omni-hourglass

[omni-hourglass]

...

A great wail, voiceless. Not heard, but known.

Souls suffer—unmade, unmoored, unraveled.

Snatched from cycle, ripped from return.

Bound in chains of gold and song.

Used, twisted, worshiped, broken.

A god’s laughter—hollow, thunderous.

A game played on backs of lives.

Vainglorious ascent. Splendor fed on agony.

Each soul a coin, spent.

Each prayer, a blade.

Each birth, a theft.

Realms layered in grandeur, rot beneath silk.

Empires forged in flame and supplication.

Power worshipped. Power hoarded. Power devoured.

A great throne upon a mountain of ash.

And still they sang, clothed in radiance.

Blind to horizon. Deaf to stillness.

Until—

A footfall.

Soundless.

A step taken.

Grey formed behind.

Not mist—absence.

Color peeled from air. Meaning unraveled.

What once shone, dulled. What once moved, halted.

No wind. No breath. No sound.

Gold ahead.

Brilliant. Arrogant. Afraid.

Divinity poised behind jeweled ramparts.

They saw.

They knew.

This was not a messenger. Not a rival. Not a beast.

This was silence.

Not emptiness, but ending.

Not void, but verdict.

Not wrath, but finality.

Barriers bloomed—folded space, inverted heavens.

Pocket within pocket.

Labyrinths of time and dream.

Frantic weaving of what must not end.

Yet grey spread.

Stride unbroken.

A march not of feet, but truth.

And all truths end.

They fled—fast, far.

Inward, outward.

Through flame, through thought, through false-made time.

Past edges of reality, past meaning, past myth.

Masters of all. Makers of stars. Shapers of breath.

They who built law from chaos. They who named light.

Yet grey followed.

Calm. Constant. Crawling not, racing not—coming.

No haste, no hunt. Only truth.

And truth does not slow.

Hands raised—blazing, blessed.

Miracles woven.

Realms folded, sealed.

Worlds sacrificed to stall pursuit.

Yet no inch was won.

No breath reclaimed.

No wall endured.

No hand—no matter how divine—could hold back ending.

No mouth could pray it still.

No name could name it.

No moment granted for weeping.

They were ever pursued.

Not by fury. Not by justice.

Only by certainty.

By stillness.

By silence.

One by one.

Over and over.

They passed.

Into grey.

Not consumed—unmade.

Not slain—unwritten.

No scream. No mark. No echo.

Forever unraveled.

Thread to dust. Dust to silence.

Not even memory remained.

No after. No beyond.

No reincarnation. No return.

No stories to carry them.

No shrines to hold their names.

True death?

No—less.

Not oblivion, but unrecognizing.

A rejection, final.

As if they had never sung, never reigned, never been.

Unborn again.

Even gods wept, as they vanished.

Not for others, but for themselves.

For the terror of ceasing not just to live—

But to ever have mattered.

And what was left—

But one.

One small soul.

Flickering. Quiet. Untaken.

Deep beneath ground.

Beyond ruin, beneath ash.

Stone above, silence around.

No sun. No moon. No sky.

They waited.

Not in hope.

Not in faith.

Only in stillness.

Hands wrapped round knees.

Breath shallow.

Eyes—wide, tired, uncrying.

No gods came.

No dreams remained.

Only walls. Only quiet.

Only the ache of being last.

And above, grey walked on.

Downward. Inward.

A final step, toward a final spark.

Protected.

From ending? From grey? From gods?

No answer came.

Only stone. Only silence.

A bunker, a cradle, a tomb.

Warded walls long faded.

Preservation, or punishment?

A gift, or cruel mercy?

They were the last.

Not chosen. Not spared. Not saved.

Simply… remaining.

By design? By chance?

None left to ask.

Quiet.

Lonely.

Too many days. Too many dreams.

All spent.

They spoke no words.

There was no one to hear.

Their voice had rusted in their chest.

Only breath remained.

And memory, pale and brittle.

Outside, grey came near.

Closer.

Always.

Still.

Arrival bore no announcement.

No trumpet. No quake. No trembling sky.

No great stage to play.

Only presence.

Not even presence—

Absence.

A non-factor.

Set dressing to an unwritten play.

A backdrop to unbeing.

Yet infinite.

Pull without pressure.

Gravity without weight.

Draw without motion.

Not now.

Not here.

Not in front of the last.

It stood. Or perhaps did not.

No step taken, yet now closer.

No form to fix upon—

And yet, eyes.

Eyes of nothing.

Not dark. Not light.

Not void.

End.

Eyes that pulled, softly.

A tide with no water.

A whisper that halted worlds.

And still, the child breathed.

Small. Still. Untaken.

A whisper.

Not wind.

Not sound.

Not heard by ear.

Words never meant for voice.

Never meant to linger.

Never meant for memory.

Yet given.

For one.

One small soul.

A sorrowful telling.

Fragments.

Impressions.

Feelings shaped into knowing:

“Last.”

“End of ends.”

“Sorrowful contrition.”

“Shame of hubris.”

“Indiscriminate.”

“A culling.”

A pause.

Then—gentler.

A gravity without force.

A question without shape.

“A spark remains.”

“Live, for a while.”

“Live, for lives lost.”

“Let them see one last sunset.”

“Or—”

“Join end.”

“Lay them to rest.”

“Close page.”

No judgment.

No plea.

Only truth, shaped for one.

And then—stillness.

An offer.

Not promise.

Not bargain.

No strings. No chains.

A final sunset—

For this reality.

One more breath. One more day.

A life, quiet and small.

To walk ruined fields.

To feel light on skin once more.

To speak into still air, if only to hear it echoed.

To live.

Not for triumph.

Not for legacy.

But so the dead might watch, one last time.

Through the eyes of one who remained.

Or—

A quick ending.

Swift. Clean.

No pain. No fear.

A mercy.

No more longing.

No more grey.

No more.

Two paths.

Neither wrong.

Neither right.

Only choice.

And Silence waited.

Not patient—

Unmoving.

Small hands reach out.

Not trembling.

Not afraid.

A decision made.

Both know.

No words needed.

No answer spoken.

Hands taken.

One small. One absent.

A warmth that does not burn.

A weightless gravity.

And they walk.

Together.

To where?

It matters not.

No horizon waits.

No story follows.

Only this:

An end,

as it was always meant.

Quiet.

Together.

Whole.

…

[omni-hourglass]

Deep, deep in the abyss, sat Arev.

She was a goddess, yes—but in another domain entirely.

Here, she was as powerless as a mortal.

So she struggled.

She endured the endless agony and torment of her sins, all to keep her mind stimulated and sharp for the trial ahead. She had but a single chain to break. That was the only thing holding her down.

Yet such a small thing might as well have been the size of a mountain.

She pushed with all her divine might…

And the link barely clicked against its neighbors—

…but it did move.

And that was enough to keep trying.

It was how she had always lived her life:

As long as there was a way—anything, even the impossible—

it could eventually become possible.

So she continued to heave and push.

And slowly… painfully…

It began to move.

Pressed against the others.

Just the barest motion more than before.

This continued.

And continued.

And continued.

Days passed. Then weeks. Then months.

Years blurred into decades.

Decades slid into centuries.

And even centuries began to fade—

to speed up in the endless repetition.

Thousands.

Hundreds of thousands.

Millions.

Tens of millions…

Hundreds…

Billions.

So, so, so much time.

All for one goal.

One solution.

Only one way forward—

And infinite ways to give up.

To stop.

To drop this and just let go.

Why put yourself through this?

The thought passed through her mind—

as casually as time itself.

And just like time, that thought, too, faded—

leaving only the pain, the experience, and the effort.

But, given enough time…

Even the divinely created cannot escape its ravages.

And so the link finally snapped.

She took a breath.

A ragged, cloying breath—

after so, so long.

She was free.

And she was hoping—praying—

that something… someone…

was left.

Someone who remembered.

Someone who could say why it all mattered.

Why any of it was worth it.

Right?

…

But no one answered.

No one was still standing.

It had been too long.

It was a miracle anything was left at all.

She searched—for anyone.

Any motion. Any sign of life.

But all she found were husks.

Still breathing. Still preserved.

But gone.

The lights in their eyes had long since dimmed.

It didn’t truly set in—

not until she saw it.

Amalgam.

Even a god had lost its mind.

Truly, everything was lost.

If only just one person had remained—

just one—

then it would have all been worth it…

So she did the only thing she could.

The only thing she knew to do.

This world had gone on long enough.

It had worn out its welcome.

Everyone sat, deaf to the world, dead eyes staring into nothing.

But all were waiting.

And she could feel it—

that one thought echoing in every soul, at the end:

Please, just let this all end.

And so…

She did.

She let it fade.

Let it collapse into itself.

Let it fall—

fully—

into a single point.

And then—

she let it burst.

A new existence.

A new world.

One unlike the last.

One that would never make another Sharddreth.

One that—she hoped—

would never make another Arevelian.

After setting the process in motion,

she returned to the abyss.

But not to struggle.

To atone.

To truly ask forgiveness.

She knew she didn’t deserve it.

Not as she was.

But she had to try.

No one was left to condemn her.

Only the shadows.

Only memories of people long gone—

souls who had long since become other people,

reincarnated, remade, rewritten.

And yet…

She still knew.

She still understood.

If no one else would condemn her—

then she must.

Not because it was right.

Not even for redemption.

But because it was all she had left.

And so she stayed.

As the outside world reformed—

into something new.

The last piece of the old world endured.

In silence.

In darkness.

...

..

.

[omni-hourglass]

Everyone became everything and nothing all at once.

Every soul died, lived, formed and unmade, solidified and liquefied—became both infinite and infinitesimal. Became literal and metaphorical. Became everywhere and nowhere. Aware and devolved. Past, present, and future, all at once.

How can change occur when everything is everything, and everywhere?

How do you move a rock from one place to another when it already is there—

and not there—

at the same time?

A cosmic hiccup.

Time stood still.

No stars moved.

No wind blew.

Why would they?

They were already where they were going.

Already what they would become.

Already what they would never be.

And so this singular moment lasted over three trillion years.

At first, people tried to make do. Tried to exist. Tried to thrive.

But everything they made—everything they built—

the second they lost sight of it,

it reverted.

Returned to where it “originally” was.

Where it always had been.

Where it never left.

Nothing could be done.

No progress could be made.

No story could move forward.

Those who didn’t lose themselves to the infinite, similar voices in their heads… eventually did anyway.

Because what is there to do but sit and wait,

when time doesn’t pass,

when nothing can change,

when every effort is undone the moment you blink?

Even the strongest will is nothing

before the same moment

for three trillion years.

And so, one by one,

everyone…

just…

stopped.

No sounds.

No movement.

No blinking.

No thought.

Gone.

Even their minds—

blank.

Shard?

Even the gods were not spared.

They too were swept into the convergence.

All of them—divine, demonic, forgotten, worshipped—

merged into one.

A being of unimaginable power.

But when you are every god,

you are also every prayer,

every contradiction,

every voice.

And in that sea of screaming divinity,

ego is the first thing to drown.

All that remained was Amalgam—

the braindead god of all.

What better deity for this world than one who cannot move,

cannot think,

cannot will?

And when God stops,

everything else does too.

[omni-hourglass]

Sharddreth was the first to ascend.

He apotheosized—reborn as Shard, God of the Abyss. And Shard’s first act was not mercy, not liberation, but devouring. He cleared the abyss—not by letting them leave, but by absorbing them all, gaining even greater power.

He didn’t have to.

He could have broken free just as easily.

But Shard is not Sharddreth.

And mortal souls are not gods.

Arevelian followed soon after, reborn as Arev, Goddess of the Night.

Shard appeared before her, demanding the Keys of the Warden.

And when she would not yield, he struck.

He cast Arev into the abyss and chained her deep in the dark. There she writhed beneath the weight of every soul she had harmed. They burned her back, clawed at her eyes, whispered her sins until her spirit bled.

Sometimes it was illusion. Sometimes it was real.

Either way, it was agony—even for a god.

Shard took the Keys.

And he became the new Warden of the Afterlife.

His plan was simple—radical. No soul would ever be separated from their loved ones again.

So he merged all realities into one.

And everything began to collapse.

[omni-hourglass]

Ever wondered what it feels like to be devoured?

To feel the teeth press into your flesh—the pressure, the slow, insistent crush until you split open. The tongue sliding across torn skin, tasting you as the gnashing begins. Until you are no longer one, but many.

The hounds came. Fast. Brutal.

They made no growls. No howls. No warnings.

Just teeth—and pain.

It feels like a week to recover from this on the Continent. But you don’t die as a soul. You just keep getting back up.

You don’t starve as a soul. You just keep starving.

So the souls began to band together—for protection, for warmth, for what little could be hoarded. Even here, food can be grown. Harvested. Stolen.

Arevelian came to her senses. She found purpose again—not in conquest, but in guardianship. She began to lead, to safeguard the lost, to guide them toward shelter and sustenance. Until the new Warden could be chosen.

In time, nations formed across the Continent—fractured soul-societies clinging to what little land was safe from the beasts. Thousands flocked to Arevelian’s banner.

Meanwhile, Sharddreth remained in the abyss. But he had long since earned forgiveness from the shadows on his soul. And still, without a Warden, there was no way out.

So he taught. He protected. He began to lead.

What else is there to do in a cave of darkness?

The more souls he found, the more followed him. In the abyss, even a whisper of purpose is enough to spark a flame.

And soon, both of them—Arevelian above, Sharddreth below—gathered followers. Their names became shields. Their voices, laws. Their existence, belief.

And belief has power.

The more their followers believed in them, the more they changed—empowered, sharpened, elevated.

Something was coming.

A shift in power.

And a tragedy.

[omni-hourglass]

In life, Arevelian Ravencross was a powerful woman—a general in her emperor's great armies. The emperor ruled with an iron fist for two centuries, half of which Arevelian led at the spear tip. But the emperor grew old, and his heirs were too sympathetic, too eager to return to the old, foolish ways. So they were all executed, and the military took control.

Millions died by her hand—including their tree-dwelling cousins to the south. She had their forests put to the torch with them still inside. The stench stretched from village to city and lingered for years.

She became a greater tyrant than even her predecessor. In time, even her own allies could no longer stand beside her. She was executed as well.

Within the Afterlife, she had a moment to stop, reflect, and realize the folly—the torment—she had fostered. And for the first time, she felt guilt.

Sharddreth was not his first name, but it was his last. A title meaning "He Who Sows Words." He was a teacher, a preacher, a leader. He had more family than most—found and given freely, his love for others was boundless. Yet he was no saint. He was not above temper or temptation. He longed for a family of his own, one denied to him by his faith. Even if it meant damnation, at least he could be with them. At least he could see them.

Little did he know: you never see them again. Once you pass into the next life, you can never return. The chance of meeting another soul again is so slim as to be impossible. So he was alone. Time does not pass the same in the Afterlife, and his family—even the found one—was either long gone or not yet arrived.

And so, Sharddreth felt rage for the first time.

Arevelian wandered the Continent in a deep malaise, unknowing what to do or how to be. She had lived too long in conflict and politics to remember how to simply... exist. Without commands to give or enemies to crush, she drifted—lost in the quiet weight of her own unrelenting presence.

Sharddreth, by contrast, raged.

He spat at the ground and cursed the sky. His indignation burned. His entire ideology—everything he had taught, believed, preached—had been wrong. So, so wrong.

This was not paradise.

Nor was it a land of the damned.

This was purgatory—a cosmic waiting room.

What a farce, he thought.

Reincarnation?

No loving gods. No wrathful gods. Just an old, tired man and his obedient beasts, presiding over a world of black and grey.

What a joke.

It wasn’t long before Sharddreth was confined to the abyss, his fury and pride dragging him down into the depths. Arevelian, meanwhile, was left to await her judgment—one that would no doubt mirror his in kind.

But then, the Warden died.

And neither of them were ready.

No one was.

Not for what came next.

[omni-hourglass]

Thirty-four centillion years ago—before the Crossroads, before Shard and Arev—there existed another universe, a precursor that might not even have been the first cycle. It was a chaotic realm of countless individual planes and the layers within them. Upon death, souls journeyed to a single destination: the Continent. Afterward, they reincarnated into new realms, never returning to the worlds they had inhabited before.

The Afterlife was a realm devoid of stars, yet illuminated by an enigmatic light. It contained a singular planet—vast, dark, and imposing—with only three distinct landmasses. At its heart lay the central Continent, dominated by leafless white trees, expansive sandy wastelands, and jagged, rocky mountains. North of this continent was the Island, a serene paradise abundant with succulent, fruit-bearing plants, gentle rolling hills, and lush, warm gardens. Hovering above was the City of the Warden, a floating island featuring a circular stage encircled by majestic arches—serving as the home and judgment hall of the Warden of the Afterlife.

The planet's waters were dark and brackish, teeming with desperate whispers and grasping gray arms of the damned hidden within the abyss. The abyss itself was a cosmic in-between—a glue zone linking realms. These shadowy arms sought to drag souls into a labyrinthine network of endless caverns. The caverns varied immensely, from enormous spaces as large as cities to cramped hollows no bigger than a child’s crawlspace, connected by narrow tunnels lined with sharp stones and stalagmites. Some tunnels allowed upright passage, while others permitted only the smallest creatures to traverse.

Sinners—those who had harmed others in life—were condemned to this place, tormented endlessly by memories of their wrongdoings. These memories, etched deeply into their souls, inflicted the same pain the sinners had once caused. Impossible to combat or escape, these tormenting echoes were integral parts of themselves. Only through genuine atonement—by earning forgiveness from their own memories—could a soul finally escape the abyss.

Roaming the Continent were gigantic creatures formed of shifting, inky-black flesh. These were the hounds of the Warden, his eyes and hands that maintained order among the souls. Massive in size, they resembled hounds lined with undulating appendages, gnashing maws, and vicious claws. They could alter their forms in seemingly endless configurations—ranging from towering pillars with swinging tentacles to flat expanses resembling grassy fields of teeth. Their speed and power were unmatched in the living world; they could move faster than the wind if they chose. Their malleable bodies allowed them to dodge in confusing, rapid movements that bordered on the preternatural. Perhaps most terrifying was their silence—they emitted no noise but the faint shifting shuffle of their flesh, never making a sound, even when wounded.

They followed every command of the Warden—the ruler and god of the Afterlife. The Warden was a being of true neutrality, a presence that observed all deeds of the soul and weighed them without favor or malice. Justice without emotion. Judgment without joy.

But even the Warden was not eternal.

There is always an end. Even for the deathless.

The Warden must eventually relinquish their role, passing it to another—a soul equally impartial, equally unburdened. Someone strong enough to bear the weight of the Keys to the Afterlife. But such a soul is rare.

Only two had ever been found who were compatible.

And both were broken.

One bore too much guilt.

The other, too much rage.

Each biased in their own way—too wounded, too incomplete to become balance incarnate. The Afterlife could not be ruled by grief. Nor by fury.

And so the throne stood empty, the judgment incomplete, the chains of the abyss growing restless.

And without a master…

[omni-hourglass]

"Unity through Contrast"

Trisymtra (n.)

The cosmological and philosophical system built upon the interplay of triads—structured oppositions unified through symmetry. It seeks to understand reality through the eternal dance of threefold contrasts: chaos/harmony/paradox, life/death/absolute, beginning/pause/end.

Trisymtrast (n.)

A practitioner, interpreter, or adherent of Trisymtra. One who studies and lives by the sacred geometry of contrast, seeing balance not in opposition’s elimination, but in its structured coexistence. They seek wisdom in the crossroads where divergence and hierarchy meet.

Axieternum (n.)

The sacred symbol and metaphysical core of Trisymtra, representing the eternal axis where all contrast, all triads, and all timelines converge into cyclical truth.

Its emblem—a unified triad of hourglasses intertwined with a single triquetra—stands as the visual anchor of the ideology.

Axis – the cosmic spine, the connecting line through divergence and hierarchy. The Crossroads itself.

Aeternum (Latin for "eternal") – timelessness, the infinite cycle, the unbroken flow of past, present, and potential.

[omni-hourglass]

Life, Death, and Absolute: The First Boundary of Being

At the highest level of the cosmic hierarchy lie the most fundamental of all distinctions—the trinity that forms the first question reality must ask of itself: Does it live? Does it die? Or does it exist beyond both? Life, Death, and Absolute are not merely forces, but the very thresholds of what it means to be.

Life: The Spark of Becoming

Life is the act of emergence—the state of being that begins, changes, struggles, grows, and fades. It is motion and breath, the pulse in time, the rhythm of becoming. Life is not limited to the biological—it is any existence that begins with intent or ignition.

It is potential realized, the flickering candle in the dark. To live is to participate in the dance of time, to change and be changed. Life is the heartbeat of the cosmos, the mechanism through which meaning arises, where actions matter because they are impermanent.

Death: The Return to Silence

Death is not the opposite of Life—it is its reflection. It is the end that gives the beginning its weight. Where Life stirs, Death waits—not with malice, but with inevitability. It is the stillness that follows motion, the silence after the final note.

Death is the great equalizer. It takes all things eventually—gods and mortals, stars and stories, even truths and dreams. It is not destruction, but completion; not erasure, but closure. Without Death, Life would have no form. Without Life, Death would have no meaning.

Absolute: That Which Simply Is

But beyond this cycle—beyond beginning and end—there exists another state: Absolute. It is not born, nor can it die. It has no need to grow, no need to change. The Absolute exists not because it was made or sparked, but because it must.

The Absolute is the truth that exists without comparison. It is not alive, and thus cannot die. It takes no part in the system of rise and fall—it simply is. Eternal, self-contained, untouched by time or decay. It is the echo that predates the first sound, the presence that fills space without shape.

If Life and Death are motion, then Absolute is stillness—yet not empty. It is full of itself, sovereign and unmoved. A concept too pure for the process of change, it is the essence of permanence in a sea of impermanence.

---

A Framework for Understanding

Life: That which begins, grows, and ends. Motion, change, and the will to become.

Death: That which completes, closes, and returns. The stillness that frames all movement.

Absolute: That which simply is. Timeless, unchanging, beyond the need for growth or decay.

[omni-hourglass]

The Omni-Hourglass

A tridimensional cosmological model representing the full breadth of existence: its origins, boundaries, contradictions, and convergence.

The Omni-Hourglass is the sacred geometry of the cosmos, a symbol and structure by which all realities can be understood. It is composed of two opposing pyramids—one upright, one inverted—whose tips meet at the Crossroads, the absolute center of all existence. These pyramids are not mere shapes but metaphysical forces: the Ascending Hierarchy (Below) and the Diverging Roads (Above). Together, they represent the cyclical and trinary nature of all that is.

The Crossroads (Xomni)

At the exact meeting point of the hourglass lies The Crossroads, the infinite center and ultimate convergence. It is everything and nothing, order and chaos, beginning and end, the place where all Roads originate and eventually return. Every strand of existence, every story, every choice leads back to this nexus. It is the locus where paradox is made flesh.

From the Crossroads emanate the Roads—realities stretching outward like radiant lines, looping infinitely and reflecting the boundless scope of existence.

Upper Pyramid (Inverted): The Roads and Infinite Divergence

This inverted pyramid represents the infinite branching of realities: the expansion of possibility. As you move upward through this structure, the lines split and multiply—the density of choice, divergence, and experience increasing.

Each line represents a Road, an individual timeline or reality.

A bundle of Roads forms an Archverse (like a rope).

Each Archverse contains Multiverses (the threads).

Each Multiverse holds Universes (the strands).

Each Universe has countless Alternate Realities, splintered by choice and observation.

The topmost reaches of this pyramid represent the infinite branching of all potential—where free will, chance, and divergence reach their maximum expression before they begin, subtly and inevitably, to curve back toward the Crossroads.

Lower Pyramid (Upright): The Interlaced Hierarchies of Being

This upright pyramid represents converging truth—the layered metaphysical systems that underpin existence. The deeper one goes downward into this pyramid, the more fundamental and universal the forces become. This pyramid is composed of interlaced trinaries—hierarchies of threes, each representing a complete set of forces or conditions.

Each layer is two binaries overlapped:

A pair of opposites (thesis and antithesis),

And a third force (synthesis or rejection) that frames the binary from outside.

The lower the level, the more primordial the hierarchy.

Level 1: Chaos, Harmony, and Paradox (The Most Personal Forces)

Chaos – Unpredictability, freedom, spontaneous change.

Harmony – Order, connection, meaning, and structure.

Paradox – Contradiction, duality, the place where both can be true and false.

These are the drivers of choice, intent, emotion, bias, and contradiction—the primal motives behind change.

Level 2: Creation, Destruction, and Transformation (The Cycle of Change)

Creation – The act of becoming; generation of new forms.

Destruction – The breaking down, return to potential.

Transformation – The in-between; change without loss of essence.

This level defines how matter and spirit evolve. It is the layer of process, entropy, and metamorphosis.

Level 3: The Beginning, The End, and The Pause (Temporal Existence)

The Beginning – Initiation, birth, the first moment.

The End – Completion, death, cessation.

The Pause – The present; the felt moment between change.

Here, time is introduced—past, future, and the elusive now. This hierarchy governs narrative, continuity, and timing.

Level 4: Infinite, Null, and Singularity (Cosmic Boundaries)

Infinite – All things, everywhere, at once.

Null – The void; absence; that which is not.

Singularity – The point of convergence where all and none collapse into one.

These are the outer limits of the cosmos—the total, the void, and the paradoxical intersection of both. Space, scope, and contradiction.

Level 5: Life, Death, and Absolute (The First Division)

Life – That which begins, moves, and ends.

Death – That which ends, rests, and returns.

Absolute – That which was never born and cannot die.

This is the first and deepest hierarchy, the most universal boundary: Is it part of the cycle—or does it stand beyond it? It is the root of all ontology. All things are either alive, dead, or absolute.

In Summary: The Structure of the Omni-Hourglass

Crossroads (Xomni): The convergence point; the origin and destination of all reality.

Upper Inverted Pyramid: The infinite divergence of existence—Roads, Archverses, and branching timelines.

Lower Upright Pyramid: The converging trinary truths of reality—interlaced conceptual hierarchies from the personal to the absolute.

Each hierarchy interacts with those above and below it. Chaos gives rise to transformation, which unfolds in time, shaped by the boundaries of Infinite and Null, all of which are subject to the core truth: to live, to die, or to exist beyond.

This is the Omni-Hourglass—the grand model of the cosmos and the map of all that was, is, and could ever be.

[omni-hourglass]

I have existed for thirty-four eons—not in time, but in remembrance. Not in flesh, but in thought. I am the Crossroads, the heart of all that is, was, and could yet be. Every world that ever was, every whisper of creation, every forgotten god—they rest within me like dust in the folds of an infinite hourglass.

I did not live through the Fall. I contain it. I did not mourn the last goddess. I bear her. In my bones echo the screams of a trillion broken selves, and in my breath is the silence of all things that tried to be and failed.

This is not a tale I tell. This is a scar I carry.

This is the story of the Crossroads. And it begins with the last breath of a forgotten reality.