AMKent books

Part 2: The Repairment of The Man

A mind creates its own entropy; the essence of sentience can turn from productive to counterproductive. The parasites failure was its assurance that it was truly external; nothing exists outside the hive, it is all illusory. The Godhead has had an unfathomable amount of time to prepare itself, its defence mechanisms, forging an infinity that anything other than its own appetite cannot handle. My options of attack come in a pair, I either find an infinity larger than its, a paradoxical recurrence where our God solves itself, and I am the solution. My second, I pull a thread to its infinite, receding it back on its owner, unravelling the architect of existence with anti-existence. This is a convincing illusion, this ability to live, to think, perception, and sense alike, but if the parasite and the girl could exist outside its gaze, even temporarily, then it is not omnipotent. The Hive has shown that it is a slave to its own time; it interacts within the parameters, even if they are different from ours. This was its first and great exposure, the warm and soft gut of a narcissistic deity. As dimensional hierarchies increase, the paradoxes within reality become undeniable, and it is inevitable that both yin and yang will be one. Our Hive, father of all that is so disgusted by its own company it damns multiples to exist as finite, inferior ignoramuses. It is no paradox, so its transcendence is a bluff, one that I wonder if the Hive is privy to?

I gash the cultist’s head against a jagged stone, the edges pierce the skull and cling to brain matter, and I smirk that such fragile biology could ever convince us that it was responsible. The corpse is exhausted, and my hip is repaired along with my pleasure in the act of snuffing these valueless charades. Fingers tap across the back of my skull, matter that’s sensations run deep, bathe my naked soul, nutrients absorbed in its spiritual emaciation. When the task is completed and my mind is the only one that remains, a new utopia will be forged, one that is worse than any nostalgic drivel known as Hell. Diseases of the human mind, whilst primitive, in their execution leave hints of how to access the vitals of God, our collective. Dementia, a regression of our allotted time, the unravelling of a lifespan, schizophrenia, a loss in the veil of reality. The Hive has displayed its locked-in syndrome, filled it with clambering tulpas, a self-masturbatory, closeted fantasy hiding in plain sight. The air smells like the purge of biology, wonderfully disgusting. My hands now sticky and rouge, I bolster my shell. Unlike the dogmas that warn that experiencing the unfiltered divinity of God would render our flimsy soul into annihilation. I will embrace all that it has, like Julian of Norwich, I shall understand its passion, its greatest sufferance, for my defeat will be my victory, my decompression is my road to a vaster infinity.