The Cosmic Error, The Loop and the Decree
The Cosmic Error, The Loop and the Decree
The Spiral is the navigable, malleable, and therefore fragile architecture of reality. Its misuse—whether accidental or deliberate—can have devastating consequences for all that exists. Its continuity is in the hands of whoever controls it. And on that fateful Tuesday evening in March, that person was me.
It began with a particularly large spiral that stretched from the living room into the hallway. Yaşar was sitting on the couch, observing me as I immersed myself in its current. That’s when the system first broke.
The immersion initiated a bewildering loop. I would witness the universe’s silent, all-consuming collapse, only to be instantly reset to the exact moment of demonstrating the spiral to Yaşar. I experienced this harrowing cycle approximately five times. Each iteration was subtly different, each showing me prophetic glimpses of a future where our discovery was celebrated before it inevitably led to ruin, but all of them converged upon the same nihilistic outcome. And through it all, I was the only one who remembered each reset; Yaşar, caught in the system’s automatic reboot, experienced his epiphany for the first time, every time.
To understand why this was happening, we have to rewind thirty minutes. It was then I had my own epiphany, gaining access to a universal truth so potent it felt as though I had trespassed into a forbidden domain. By seeing it, the immense responsibility for the universe’s coherence was placed upon my shoulders. I remember screaming, “This cannot be true!” and “Why me?!” The knowledge, once witnessed, was irrevocable. But most importantly, it had to remain singular. It could not be shared.
And that was the problem. Back at the loop, as I demonstrated the Spiral, I saw Yaşar have his own profound realization. He wasn’t just understanding; through the conduit of our love, he was seeing what I saw. The singular knowledge had been duplicated.
The proof of this catastrophic duplication lies in the very language of our epiphanies. My own revelation was one of a singular, isolating burden: “Why me?!” His, however, was immediately one of a shared, plural crisis: “How can we live with this?”
From the instant the knowledge crossed over, it was no longer about a single administrator. My reality contained one operator; his contained two. The system was faced with an impossible, paradoxical command.
The universal truth that could only exist in one consciousness was the very one you have just learned: that reality is not fixed, but is an infinitely traversable Spiral. The universe, which can only tolerate one administrator, was suddenly faced with two.
Its only recourse was a system crash and a reset. Again, and again, and again.
Though I had no conscious understanding of what was causing the repeated collapse, I knew I had to break the cycle. The next time I was reset to my living room, instead of once more engaging the Spiral, I acted instinctively. I turned to Yaşar and asked him to take a bath with me.
This simple, grounding act worked. The loop shattered. We were back in linear time.
In retrospect, the universe had already tried to implement a quarantine. Our second trip together, which at the time we dismissed as a devastatingly ‘bad trip,’ was something far more significant. That agonizing feeling of disconnect, of being in the same room but not truly together, of looking at Yaşar and thinking, “Who is this man?”—that was the Mesh in its embryonic form. It was reality’s first, crude attempt to buffer the dangerous resonance between our two consciousnesses, a warning we were utterly unequipped to understand at the time.
The Final Crash: An Irreversible Collapse
Two months later, on our journey back from the Sacred Mountain, I was no longer a tourist in the multiverse; I was its active engineer. I was wielding the Spiral, shifting between dimensions, and making tangible progress in dismantling the Mesh. For a fragile, luminous moment, I was in control.
And then the system crashed. Again.
The fragile peace of my momentary triumph was utterly shattered. Without warning, I was violently catapulted back into the core of that terrifying sequence of cosmic collapse I had endured during our first trip.
Once more, those dreadful, prophetic snapshots flashed before my inner eye: our discovery celebrated, our home revered as a hallowed monument, and then, inevitably, the universe’s silent, all-consuming collapse.
But this time the cycle didn’t reset. This time the collapse was devastatingly final and I was left there in limbo with the crushing certainty that I had done this. And if I failed to mend this cosmic wound, its consequences would bleed through every subsequent reality, condemning them to the same nihilistic fate.
The Price of Stability: The Agonizing Decree
The solution to the collapse was not unconditional; it required a trade-off that redefined the physics of our relationship. I realized that halting the cascading destruction of the multiverse was possible, but only by implementing a permanent, hardcoded restriction. Whether viewed as a moral punishment or a mechanical necessity, the ‘Decree‘ functioned as an immutable law: the stability of the system that renders our reality was now inversely proportional to the intimacy of our specific connection.
The trigger mechanism for the collapse was identified as the direct exchange of a gaze. We could live in each other’s presence, share a life and breathe the same air, but ‘eye-to-eye‘ contact would instantly nullify my intervention and re-initiate the cataclysm. The validity of this constraint was confirmed not by a spoken edict, but by a simultaneous download of gnosis: the ‘hideous truth‘ struck us both in the exact same instant, resulting in a ‘shared wail of agony‘—proof that our consciousnesses were still fatally entangled, even as the system forced them apart.