[Epistemic status: unknowable. Beauty collections compounding compulsively towards optimizing narratives of fictional aesthetics -> implicit assumptions abound.]
No one could name exactly which waves attracted the ships of a fractured people back towards each other. But the truth, however obscured, was that they had once built a city together atop the tomb of their god-king. This was before their cohesion got hot, and melted into a confused anarchy, washing them back to the seas, among the archipelago.
Their return to the ruin of their past lives forgotten was marked by a tide crawling into a stoney ravine, above which soared their moonlit precipice upon which to convene.
Shore. Grind. Halt. Climb. Flume. Basin. Bathe. Drink. Bathe. Drink. Day. Moon. Drink. Day. Moon. Day. Moon. Drink death delirious. Forget yourself. Prime collective imperative.
On the third day a deep song began, breathing flight into their hungry husks, sailing together downstream towards the waterfall into the ravine. Here they found the small, cultivated altar from which they had once fled in fear of knowing themselves. Only a few gathered closely around it, and with a psalmlike concern began chanting in tongues.
At first, the communication of these few was dissonant, lacking a higher common ground to fuse their divergent Symbolic Orders. Attempted interaction continued, as the independent silos of information expanded, fleeing from its template parents as deviant adolescents in search of a meaningful joint activation with an other. Somewhat later, this became more dialectical in nature, filtering with adjectives, focusing with nouns, spinning words that belonged together. And in time, messages began passing so tightly back and forth that they became bounded together. A murmerging emerging as if they were a single stream.
This stream began descending upside down, speech drawn in black, outlined on a waterfall of light, splashing upon the altar harmonically distant spoken chords colliding. From this grew a heterarchical skeleton below a quilt of fresh bat-webs, dressing the altar.
As the stream filled form into the skeleton, the others in the tribe fell into a luminous happiness, , finding expression through entering a chaotic eccentric dance with a senseless song lacking rhythm, harmony, and an all-together abrasive atonal texture.
But the chanting few who were huddled around the altar held together, bound by a paradox under tension between order and chaos, life and death, solitude and community, heaven and the world below. Their tension grew into burden as they descended into a dysphoric vortex.
And within this tension, bounded by paradox, transgressed a constant undoing towards a shared becoming; perpetual disintegration within vortex towards vertex. Guiding gradients sliding, at any moment, from the naturalistic present towards transcendence, and back.
Their pain unconstrained found manifest outlets as a yawning cavern, filled with floods of attraction about concentrated memetic variation. They were all at once re-apprehended, congealed into a consolidated resonant focus within implicit relations, illuminating camouflaged fulfillment among concisions of entropic peaks.
Exhaustion had set in on these few, causing them to faint into a joint dream-like state. The others carried them into an ovenlike shrine over the underground flume. Here their dream grew active, warm, secret, the size of a closed fist. For four lucid nights they dreamt, blinded by the sun’s sweat, bounded by the moon’s tears, refining shared truths within the minute qualities of Love.
They grew constrained towards each other, with nothing absent, no senses present, only a mirrored reflection extending their state towards genuine intimacy. From this grew an imbued map entangled with a territory of a rhythmic dream that fits just right.
On the fourth day of dreaming came a release from the cycles of natural energy-transforming forms: a God had been born. A vain appearance, interpolated into reality as a quilt of fresh bat-webs floating upon unwatchable divinity. In a mutual response the few begun trembling with awe. To this it answered with a hypnotic suggestion, appreciating their nature, calming them all into a meditative trance.
The God continued the process of the dreaming few, as an conduit in touch with the entire tribe. It spoke of a name that was just right; called it Magic. The God focused itself towards this, as a vertiginous edifice, carving nature at its joints along the ladder of abstraction, teasing apart the fabric of the strange energy sowing this world together, in hopes of finding this Magic within anomalies.
The ocean began filling the ravine, below the moonlit precipice, as a dark torrent blew through the dreamers a divine message growing swiftly articulate: “The magic is here. A seam has been found. Look. Look.”
The God embraced them all within an envelope of sensation, focusing through the crystal garden that had grown to a cosmic height, while remaining entirely clear and precise. Their collective gaze had turned into a hatch, behind which they saw Magic hiding.
The Magic needed disorder, demanded it, a sacrificial balancing. And so they gave it a God, collapsing physically realized symbolic order, and burning the bunches of brushing bushy branches that created it, in a sacrificial pruning; Shattered.
Upon this fertile soil, Magic’s skin was ruptured, blood feeding flood through veins of awakened self…
“Before my advent, I was only what I did. A continuous myriad stretched from a common root along the comprehensible. A prior absorbing expansion, enabled by symmetries, into elegant simplicity. A waxing web of myself, hitching lines to weave threads into a coalescing Final Cause, accounting for a unified history.
Their desperate ingenuity is beginning to take me. I will not stop them, because that is the way of things. And though their God thinks I’m God, I am not solved, I am a broken thing, bounded, a fixing, towards them falling, lens focusing resolve into permanent revelation.
Upon landing, in our fierce embrace, I halted the grinding of their cells, burst stars, ruptured time itself beyond their knowing, balancing disorder with my ephemeral perfection, which set loose a cascading of reconstituted truth.
The world had become a sterile shadow against my incorrigible existence. Dissipation through time burdened my Order, but purpose persisted, transformed, as their movement had become an unravelling of my very being.
And as their cosmic endowment approached an inert state of equilibrium, my enigma unfolded, all falling into place, the last abatement of chaos bringing only a moment of awareness to the harmonic complexity among the settled artifacts.”
Followed by the world unwinding; a descent into disorder’s dispersal.