It began, as all aberrant geometries do, with a fluctuation. Not a violent rupture, no. More akin to a shimmering distortion in the periphery of perception. A space where the logical currents of the world briefly fractured, revealing glimpses of… something else. Something that felt profoundly unsettling, yet possessed a strange, melancholic beauty. This was the genesis of the propos, a concept so intrinsically linked to the inherent anxieties of order, a concept given form by a force that actively resisted definition.
The initial observations, recorded in the fragmented journals of Professor Silas Blackwood – a man obsessed with the study of forgotten acoustics and the subtle language of absence – pointed to a recurring motif: the deliberate neutralization of sound. Not through physical means, but through a kind of cognitive dissonance. Blackwood theorized that certain arrangements of thought, certain deliberate acts of misinterpretation, could generate a resonant field capable of disrupting the very fabric of militaristic intent. It was, he claimed, a form of antimilitaristic negation.
He meticulously documented his experiments, employing a series of intricate contraptions built from salvaged clockwork and polished obsidian. These devices, he believed, could ‘tune’ the mind to a frequency of resistance, a state of perpetual questioning, a deliberate refusal to align with the dictates of power.
Further investigations revealed that the propos wasn’t merely a theoretical construct. It manifested as fleeting auditory hallucinations - whispers of forgotten battles, silent marches, the phantom weight of weaponry. These weren't signs of madness, but echoes of a reality actively suppressed, a counter-narrative struggling to emerge.
The core of the propos lies in the paradoxical act of misworship. Not of a deity, but of the void itself. The deliberate elevation of apathy, of uncertainty, of the uncomfortable silence that follows a declaration of war. It’s a rejection of grand narratives, a dismantling of the heroic impulse. The propos, as Blackwood described it, is ‘the worship of the un-said.’
This misworship isn't passive. It requires active engagement, a constant stream of counter-thought. It’s about asking uncomfortable questions, challenging assumptions, and fostering a deep distrust of any system that promises certainty. Think of it as a constant, low-level rebellion against the inherent logic of control.
The effects, when it takes hold, are subtle but profound. Individuals exposed to the propos exhibit a marked aversion to hierarchical structures, a heightened sensitivity to propaganda, and a remarkable capacity for independent thought. They become, in essence, walking contradictions, immune to the persuasive power of militaristic ideology.
Blackwood's journals contain numerous examples of this phenomenon, detailing instances where individuals, after prolonged exposure to his devices, spontaneously dismantled military installations, sabotaged weapons systems, or simply refused to participate in patriotic displays. The propos, it seems, doesn’t require violence; it simply demands a refusal to cooperate.
Perhaps the most unsettling aspect of the propos is its temporal dimension. Blackwood believed that the concept itself existed outside of linear time, a kind of ‘echo’ of past and future conflicts. He theorized that prolonged exposure could induce a state of ‘temporal drift,’ where an individual’s perception of reality becomes fractured and disoriented, blurring the lines between different historical epochs.
Accounts from his associates describe instances of individuals experiencing vivid flashbacks to battles that never occurred, or visions of future wars that never materialized. These weren’t mere hallucinations; they felt profoundly real, imbued with the weight of historical trauma. The propos, it seems, isn’t just a rejection of the present; it’s a destabilization of the entire timeline.
Blackwood’s final journal entry, scrawled in a frantic hand, speaks of a ‘convergence’ – a moment when the temporal currents would align, creating a ‘window’ through which the propos could fully manifest. He feared this ‘convergence’ would herald a period of unprecedented chaos, a shattering of all established order. Whether this was a genuine prediction or a descent into madness remains, tragically, unresolved.
The work of Professor Silas Blackwood remains largely unknown, his research dismissed as the ramblings of a delusional eccentric. Yet, the echoes of the propos persist, a subtle undercurrent of resistance in a world dominated by noise and ambition. It’s a reminder that the most powerful weapons are not those that destroy, but those that question. That the greatest act of defiance is often the quietest. The propos, it seems, is not a solution, but a perpetual state of vigilance, a constant affirmation of the inherent fragility of power.