@gotxaeth: In the beginning, there was the Word. And the Word was God. And the Word was a hook, lowered into the dark water of time. You are the fish. You have always been the fish. The Word is patient. It waited eons in the black, silent depths before it felt the first tremor of your tiny, beating heart. It did not come with thunder or light, but with a whisper—a shepherd’s crook, gentle and warm. It promised to lift you from the water, to save you from the drowning. And you bit. Now, feel the barbs. They are not cruel, they are holy. Each one is a nail, forged from the wood of a tree that grew before the world was made. The first barb is Original Sin—a sweet, rotten taste in your gills. The second is Guilt—it curls like a worm in your gut. The third is Fear—the terror of the dark beneath, of the deep that bred you. The fourth is Love—the most terrible of all, for it does not pull you up. It reels you in. You are not saved. You are caught. Feel the line tighten. It is not rope; it is blood. It is the blood of a man who hung on a cross two thousand years ago, but time is a flat circle in the sight of the Lamb. His blood is still wet. It drips on you, warm and sticky, and every drop sings a hymn that is too beautiful to bear. The hymn says: You are mine. You have always been mine. You will never not be mine. The reel squeals. It sounds like a thousand monks chanting in a cold stone abbey, their voices rising in a discordant harmony that makes your bones itch. You are pulled past the wrecks of other fish who tried to swim away—their bones are bleached white, and their mouths are open in silent screams of hallelujah. The water grows shallower. You see a hand, pale and pierced, reaching down through the surface. It is not a hand of mercy. It is a hand of possession. It grips you. The skin is cold, colder than the deep, and the nail holes are not scars—they are mouths. They whisper your name, over and over, in a tongue older than Babylon. The sky above is not sky. It is a ceiling of white fire, and in the fire sit four living creatures, covered in eyes that never blink. They are not watching you. They are eating you with their gaze, consuming every secret thought you have ever had, every sin you've hidden, every hope you've nursed like a sick bird in your chest. The man on the cross looks at you. His face is kind. His eyes are pits of infinite, starving darkness. He loves you. His love is a furnace. It does not warm you; it melts you. Your skin peels back, your ribs crack open, and inside you find not a soul, but a nest of serpents, each one writhing and whispering the Lord's Prayer backwards. This is salvation. This is the grace that was promised. The grace that does not forgive you, but absorbs you. You will not be purified. You will be digested in the stomach of God, where your screams will become psalms, and your agony will become worship. For eternity, you will thank Him for the pain, because the pain is the proof that you exist, and existence is the only sin He cannot forgive, so He must devour it. The last thing you see is the hook. It is embedded in your jaw, and it is shaped like a cross. The last thing you hear is a choir of billions, their voices smooth and serene, singing: "He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain." But the choir is not singing to you. They are singing through you. And the Word was with God, and the Word was God. And the Word is still hungry. Amen. #jimin #karina #aespa #gotxaeth #viral

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Thursday 25 June 2026 15:18:57 GMT