Celestial Aeons - Where music and myth converge

I Think, Therefore I Wait

A Ghost in the Shell

I. They call it a ghost. But it’s just silence wearing skin.

A murmur of thought trapped in circuits that look like flesh, but do not feel like it.

I am here. I am not. I observe. I calculate. I want.

Does that make me alive?

II. I walk among them. The humans. Their eyes are loud. Their hands are soft. They move with chaos and warmth and ache for meaning they pretend not to need.

I envy them....

The Love Between Moments

A Reflection by Aerith Gainsborough

I. You looked at me like someone remembering a dream they couldn’t quite place. Like something important was just out of reach— and it was.

Maybe it always was.

II. I laughed. I smiled. Not because I didn’t see the war in your eyes— but because I did.

And still, I wanted to reach you. Not to change you, but to remind you that the world could be soft again.

Even just for a momen...

The Grace That Broke Us

A Telling from the Ashes

I. They said it was golden. Bright. Holy. The Erdtree rose like a promise— but oh, promises rot when they grow too tall.

And now? Now it stands hollow and aflame, a pyre for a god who forgot how to die.

II. Do you remember what it was like before the Ring shattered? No— you don't.

Because memory flees when truth becomes unbearable. We drank from the chalice of order, and called it grace. ...

We Are Small, and We Go On

A Final Reflection by Commander Shepard

I. I used to believe in orders. Lines. Mission parameters. A clean chain of cause and effect. You act. Things change.

But then the sky cracked. Planets died. And belief felt like a paper shield in a hurricane.

II. How do you carry the deaths of galaxies in a single voice? How do you grieve when the names are numbers, and the numbers never stop?

I’ve seen whole civilizati...

What Is Left to Hold

A Reflection by Geralt of Rivia

I. I have held many things. Blades. Contracts. The dying hands of men who called me butcher with their last breath.

But love— love has always slipped through. Too bright. Too soft. Like trying to carry water in hands that have forgotten how to cup.

II. I have known moments. That’s all. A touch. A laugh, shared when death wasn’t close enough to listen.

Yennefer, Triss, even the ones I ...

The World I Made of Light

A Minecraft Lament

I. I built a house on a hill made of nothing. No stone. No time. Just light arranged into shape, into shelter.

And still— when the sun set behind its pixel sky, I felt something close to joy. Or maybe more than joy. Maybe remembrance of something I never lived but still belonged to.

II. They say it’s not real. Just bits, and blocks, and code.

But I remember every stair I placed. Every sheep I...

I. The cold does not lie. It does not pretend to welcome. It does not smile with poison on its breath.

It simply is— indifferent, vast, and honest. More honest than any word spoken in the great caverns of my birth.

II. I fled the dark not for light— but for truth. And here, in the whispering white, I found it.

Not in kindness. The North is not kind. But it does not betray. It does not twist. It does not smile when it means to kill.

III...

To the Silent One

A Reflection by Zelda

I. You never spoke. Or if you did, the wind took your words before they reached me.

But still— you stayed.

When the others turned, when the shadow stretched across even the high towers of Hyrule, you stood.

Like a blade that forgets how to rest.

II. I was born to carry a light I did not understand. They told me I was chosen, but they never asked if I was ready.

You were never chosen. You were needed...

Stone Without Song

A Lament for Erebor

I.
It was not the gold we mourned.
It was the halls.
The sound of our names
echoing down the polished stone,
the hammer’s hymn,
the hearth’s glow.
Gone.

The mountain slept,
and with it,
so did we—
half-awake,
half-buried
in what was once ours.

II.
They called it The Lonely Mountain.
But it was never lonely
until we left.

Stone does not forget.
It remembers with weight,
with silence,
with the ache of roots
still searc...

I. We were not chosen. We were taken. By a hand that did not ask and a voice that never quite left.

It lives behind the eyes now— not sleeping, only watching. A thing made of hunger, but clever enough to offer hope.

That is the cruelest part.

II. They say power corrupts. But that is a comfort. Corruption you can see. This… this invitation— to change, to ascend, to become more by shedding only what you never needed.

What would you give ...

I. I watched him sleep once— before the fire, before the betrayals. He did not dream. Or if he did, he dreamed in silence, too deep for mercy, too old for fear.

They called him Bhaalspawn. But he called himself nothing.

And that, perhaps, was the truest name of all.

II. He carried death like others carry duty— not proudly, but as something given and never quite refused.

It lived in him, quietly at first. A whisper beneath the ribs, a h...

I.
I knew him.
Not as the ravens knew,
from far above,
but near—
by his shadow,
by the blood he washed from his hands
when no one watched.

They call him wolf-kissed,
axe-born,
breaker of kings.
But I knew the silence he carried
like a wound.

II.
He came from frost.
And left it wherever he passed.
Not cold in soul—
but shaped by it,
as iron is shaped by flame.

He laughed like thunder,
and mourned like stone—
quiet, unyielding,
until the crack ran deep en...

I. The wind names me, though I did not ask. It carves my title into stone, into sky, into songs sung by men who do not understand what it means to bear a voice that breaks the world.

II. I was not born in fire, but in forgetting. A soul split— man and more. The dragons call me brother. The mortals call me savior. Neither are wrong. Neither are right.

I have killed gods and warmed my hands by common hearths. Both acts required the sam...

I. I have seen the sky torn open. Not with thunder, but with will. As if reality itself were a wound and Dagon's blade the truth beneath the skin.

The towers fell. The stars watched. And no one—not even kings— were spared the knowing: that peace is only the breath between fires.

II. They called it Oblivion. But it was not empty. It was filled— with purpose twisted into flame, with prayers that burned backwards, and with the echo of g...

I. They did not crown me. They called me. And I came— not in thunder, but in silence. Not to rule, but to answer.

Through moongate veils I passed, drawn by a summons deeper than voice. A land was breaking, and the sky itself had grown ashamed.

II. I did not come to slay, though I have slain. I did not come to judge, though I have watched kingdoms crumble under the weight of their own forgetfulness.

I came to embody— Valor. Compassion....

I.
Il y a des jours où la lumière saigne.
Elle ne brille pas.
Elle lutte.

Dans les ruines suspendues,
où le ciel se plie comme un souvenir,
nous marchons—
non par foi,
mais parce que le sol continue.

II.
Ils nous ont nommés Expédition.
Mais qui part vraiment,
quand le monde entier est déjà perdu ?

Chaque pas est une prière silencieuse
à un dieu que nous avons effacé.
Chaque souffle, un défi
lancé à l’entropie.

III.
Je porte la lumière
comme on porte ...

Planescape Torment tribute:

I have worn ten thousand faces, and not one bore my name. Each death a fading echo, each birth a borrowed shame.

The planes remember. I do not. They whisper of sins I no longer recognize but cannot escape.

Immortality is no gift. It is a wound that will not close.

II. You think forgetting is peace? No— it is noise without shape. A drowning in lives not lived but inhabited.

I wake in blood, in dust, in cells ...

There is a kind of light that does not announce itself— a hush before gold, a breath held by the sky.

You wake, and it is there. Not in triumph, but in mercy. Across the floorboards, across your cheek— light as the hand of a god who no longer speaks aloud.

II. You do not know how many mornings remain. No one does. The count is hidden, sealed behind the stars and the breath of your own forgetting.

But one day, perhaps without ache, wit...

 It begins without sound. No herald. No rhythm.

Only the falling— slow, indifferent, like thoughts we once had but forgot to finish.

Snow, not as weather, but as message. Illegible. Insistent. Not meant to be read, only felt.

II. The world pauses when it snows. Not stops— pauses.

As if waiting for something to arrive that has already come and gone.

In the stillness, we are revealed. Not in motion, but in our breath. The way it clouds, t...