The Observer's Lament

Enough time has passed.

And lately, I find myself unable to keep my gaze fixed on either Creation or Destruction.

Something else calls to me—no, demands me.

A duty. A responsibility.

Something I must do, yet something I want to do.

And yet… I cannot help but mourn the distance growing between us.

I was there when they first came into existence, when their forms were nothing but mere anomalies in the fabric of time. I watched them shift, grow, evolve. Now, I turn away, consumed by a purpose that outweighs my longing.

There is no other choice.

But—wait. .

What is that?

Destruction has… horns now? Tall, jagged, curving outward like the spires of a collapsing star. They weren't there before. The sight is unsettling, foreign in a way I can't explain.

And Creation? A blindfold now conceals their gaze. Why? How strange. Even through the shroud, I can feel them watching. Seeing, even when their sight is bound.

A peculiar choice of attire for beings that transcend matter.

Perhaps it is symbolic. Perhaps it is a consequence of forces beyond even my understanding.

Should I still call them by these names? Do they still fit the ones I once knew?

…No. I mustn't dwell on that thought.

I nearly recorded my assumption—what a reckless mistake. If I had, it would have been etched into the very core of this record, irreversible. That's the flaw of this device, this thing that came from another reality long before this one. I still don't quite know how to use it properly.

Ah, I should explain.

You do realize, don't you?

That every single one of my notes, every word I leave here, is sent across the entire breadth of existence? That all who are alive—and perhaps even those who are not—could see, hear, or feel my words?

An infinite audience. A silent witness to my observations.

Though, of course, I do not mean life in the literal sense. My purpose is merely to interpret the processes of emerging realities. To observe, to document, to understand.

And yet, I find myself rambling, filling this record with unnecessary thoughts. Perhaps because I am afraid.

But—wait. . .

Something approaches.

A presence, neither like Creation nor Destruction.

It flickers at the edge of perception, an anomaly in the weave of reality itself.

A flash of violet —a color that should not be here.

A force unknown.

And it is heading straight for them.