Weave sickness is a disorienting psychological state experienced by some due to intensive or sustained weaving, sometimes alongside or after withdrawal from weaver's trance. Symptoms may include compulsively simulating alternate branches even in base reality and when interacting with static media, the Tetris effect regarding Loom including in dreams, derealization, depersonalization, and paranoia about being simulated.
quotes about weave sickness
Many Loom-Wielders find that weaving in such a heightened state of awareness is extremely painful, and psychological trauma is very common. It is not unheard of for a Loom-Wielder to go mad by becoming lost in the weave, and existing outside of reality. This phenomenon is known as “weave-sickness” or more commonly “seeing the true weave.” The most powerful of Loom-Wielders can see the true weave without losing their minds. These are the people who have the potential to see all of reality for what it is: one great, ever-changing tapestry.
— Weaving the Moment with the Loom of Time, chapter 2: Fundamentals of Weft
Every object I touch unfolds like the tail of a peacock, a pamphlet of clones Siamese-linked through the air. Superimposed in space and burning where they overlap, the paradox-pressure of copresence rattling atoms; if I prolong my touch, they will ignite, and for moments I will wield an arc of discrete flames. I have experimented: an apple becomes six apples, red and vibrating, then one again when I drop it, bruised at the edges where it abutted its twins. A girl whose cheek I stroke becomes twelve girls, standing in a semi-circle, dark eyes blinking in confusion and pain, until I let go. Also bruised, possibly internally damaged. I cannot duplicate myself.
The power is focused by intent, and by examination; it requires gaze and manipulation. I do not think I belong to this universe; I have no memories of my origins, and I feel the air hissing away form me, repelled by my presence. I feel disjointed. Unmoored in this body and perhaps this mind, reacting against physics or reacted against by it.
I want to press my palm against the moon, and see the Earth half-circled by an arc of silver globes. Subsequently crumbling, crescent edges dissolved to ash; I want the withdrawal of my attention written across space, consequence incarnate in the sky as a ruined sphere. Am I powerful? I can make gods, arms duplicated, grant Shiva's spidery reach on an incandescent hinge. Short-lived creations, sustained for an instant by a flicker of my interest, just long enough for their minds to diverge, dying as I return them to their damaged source.
I play matter like an accordion; all things are springs, containing within them the energy of an unrealized manifold. Not one child, but ten. Not one book, not one church. Not one world; instead, the multiplication of possibilities, each object a dimension in the ever-expanding matrix. And yet, one self: I stand here, rigid, a stone above water. Everything that nature loves has multiplicity, and my wholeness is empty, the burden of a fixed point rejected by the orbiting cosmos.
— ctrlcreep, Fragnemt