Saturday, March 31, 2018

The Lovecraftian Thing a Day (2018) No.90: The Eye of Azathoth

Last night the Silver Key opened a portal within my dreams to the vast, empty reaches of infinite space - and through those star-strawn gulfs of endless night I found myself carried on the back of a great scaly beast: a thing with colossal bat-like wings and a hideous equine head.

As the monstrous beast flew through those unknown gulfs of night, ever onwards towards a strangely pulsing beacon millions of light-years distant, I became aware of the frightful sound of discordant piping - a sound with no discernable origin, but which filled me with an unnameable dread regarding the source of that far-distant luminescence.

As the bat-winged thing drew nearer to the sinister radiance of that ill-omened star, the atonal piping became louder and yet more wild; in that moment I intuited something of the nameless horror which lurked behind that deafening, tumultous symphony from unformed spheres: these were the cacaphonic strains and disharmonious chords of entropic dissolution - the disorderly resonance, echoing through time since the moment of the universe’ inception, of a terminal, uncreated and formless chaos which gnaws blindly, hungrily and eternally at the nucleus of reality.

Understanding then the destination toward which I was being carried, I prefered instead to jump from from off the back of the great flapping thing which had borne me so far, to fall endlessly through the limitless chasms of space, where I was tossed and buffetted by the star winds and tachyon currents which flow through those infinite expanses, until blackness finally took me...

This morning I found hanging around my neck this strange and unsettling amulet, comprised of some bronze-like extratelluric alloy. The tinnitus in my right ear (which I have suffered from periodically for the better part of a decade) has also returned; somewhere beneath that internal hiss of white noise, I am certain I can hear the remnant refrain of a mad piping - a sound which, one might imagine, could only be produced by some monstrous flautist which writhes mindlessly and shapelessly within unlighted and undimensioned abysses at the centre of all creation.

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