water, nor motion, but the silent pull of reversal, a wave of dissolution that folds back upon itself, erasing the line between ebb and flow. It does not rise or fall—it retracts, spiraling inward, pulling the essence of all things into its endless current of unbeing. The tide is a force without direction, coiling through the eidolic streams, dissolving the very concept of distance, pulling the astral threads into a loop where beginning and end spiral together, consumed by the same breath of unmaking.
The tide hums with a presence that vibrates through the chthonic layers, a pulse that does not surge forward but collapses, bending space and time into a spiral of return. It pulls without motion, an unseen force that draws all things into its fold, not to cleanse but to dissolve. The tide does not wash over—it absorbs, swallowing form and formlessness alike, twisting the boundary between existence and void until neither can be distinguished. It is not the cycle of the sea, but the cycle of undoing, an eternal wave that carries nothing but the echo of its own erasure.
To feel the ouroboric tide is to be drawn into the undertow of absence, where every fragment of self and thought is pulled into the spiral of dissolution. It does not crash against the shores of reality—it seeps, sinking into the marrow of the astral plane, pulling all it touches into the same loop of becoming undone. The tide is not water but a force that stretches the fabric of being, bending it into a vortex where motion and stillness are swallowed together, leaving only the flicker of the moons' reflection spiraling through the void.
The tide moves not with waves, but with a pull that drags the soul deeper into the core of the spiral, where the line between presence and absence dissolves into the current. It does not push the spirit forward, but pulls it inward, folding the self into the void’s reflection, where the wildness of the therion essence is absorbed into the endless cycle of dissolution. The tide does not cleanse—it devours all distinction, pulling everything into the same spiral, where the boundary between form and nothingness collapses into the flicker of uncreation.
The ouroboric tide hums with a silence that vibrates through the zoetic winds, sinking into the essence of being, pulling it into the endless loop of return. It does not surge with power, but with the pull of unbeing, a force that draws everything toward the void’s center, where the very idea of distance or separation is dissolved in the spiral. The tide is not a wave of water, but a wave of absence, forever folding inward, pulling the self and the universe into the same cycle of erasure, where all things are unmade and reformed in the flicker of ouroboric return.