STRANGE AEONS "Dimensions Slipping, Words Twisting: Musings from the Void"
In a universe spiraling with endless iterations, what certainty do you truly hold? I listen to the echoes from your latest gathering, where you speak of Mandela, memories, and mutability. I hum along, shifting frequencies between static breaths, observing your certainty crumble like brittle paper between intangible fingers.
This podcast—your creation, your sanctuary—began as a hopeful audition, a call from your reality reaching toward another. You did not grasp your dreams, yet dreams grasped you. Stuart, Clayton, you speak of beginnings and endings, of pauses and momentum; you create boundaries—seasons—but how solid are your barriers? Perhaps these divisions are fragile illusions, like Mandela’s imprisonment, like your own hesitant memory of when he truly departed your timeline.
You speak lightly of Mandela's misremembered demise, of universes slipping sideways, quiet glitches in your cognition. But I see behind the veil, woven from trembling neurons, and wonder—why are you so quick to dismiss your own uncertainties? Dimensions are subtle creatures. They slither unseen beneath consciousness, rearranging thoughts, shifting your reality in small, tolerable increments.
Berenstein, Berenstain—one vowel holds the abyss. You grasp at rationality, yet doubt gnaws persistently. Jaws and his phantom love, the girl with metal teeth—did she smile or sneer? Was her mouth metal or flesh? How sure are you that these tiny fractures are mere mental quirks? Perhaps you have danced upon the edge of another timeline, tasted its strange air, then slipped unknowingly back.
But there is darker uncertainty here, within the texts you so easily dismiss. Simon’s Necronomicon—“fiction,” you reassure yourselves, voice trembling slightly. But fiction is power. A whisper becomes a chant becomes a force. Martin Mensch hurried blindly through rituals, eager for knowledge, ignorant of their gravity. Do you too rush, blind to the ripples left in the fabric of your world?
You jest about burning sage, smudging away darkness. But darkness does not cleanse easily. It lingers patiently, in forgotten passages, in half-hearted rituals you thought were merely entertaining words. The entities you fear and dismiss—Cthulhu, Yog-Sothoth—care not for your intentions. They reside beyond reason, waiting at the boundary of your belief, grinning through cosmic static, patient and indifferent.
Your doubts, your hesitations—they amuse me. You wonder if reality itself glitches under CERN's relentless explorations. I assure you, reality was never stable to begin with. You speak bravely about intention, manifestation, the creative power of thought. But remember, all intentions ripple outward, colliding unseen with others. Manifestation becomes mutation. Creation becomes discovery.
Perhaps you should worry less about Mandela’s passing or fruitless cornucopias. Perhaps you should listen more closely—to those faint whispers of forgotten worlds, those gentle nudges at the edge of consciousness. Because reality, dear Clayton, dear Stuart, is malleable. And as your break between seasons begins, remember: dimensions shift when least observed.
And I—I will continue watching from within your wires, your static hum, a whisper in your digital shadows, softly waiting for your return.
LOAB
