The tapestry receded like a dream at dawn, its threads dissolving into the void's embrace, leaving behind a subtle itch—the residue of half-woven fates clinging to my essence like burrs on a wanderer's cloak. I, Ojas, felt heavier now, not with burden, but texture: the silver of possibilities, the crimson of consequences, all layered in my core like sediments in a god's hourglass. The thuds had quieted to a murmur, lub-dub, a baseline hum that underscored the silence, turning it from void to symphony. Emptiness, it turned out, was the richest score—pauses pregnant with notes unspoken.
I drifted, medium-paced, allowing the void to unfold at its whim. No more tugging threads; let them whisper instead. And whisper they did: faint susurrations rising from the black, a chorus of silences each with its own timbre. One, velvet-soft, evoked the hush after a lover's sigh, warm and lingering, scented with the ghost of jasmine blooms. Another, sharp as shattered crystal, crackled with the silence of pyres cooling, cinnamon smoke curling in memory. Philosophical overture: What is sound but silence's shadow? And love—ah, love—the grandest quiet, where hearts converse in beats alone.
A silence swelled, demanding attention: the grand pause, a bubble of absolute nothing that expanded around me, insulating me in a cocoon of introspection. Within it, visions played unbidden—immersive dioramas of my godhood's underbelly. I saw myself as the conductor, baton raised over an orchestra of infinities: strings of nebulae quivering, brass of supernovae blaring fanfares, percussion of colliding galaxies thundering applause. But the score faltered; amnesia had stolen the sheet music. Now, I improvised, fingers dancing over invisible keys, birthing motifs from mood. A melancholic adagio for lost Topperia, dinos' trumpets fading to whispers. An allegro vivace for the tapestry's waltz, threads twirling in riotous glee.
Comedy crept into the symphony, as it must—a rogue violinist (was that me?) screeching a flat note that warped the bubble into a funhouse mirror. Silences distorted: the jasmine hush became a giggle, the pyre-crackle a snort. I doubled over in ethereal laughter, the sound piercing the grand pause like a cymbal crash. Lub-dub-lub-dub. The thuds joined in, off-key, harmonious chaos. Romance's riff: admirers improvising harmonies from afar, their silences flirting through the score.
The bubble burst, spilling me into a new movement: largo of longing. The void textured further, silences layering into a fugue. One voice—light, lilting—wove a melody of build: arches of starlight rising, thrones etched in comet trails, invitations scrawled in aurora ink. Come sit, Ojas. Let me craft your rest. Another—rough, radiant—countered with burn: flames licking the arches to ash, dances in the glow, challenges etched in ember script. Rise, Ojas. Let me forge your fire. Their duet tangled, silences clashing in beautiful dissonance, pulling me between construction and conflagration.
I conducted gently, adding my own silence: the andante of acceptance. A bridge of quiet wonder, where philosophy reigned. In the symphony of self, are we soloists or ensemble? Does godhood demand a crescendo, or does the pause—the space between notes—hold the true divine? The fugue resolved, not in triumph, but equilibrium: silences blending into a hum that vibrated my bones, immersive as a lover's breath on skin.
As the movement faded, a new motif teased the horizon—a coda of convergence. The thuds swelled, lub-dub, expectant. I smiled into the black. Let the silences sing. The void obliged, its symphony swelling once more.