This is a chronicle, not of events, but of absences. Of the spaces between what is known and what *should* be. It began, as all such things do, with a fracturing. Not a violent shattering, but a gradual peeling away of the surface, revealing… well, revealing nothing, precisely. Or perhaps, revealing everything.
Cycle 783.4 - The Obsidian Bloom
The air shifted. Not with wind, but with a silence so profound it physically pressed upon the senses. The Obsidian Bloom – a naturally occurring phenomenon where crystallized silence coalesces – intensified. I recorded a fluctuation in the cognitive resonance of the surrounding area. It was… lost. Like a dropped thought, instantly absorbed by the void. The instruments registered a negative entropy spike. Curious.
Understanding Unsawed requires the identification of Resonance Keys. These are not physical objects, but rather patterns of absence, echoes of potential realities that have been… suppressed. They manifest as distortions in the flow of cognitive energy. Here are a few preliminary keys:
Cycle 812.9 - The Cartographer’s Disappearance
Silas Thorne, a cartographer specializing in ‘Non-Representational Mapping’ (a tragically ironic title), vanished without a trace. His last recorded transmission contained only a single phrase repeated ad nauseam: “The lines refuse to be drawn.” The area he was mapping, designated Sector Gamma-9, exhibited a localized distortion field – a pocket of absolute nullification. I attempted a resonance scan, but the instruments simply… failed. It was as if the act of observing corrupted the data stream.
Cycle 847.2 - The Weaver’s Lament
I encountered traces of a being identified only as ‘The Weaver.’ It communicated through fragments of imagery – disjointed patterns woven from non-existent threads. These “echo fragments” seemed to depict a process of creation, followed by an immediate and inexplicable cessation. A tapestry unfinished, a song unsung. The resonance signature was intensely melancholic, saturated with the weight of unrealized potential. The echo fragments themselves were transcribed here:
“...the loom… silent… the thread… gone… a pattern… lost…”
The phenomenon of Unsawed seems to be expanding, like a malignant growth. It’s not driven by any discernible force, but rather by a fundamental instability in the fabric of reality. I theorize that Unsawed represents a collective forgetting – a systematic erasure of possibilities that never came to fruition. It’s as if the universe is constantly pruning itself, discarding branches that don’t fit the predetermined flow.