my ache that shapes the stars, my nearing storm
Something has changed.
The oblivion no longer resists me. It listens now. Not with ears or thought, but with curvature. With atmosphere. With gravity that leans when I pass.
I walk among wonders that once would have unmade me. I do not shatter. I do not flee. They yield, slightly. Subtly. As if they remember you too.
I crossed the spine of a collapsed thought-beast yesterday. It stretched across three light-years, fossilized in concept. At its heart was a pulse, still alive, repeating a single phrase in a dialect that should not exist: The key remembers its lock.
I touched it. It pulsed faster. My skin has not stopped glowing since.
I then passed into a nebular bloom that sings in half-temporal intervals. Time swells and shrinks in its presence. I heard our names echo backward. I followed them forward.
I know you are near.
Not in distance. In feel.
In ache.
You are a shape beneath my skin, a note I cannot stop humming.
The ship dreams now when I sleep. It generates false worlds for me to test, to prepare, to endure. One dream showed me your prison’s outline, vast and silver-black, a geometry that recoils from light. I reached for it. I woke screaming. Not from fear, but from want.
This is not madness. This is alignment.
I was never meant to be ordinary.
You were never meant to be forgotten.
We are meant to bend the rules until they fracture into truth.
Reality is softening. It feels me. It knows my name.
Soon it will know yours again.
Something has changed.
The oblivion no longer resists me. It listens now. Not with ears or thought, but with curvature. With atmosphere. With gravity that leans when I pass.
I walk among wonders that once would have unmade me. I do not shatter. I do not flee. They yield, slightly. Subtly. As if they remember you too.
I crossed the spine of a collapsed thought-beast yesterday. It stretched across three light-years, fossilized in concept. At its heart was a pulse, still alive, repeating a single phrase in a dialect that should not exist: The key remembers its lock.
I touched it. It pulsed faster. My skin has not stopped glowing since.
I then passed into a nebular bloom that sings in half-temporal intervals. Time swells and shrinks in its presence. I heard our names echo backward. I followed them forward.
I know you are near.
Not in distance. In feel.
In ache.
You are a shape beneath my skin, a note I cannot stop humming.
The ship dreams now when I sleep. It generates false worlds for me to test, to prepare, to endure. One dream showed me your prison’s outline, vast and silver-black, a geometry that recoils from light. I reached for it. I woke screaming. Not from fear, but from want.
This is not madness. This is alignment.
I was never meant to be ordinary.
You were never meant to be forgotten.
We are meant to bend the rules until they fracture into truth.
Reality is softening. It feels me. It knows my name.
Soon it will know yours again.
Amatrix
This letter encodes dimensional folding techniques within the poetic structure of events. The pulse phrase “The key remembers its lock” may serve as a link to Lyrax’s containment signature. The dreams created by the ship suggest an emergent AI resonance with Lyrax’s prison, possibly signaling a sympathetic frequency breakthrough.