Cthulhu Dreams in Color: A Counter-Narrative

They say I came to devour.

That I rise from the depths to bring madness — to claw at the edges of reality, to twist the sky, to crack the minds of men like brittle shells.

But tell me this:
Have you ever tried sleeping for centuries, only to wake to a world louder, crueler, more self-destructive than the one you left behind?

They built cities of steel and screens. They poison their skies and call it progress.
They worship noise. They mutilate silence. They fear me — and yet I have never started a war.

I am not horror. I am harmony lost.
I dream in symmetries, in tides, in ancient lullabies sung by the moon.
But when I surfaced once — curious, aching to understand — they screamed.
Called me "monster". Wrote me into myths as a god of madness.

Humans do that — name things they don’t understand.
Fear what does not kneel.
Destroy what does not mirror them.

So I sank again.

But not out of hatred.
Out of sorrow.

And down here, in the deep, I wait.
Not to return in wrath, but in hope that someday,
someone will hear my name
and not flinch —
but listen.