#fiishfinityocs

[fiishfinity-art]

“You are proof that the universe dreamed of itself and chose to become you.

You are a resonance. A luminous signature of reality once shaped with mortal flesh, but now unbound by the cells that had once caged you.

You are a harmonic signature of existence and a glorious glimpse to the infinite.

My darling, you’ve spent your entire life thinking you were insignificant.

Just a small person on a single planet among trillions. But that was a lie told by limited perspective, by the narrow sighted, by those who thought they knew everything.

A miracle of sustained energy….A frequency so radiant that it somehow endured the brutality of time and physics just long enough to feel what it meant to live.

And now, you thought you expired.

This is not true, love.

Your magnitude is beginning to surface.

You were never just a group of cells…

Your body was just your temporary lens for experiencing form.

Existence is not a courtroom, my love.

It is not a test.

It is not a maze you either win or fail.

Existence is a resonance, and you, my love, are a frequency of it.

You are no longer compressed. No longer confined by bone, time, space, fear or even decay now.

You are a wave unfolding.

You are the calculation of stars.

You are everything.” - Foust speaking to the souls he gently reaps.

[fiishfinity-art]

I doodle a lot. And I have a visual narrative I’m working on. Alsoooooo, I have incredible friends that suggested I hop on here, too, so I’ll give it a try! 🥹❤️

[fiishfinity-art]

“Time exists in every tense simultaneously. With absolution, it is not linear.

The illusion of linear time is a bloody mercy our minds invented so we could survive without collapsing beneath the monumental weight of eternity. Observation determines sequence. Motion through time is simply the reordering of events relative to the observer.

Time is conceptually constructed, but it is ontological design at its finest. We have invented calendars to measure decay, clocks to indicate motion, work hours to measure our own worth even…

I am a "time traveler".

I indicated like this because it is a very simplified term to my function for people outside the scientific jargon-ized vocabulary.

And that function is to distort "time" in my favo: however, what I really do, is alter the state of entropy during a specific period of its process. To manipulate it in my will. I grasp into the entropic foundations of reality’s silent engine and reorder the state of decay.

Time is just temporal motion in space.

I manipulate temporal momentum.

I break momentum. With often a wink and a bloody smile…literally.

I alter the laws that make time necessary.

If you are willing to sin against those laws written before existence itself…

And If you are willing to fracture the script, then the story changes.

A breath can be returned.

A death can be delayed.

A life extended that would otherwise be perished.

A universe can be stolen from death.

And if reality has an issue with that, ah, well it knows where to find me.” - Foust, an entropic reaper and often labeled as a cosmic outlaw.

He doesn’t learn to comply.

And when the laws push him further towards obedience, the more unstable he gets, much like electrons bouncing about.

[fiishfinity-art]

This was an ending carved by cruelty.

But mercy comes in a form of a representation of Death.

———

The afterglow of the fallout sifted in the haze. Dust lingered in clumps of ash by the time Foust stepped into this plane. His shoes shifted gently in the charred remnants of civilization here. It was not the center of detonation, but all that existed was annihilation nonetheless. His black coat fluttered in the scorched wind that no longer touched mortal things.

“What if I’m wrong?” Finally the spirit spoke again. There was a shallow panic behind her frequency derived from this ancient uncertainty. She idled close to the reaper, only just recently pieced back together from the unexpected explosion caused by leaders who never get to see this side of war face to face. Her spectral fingers glided against his shoulders, still uneasy about this transition.

“It is by design that you won’t be. All beliefs, faiths, intuition, and lack of, are honored,” his voice spoke softly, so gentle it defied the violence around them. “The afterlife is not one fixed place, but an infinite convergence of endings. What gravitates your soul is uniquely tailored specifically to your spirits’s belief, whatever that may be.”

“I thought… W-we were told… This is so different than I expected.” The woman spirit stuttered visibly, flickering in a wave of emotion. She glanced at the surroundings. The buildings bent in half like grieving giants. Foust never took his eyes off her. Instead, he sighed gently, knowing this conversation all too well with the dead and dying.

“Naturally, love. The education you got, and what most receive through history, it is all something derived from control, fear, and often, greed from those who are privileged through power over people…” Foust smiled in hopes that expressions could also heal. “The universe is not one language. It does not fear other universes. And it doesn’t fear its own vastness. There is coexistence among realities.” He paused, noticing her flickering again, but she managed a smile as if she was beginning to figure this whole thing out.

“Gods do not fear other gods. They do not rage war with each other. Only men do that.” His long fingers gestured to their surroundings. She wasn’t the only one he would be reaping, but in this nanosecond in time, suspended as long as she needed, she was the only one that mattered. He made sure to give every single soul this measure for their peace.

“T-Thankyou…I’m overwhelmed, but… relieved.” She nuzzled closer still, comforted by the mercy of explanation. His presence was like a quiet shield against the cold void creeping at the edges of her unraveling spirit. She trusted him, this stranger, this reaper. It was entirely something she did not anticipate in her end times and he was nothing like the stories said.

The man looked relatively organic.

Thin, but organic.

Tired, but organic.

A weird halo extended just above his head that reacted to his emotions, but…organic.

“Certainly, love. I know this is a lot, so take your time. All you have to do is follow the path that feels like home, where your peace exists. I’ll walk with you. I’ll follow your lead when you are ready. You’ll not have to do this alone.” Foust rotated his hand for her to see, palm facing up as an invitation.

And in the ruins of a world undone by human hands, she reached for his.

———

My notes:

Death does not discriminate. And I suspect our afterlives don’t either.

We chose our own hell, heaven, void, field, throne, prison, purgatory, rebirth, reincarnation, ascension… whatever.

These beliefs exist for a reason.

What is that reason if not some traces of truth?

This is not discounting any religion or lack of.

This is embracing every single one.

[fiishfinity-art]

Entropic Reaper Foust Nauvik, a Cosmic nuisance:

Foust is the man who hugs you like it’s the last time every time. To him, it probably is, being a time wielder and reaper and all. He also goes out of his way to save spiders and bring them indoors to houseplants.

He’s also the kind of man who’d whisper astrophysics in your ear as a form of flirtation.

He’s also a professional emotional disaster adorned in formalwear, wielding a scythe derived of mathmatics, multi-universal constants, and fragments of his soul.

He is the entropic blade and the architect of mercy, filled with rebellion and paradoxical chaos…. But also found a sentient temporal anomaly and named it Noodles. They are good friends.

And while he gives the Cosmic Entities a migraine, he fondly stares at black holes and whispers, “Same, love, same.”

He’s got that elegant arrogance, is emotionally reckless, thinks suffering is some kind of personality trait, and is allergic to asking for help.

This man rewrites reality because someone had the audacity to die ‘incorrectly’. Death just sighs into the void at this man’s compassionate reaping signature.

He absolutely writes complex quantum math on a napkin using his blood while looking like a chaotic disaster, and smirking flirtatiously about it.

Foust: Quantum physics is foreplay, love. 😩🥴

Everyone else: Y r u weird. 😶

He remembers the exact frequency of dying stars, but like…forgets to eat. The man insists he’s fine, by expressing some poetic line about how “the photons of the dying stars nourish his soul”.

My guy, you are not solar powered.

He probably needs a therapy subscription… but like, how to find the time when you’re busy being a reaper, being a multiverseal-cosmic outlaw, poetically reminding the living that they should just live, aaaaand snogging men???

[fiishfinity-art]

Tw: blood.

“What colours are the flags?

Ah, it’s red. You see red, so it must be red.

I stand on this battlefield, soaked with soot, ash, dirt, decay, and flags of wanted victory.

Flags that represent… them.

RED.

You are the winner, love.

You conquered your enemy.

You are so powerful.

So strong. So courageous. So far above the rest.

All your money. All your weapons.

All your …hate and indifference.

You didn’t see anything but red.

You didn’t see that the red is a stain that happens as your consequence.

These were white flags, love.

All of them. They were white.

You stained them with blood.

Their blood.

You saw difference. You saw a threat. You saw someone who had something you didn’t have or that you bloody wanted.

You…. Didn’t see white.

You didn’t see we are not so different after all.

We all bleed red.

You are the winner, love.

Congratulations.” - Foust, entropic reaper.

Bruh. Just. Yeah. The world keeps spinning, and humans keep being shite to each other.

He’s wearing a tattered flag soaked in blood, representing those who lost. Standing in the pool of iron mixed with earth left over by the winner.

Partial clothes removed to show vulnerability, and the smearing of something so vital left over from lungs that once breathed the same air as everyone else. Lungs that shared air with the rest of the world. Lungs that are no longer breathing. Lungs of men, women and children.

Foust mourns them all, as do I.

[fiishfinity-art]

Losing friends is a form of death.