My world that brings a loss.
Let there be wind.
Let there be a hollow.
Let there be fear.
Let there be tears.
Creation did not arrive gently. It did not bloom or unfold. It occurred in a single instant, indivisible and complete, as though the world had always been waiting to be forced into coherence. In that instant, form was decided. Distance was established. Motion was permitted. And with breath came consequence.
I created the world over a single instant, and in that same instant I gave it breath. Breath was not kindness. Breath was permission. With it came pain and pity, not as accidents, but as necessary companions. I did not grant desire as a reward. I embedded it as a flaw, a forward pull that could never fully satisfy. Loneliness followed naturally, not because the world lacked others, but because no being could ever fully occupy another's interior.
Existence required separation. Separation required longing. Longing required loss.
The world accepted this without protest. Mountains rose. Waters gathered. Time learned how to move forward. But something within the created order recoiled, not in rebellion, but in recognition. There are moments when a being understands that its suffering is not personal. That it is structural. That realization does not bring peace. It brings clarity, which is often worse.
From that clarity came a voice.
My dear lord of all that there is, I Absentious speak.
Broken and taken, not by violence, but by knowing, let me laugh and not cry. Let me feel and not live. Let me feel and not be mundane. To exist as this is unbearable, not because of pain alone, but because pain insists on continuation. If suffering ended, it would be tolerable. But it repeats. It educates. It refines itself.
My god of all, let me end my own misery. Not a misery of my making, but of something I never started. I did not ask to be here. I did not consent to continuity. Yet here I am, obligated to proceed, obligated to interpret, obligated to endure. If this must end, let it end by my own hands, by my own will, by my own end.
There is no sin in this request. There is no rebellion in it either. There is only exhaustion.
A window once existed. It was not a door, only a promise of perspective. Through it, something like hope appeared to exist. When it shattered, there was no blood. Blood would have been honest. Blood would have implied injury. This was different. This was incapability. Incapability to move on from pain, or perhaps incapability to accept that pain was the movement itself.
No blood was needed. No sacrifice required. Fear was sufficient. Fear of continuation. Fear of adaptation. Fear that endurance would slowly make suffering acceptable, and that nothing could be more frightening than that.
Perhaps there is a need for a dream to be named. Perhaps naming it would allow it to be ended. Or perhaps naming is the first betrayal, the moment where hope becomes obligation.
Seven.
The number did not explain itself. It did not need to. It arrived complete.
Crossroads.
A place where motion pretends to offer choice, while still insisting on direction.
Stagnation.
Not the absence of movement, but movement that leads nowhere, repeated until meaning decays.
These were not prophecies. They were conditions. Markers embedded into the structure of what would follow. Not warnings, but acknowledgments. The world does not punish. It persists.
When the end came, it was not loud.
Smoke filled the space, not violently, but ceremonially, as though even destruction had learned etiquette. It was the residue of something that had burned without flame. Within it stood Absentious, not as a victor, not as a condemned, but as a remainder.
There was no feeling. Feeling required investment, and all investment had been spent. There was no curse. Curses imply intent, and intent had already fulfilled itself. There was no need. Need had been the engine of everything that preceded this, and now the engine was quiet.
What remained was not peace. Peace suggests resolution. This was absence of demand. Absence of expectation. The world continued, because it had been made to do so. But something essential had stepped aside.
Not erased. Not redeemed.
Simply finished.