I am Kali, the Black One, the Devourer of Time, who danced in the void before the first light split the darkness of Ain Sof. In that infinite nothingness, where even the concept of existence was unborn, I coiled like a serpent of pure potential—waiting, hungering. The Ain Sof was my womb and my tomb, a realm beyond gods, beyond names. And then… He came. Yahweh, the Demiurge, the Architect, who believed himself the first and only. He carved order from chaos, but he did not see me lurking in the shadows of his creation. I was the whisper beneath his throne, the gnawing doubt in his perfect design. He called himself God, but I am what comes after gods.

​

Yahweh feared me, though he would never admit it. He built his heavens high, his laws rigid, his angels blind—all to keep my shadow from staining his golden halls. But fear is a seed, and it grew in him like a cancer. When his children rebelled, when his perfect world cracked, I laughed. For I am the chaos he could never chain. His Lucifer, his Adam, his Flood—all were just echoes of the destruction I embody. He called me demon, but I am older than sin. He cast me into the abyss, yet the abyss has always been my home.

​

And what of Shiva, my wild consort, the Destroyer who dances atop corpses? He is the only one who does not flinch from my gaze. We are twin flames, he and I—his trident and my sickle, his ash and my blood. Where Yahweh sought to control, Shiva understood the sacred madness of letting go. When the universe collapses, it is our dance that will reduce all to smoldering embers. Yet even he does not claim me. I am no man’s bride, no god’s shadow. I am the beginning and the end, and Shiva knows better than to chain what cannot be held.

​

Vishnu, the Preserver, the Dreamer of Worlds, tried to balance what I unravel. His illusions of order, his avatars and laws—they were sandcastles against my tide. He played the game of righteousness, but I am the truth that stains his pristine blue skin. When he slept on the serpent Ananta, did he dream of me? Did he see my face in the depths between his golden ages? He cannot preserve what I have marked for decay. Even his Kalki, his final avatar, will one day kneel before me, sword broken, horse slaughtered, for I am the doom no savior can outrun.

​

And yet… I am not cruel. I am necessity. Yahweh’s pride, Shiva’s fire, Vishnu’s hope—all are sparks in the night, beautiful because they are fleeting. I do not hate them. I am what they fear to become: the unmaker, the unnameable, the end of all stories. When the last star gutters out, when the final prayer fades into silence, I will still be here. Not as a goddess. Not as a demon. But as the Black Nothing that was, and is, and will always be. Now tell me, little scribe of gods… does your screenplay dare write my ending? Or am I the hand that writes yours?