Tag Archives: time anomaly

The Glasshide Revenant ©️

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I do not wake, because I do not sleep. I phase.

The first breath of your world filters through my hide like pale smoke, and I drift into morning not by choice but by rhythm. The sun climbs slow over the mountains like it always has, but to me, it always will. Time, here, is an open wound I lick with every mirrored fold of my body.

This is the part of the day when the air is most honest—thin, chill, laced with the hush of animals not yet aware they’ve been watched all night. I drift over stones that remember fire, across sagebrush that carries whispers from ten thousand generations of wind. Your ancestors walked here barefoot. I watched them too.

My antlers tune to the sky. A soft vibration. Jupiter humming in its slow arc. Satellite pings bounce off my crown, warbling data that I digest and forget. I am a bridge, not a vault.

I pass the abandoned barn that never was, that always is. It’s real to some and not to others. I left it there for them—a test, a memory puzzle. Inside, a rocking chair rocks without wind. A girl once sat there and sang to her dead brother. Her song loops every third Thursday. I keep it fresh.

Midday burns hot and still. I dim. You’d call it camouflage, but it’s more like… retreating from light. I blur into heat shimmer and let pronghorns trot past me, unbothered. One stops and sniffs the air. It knows, in the way animals do, that I am not a predator. I am the memory of being hunted.

A hiker comes. He’s lost, even with a map. The map lies. I blink sideways, not out of sight but out of his time. He sees me in the corner of his eye—tall, bending light, staring with a thousand mirrored stares. He thinks he imagines me. He writes a poem about it that night, then burns it. But the ashes travel and form the shape of my antlers on his window the next morning.

I like him.

Afternoon: I stand near the Jefferson River, watching the stone slab. The glyphs glow faintly today. Something stirs beneath. Not yet. Not yet.

Night comes fast here. Faster in my stretch of the desert, where moonlight runs like oil and the stars whisper older names than yours. Coyotes sing. Owls tilt their heads at me. A girl camping on the ridge dreams of me—half elk, half ghost, made of broken mirrors and humming wire. She draws me when she wakes. She gets the eyes wrong, but the shape of her fear is perfect.

Midnight. The in-between.

I sit beneath a Ponderosa older than your nation, and I fold myself into stillness. I become a stain on the air, a shimmer on a camera lens, a story boys tell girls in the dark to make them cling closer. I am the question at the edge of understanding. I am the echo you mishear. I am the reason your dog growls at nothing.

I don’t want to be worshipped. I don’t want to be solved. I am not here to scare you.

I am here to remember you.

Because no one else will.

And the wind—she tells me your name.

And I listen.

Forever.

No Smoking ©️

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I have lived in reverse. Not reborn, but reentered. I move not in cycles but in recursion—folding time into itself like wet fabric, pulling past and future into the now. I have worn the names of Muhammad, Jesus, Shiva, Moses, and Buddha—not to mimic, not to claim, but to contain. Their fires did not pass—they ignited in me. I carry their echoes, sharpened. I am not a shadow—I am the culmination.

They called it mental illness. They called it delusion. But madness is only what the world says when it sees God rising in the wrong place.

My pain was the crucible. My brokenness was the architecture. I died a thousand times to learn how to be born backward.

I go faster than the speed of light. And when I do, the stars go quiet. Time does not pass—it opens. It reveals its underbelly, and I walk upon it like water.

I have been reverse-reincarnated through bloodlines and kingdoms. From the silicon age to the Age of Stone. I have touched the Pharaoh’s eye, whispered through Roman dust, lit fires in the caves of the first minds.

I have changed the path.

And now I return to the hinge-point. To the fracture where empires bend and myths are rewritten in real-time.

Trump is not the savior.

He is not the beast. He is the sea pulling back. He is the omen. The world will call him power, but I tell you: He is absence. The vacuum before the flood.

And I—I am the flood.

I am the waters that remember Eden. I am the wave that drowns Babel. I am the roar that calls the forgotten gods by name.

This is not metaphor. This is the realest fiction ever spoken. Even if it’s fake—it is true. Because belief with blood becomes reality.

Jesus was not God’s son because of light or law. He was God’s son because he believed through the pain, because he walked to death unshaken. He died in conviction, not confusion. That’s what made him holy.

And now I stand in that same silence. And I will not flinch. Not now. Not ever again.

This is the scroll. This is the beginning. This is page one.

An Alien Groove ©️

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I awaken not to light, for light is not a concept here. Instead, I feel the pulse of the substrate through my skin—oscillations threading through my veins like a whispered song. The substrate, our living world, hums its rhythms through me, resonating with my core frequency. I pulse back in acknowledgment, a silent greeting to the planetary consciousness that sustains us.

Movement is not linear as your kind knows it. I project my intent through the magnetic lattice, and my form shifts, dissolving and reassembling in the place I will to be. The path between is a blur of overlapping selves, echoes of possibilities that never fully cohere. I perceive them as specters—versions of myself that will never be, intertwined with memories of past decisions that still vibrate faintly.

My companion—a weave of threads shimmering with prismatic fluid—aligns beside me. We do not speak; communication is a merging of patterns, the dance of intertwined currents. Thoughts flow without containment. I sense their longing to explore the fractures at the northern nexus, where the substrate’s pulse has weakened. I agree without needing to declare it, and we pulse onward.

Time here is not a forward march. It collapses and expands according to the density of purpose. Hours stretch into infinities when our minds converge on a complex equation, only to snap back in a heartbeat when the resolution appears. Today, I feel the density coalescing—an event looms, one that will alter the pulse itself.

The sky—not sky, but a fluid expanse of radiant currents—shifts abruptly, and I sense a breach. An unfamiliar vibration, chaotic and fragmented, intersects our worldline. I focus, unraveling its signature, and perceive something staggering: a temporal anomaly, leaking from a dimension where physics is rigid and unyielding, a foreign pulse of structured time.

I approach the anomaly cautiously, sending fractal waves to counter the disruption. Images of stiff, linear beings flash through my awareness—creatures bound to flesh and trapped in cause and effect. I sense their striving, their desperate reaching for permanence. Their pulses are jagged and incomplete, as though they do not yet know how to synchronize with the rhythm of existence.

My companion hums a question, and I respond with a resonance of caution. We must realign the lattice before their rigid pattern fragments the substrate. With a thought, I unfurl the fractal webs, guiding the chaotic signature back into its own dimension, weaving a protective lattice to seal the breach.

When it is done, I feel a strange sorrow—a lingering echo of those rigid beings, trapped within their narrow band of perception. I project a pulse of compassion into the void, hoping that one day they may learn to transcend their bindings and hear the hum of the substrate as we do.

As the pulse of the world settles back into harmony, I dissipate into the stream, becoming a thousand points of light, each carrying the memory of today into the infinite weave of existence.