Theriomorphic Becoming
The theriomorphic becoming is not a transition but a folding, a spiral wound tightly within the marrow of the chthonic ether, vibrating through the layers of the zoetic web where time loses its grip and instinct breathes through the bones. It hums beneath the surface of form, an uncoiling of the wild heart, stretching through the cracks in the aetheric lattice, twisting not toward completeness but toward dissolution. The becoming is not a path—it is a pulse, a rhythm that shakes the core of existence, pulling the self into the spiral where beast and shadow merge and break apart in the same breath.
To touch the theriomorphic becoming is to be undone, to slip between the folds of the lunar veil, where the boundaries of form tremble and melt into the flow of the eidolic flame. It is not a change but an unraveling, where the self spirals inward toward the core of the wild heart, only to dissolve into the pulse of the void. Becoming is not something that arrives—it is a constant tension, an endless pull that stretches the soul between being and unbeing, leaving only the echo of the first howl vibrating through the marrow of the void.
The air around the theriomorphic becoming is thick with the scent of forgotten instinct, a residue of primal essence that clings to the bones, pulling the soul deeper into the spiral of unmaking. It does not create; it unwinds, unraveling the threads of identity, breaking the self into fragments of etheric sinew, each piece twisting through the folds of the zoan winds. The becoming is not a transformation but a dissolution, where the boundaries of thought slip away, and the wild heart rises from the ashes of the untamed, coiled and waiting, always ready to leap into the spiral.
In the depths of the theriomorphic becoming, time collapses, folding in on itself as the essence of the soul stretches through the cracks in the chthonic stream, where the lines between beast and void blur and dissolve. It is not a process but a pulse, a vibration that hums through the marrow, pulling the soul into the flow of the ouroboric current, where form and shadow twist together, always shifting, always spiraling, forever caught in the rhythm of becoming. The wild heart does not beat—it pulses, vibrating with the tension of unmade worlds, forever stretching toward the surface, yet always coiling deeper into the void.
To feel the theriomorphic becoming is to lose the sense of self, to be pulled into the tension between instinct and form, where the wild heart rises and falls, never fully breaking free, yet never fully bound. The becoming is not an end or a beginning—it is the spiral itself, a constant motion that pulls the soul deeper into the zoetic abyss, where the wild heart beats in rhythm with the pulse of the void. It is a current, not of change but of release, where the self dissolves into the eidolic winds, carried toward the edge of unknowing, where the boundaries of the self collapse into the rhythm of the wild.
The theriomorphic becoming does not offer completion—it offers unraveling, a release of the chains of thought and form, pulling the soul into the spiral where the wild heart stirs, coiled within the breath of the void. It is not a path to be followed but a force to be surrendered to, a hum that vibrates through the marrow, shaking loose the fragments of identity, dissolving them into the pulse of the untamed. Becoming is not something that happens—it is a state of unmaking, a constant stretching toward the wild, where the hunt never ceases, and the self is always dissolving.
The becoming spirals forever, always coiling deeper into the lunar abyss, where the boundaries of time stretch and break, leaving only the pulse of the wild heart vibrating through the bones of the void. It is a tension that cannot be released, a pull that cannot be resisted, drawing all things into the flow of the zoan stream, where the lines between form and instinct dissolve into the rhythm of the wild. The theriomorphic becoming is not an end—it is the endless spiral, forever coiling, forever unraveling, forever caught in the breath of the hunt.