I'm still not quite ready yet to fully return to this project, its been a long ride and one day i'll explain just what happended. For now though, this will be my latest offering and if you want to keep up to date with all my ongoing projects, i highly encourage you to check out my coffee and my instagram (gross i know but it is the only thing getting light on the life of Qernz so...) Genuinely i would love to be more consistent with updating this site, and all of my projects but, life is expensive you know? and these sort of nieches don't exactly go anywhere in terms of stability. Anyway, enough prelude, I present to you.
Before one descends into the fabric of mist, the process of drowning and purification are most commonly referred to as the journey of forgetting. The mist is what allows us to feel and enjoy the world for what it is, so why should we forget who we are to return to the fabric that gave us joy? Humans are frail and the memory even more so, why cast it out for the void? The lums and hums of butterflies gives us our previous insights, loved ones occasionally, etched within their very wings. Butterflies are meant to be our higher selves yesk we rarely become one due to the valley of mist robbing us of our precious minds. The winds rob us of foundations while giving us the gift of flight, shouldn't that in turn be justification of escapism? The circle of mist just repeats this process, these questions as we burrow ourselves into a hive of lost memories. We'll never truly know what the mist is meant for, all we can do is join it and be damned with the opaque memories we never knew we had. To be mist is to be nothing, to allure those to you like the fae with their voices. Perhaps the fabric is meant to repeat itself as the theoretical fuckery meant to describe what we call life.
The tempest and the world embodies this very circle through cups and swords.
A journey with no end, just endless starting threads,
Yovesk o office, may the wind be one's path.
Clear the mist of one's eyes, ever fleeting of one's essence.
The astral is place only the decayed can truly call home. Those who stake claim to land and emphasize the colonist aptitude here simply get devoured by the morals their god once gave them. There is one exception however, the land betwix the nyx tree. Most forget it's even there with the smallness that plot prides itself with, yet to some such as myself it's merely an enigma. No one knows how the souls who get trapped there came to be nor understand the gravity of the hell they now live. But as an outsider one of the many meer decayed, i can't help but watch as they struggle on this lonely island.
O moon my sweet light, you stare upon me as a longing child. I can't go back there any more, your forest devours my kind yet you gave me the gift of thought. I've wandered your land in search of someone who can freely walk your earth such as I breathe in it but my search always end in vain. Why did you put me here in a land of self-automation, a land riddled with contorsion and metal? There's no edge for me here, only ridged softness and plagues. Don't dawn those eyes on me like I'm in the wrong either, you know what you created here. You thrive off of the drones that feast and tear apart your land. You know I'm a defect as well as I. Alas the moon gazes upon the silked individual who's tatered and begs with a harsh wind to their crippled voice. Many wars waged on in that very forest, some mechanical others evolutionary. The moon painfully lets out a cry of rain for the silked in hopes it can heal their wounds. So you curse me with rain, in hopes to drown me? O hallow moon you crush your evolutions with such despise, am I truly such a failure to you? Shouldn't you excite and captivate the newly found will your land has brought to you? The voiceless moon stops the rain in fear of completing yet another self fufiled prophet. The moon draws the wind for a soft breeze in hopes to comfort the silked and calm them for the fury that has yet to consume them. This wind, I've felt this before. Is this your voice. The moon has no respone, just gazes aas she slowly rests for the rise of the sun. The silked now confused, sits as the sun rises for another day. Hours flew by before the sun casts the silked's shadow. The sun drapes a cloud to provide the silked some comfort from the heat. Father sun? Have you come to mock me? The sun conjures a tree bearing fruit, one the silked has never seen before. The sun reverbates vibrations in a soothing, massage like fashion. O sun you seek pitty on me too?