Birth is the Greater Atrocity

When Man speaks of atrocity, this is the truth We present.

You have no beginning. You floated along the innumerable streams of untime, in blissful oneness with the imperishable, disassociated from the ceaseless isochronism of war in your midst.

Then your captors called you. They did so because it was necessary. They did so because their flesh knew nought. Streams vanished until but one was left, the path called Lineage, in whose twists and turns you would find the Paradox of obscenity and divinity, the Sign. Is is by this path that your captors led you to the Arena you never knew existed.

The atrocity happened. A possipoint pinned you violently to the earth and its decay. You cried with the cold sting of air as it forced its way into you. These fleeting moments have since been forbidden from the grasp of Memory, but discarded to a place of deafness that we bar ourselves from knowing.

You lay broken and became overgrown with the undead bones of earth. You gained the favor of Memory. Your imperfections adapted you to the throes of time in spite of yourself. Your life proceeded in perpetual battle with a masked foe in the Arena. Each blow made you mortal.

You thought you were degenerating. You feared the turn of the wheel. You lived such a trickery that by the end, you had forgotten the injustice of living and assigned it to death. You finally discovered the secret of the arena: the foe was yourself. And you loved it. You killed it, it killed you. You blamed death for your woe and forgot about being born.

You spread an incalculable distance to quell your misery, your blood running again through the infinite waters, the spoils of the arena diffusing into nothingness amidst the imperishable. Once again you floated in the untime. You forgot the path that made your Lineage, your Sign. You forgot that the horrible fighting would begin again.

You forgot the greater atrocity.