HOME | DD

Description
HE was as good of a pronoun was any other. He was nothing, and he was everything. He did not need a name. He was the only force in existence. There was no past or future – only endless eternity. There were no words, no sounds, no sights. Nothing to see, nothing to be, and nothing whatsoever to do.

He found himself to be lonely, and bored.

He turned from the empty void to the aether, raw firmament, building blocks of creation and beyond, far more than simple clay. This was a beginning. He could see it. He could see everything, through nothing and into endless possibility. Much more than a game of chance, though some would see it as so, when they came along.

When the decision had been made, there was a sharp soundless sound, a hard snap… Everything that was… In one sudden second… broke. Light stood on one side of the darkness and the flood waters of time crashed in between their impossible heights. There was day, and there was night. It was good.

He hurt for the breaking, despite his careful plans. It had not only been the universe – he had broken every bit of himself, his body and his mind. Tears seeped from the corners of his eyes, the liquid pooling… dripping down the line of what could have been a jaw… A gleaming orb fell down into the aether, crystallized memories of the future held inside, a precious and dear treasure milked from his pain. He stared at it. The world, a perfect globe, his tears the sustaining water.

The light and darkness flashed before his eyes, and this was the second day.

He laughed with the thought of it. Not in wonder, or amazement, or even surprise. He knew. Pure joy radiated across everything that was yet to come, striking awesome chords, reveling in the power and terror. The echoes rippled across the seed of the world, coaxing it out, shaping the hollows and pushing out the mountain peaks. He watched it intently until the darkness came again, on the third day.

With the next bit, he was more careful still. It was all so fragile, like a young thing just out of the egg. One little push and it would all fall down in a trillion smashed up pieces. He could not bear that pain. This… this would require a hefty price.

In the void, he turned himself on himself, and peered inside, baring the white curve of the spine and the cage of the ribs and the heart which was the beat of everything, which told time itself what time it should be and how long it should keep ticking. The blood drawn out sprinkled across the universe – once, twice, three times. He shivered, cold and exposed.

"Give me the light," he said. "For I need it to be, and make it so." The scattered beads began to glow. Some were larger and very close to his new world. The sun and moon, reflections of the great divide. And stars, farther away, pinpricks on the cloak of the night, forever emblems of distant hope. When the light finally fled, in exhaustion, it was the fourth day. But he could not yet rest.

Next, he considered the shadows, children of the night, precise parallels to the stars and cast in a complex array of their own. He pinched a bit of aether and rolled it between hands that spanned galaxies, spawning currents and breezes and every new pattern imaginable, stirring the dust to and fro. Then he picked the shadow, the very first one, the shadow of him, and started to spin it all together. Shapes were flung in every direction – birds on the wing with breath rushed into them and sleek scaled shapes flipping their tails through the water, gills gaping. Fish and fowl, with each one's shadow in tow. The world hungered for new life; on the fifth day, he had only begun to sate its appetite.

This world would be the final push, the eleventh hour, the true question of craft – which soon would be answered satisfactorily to all ends and purposes. He looked into the mirror of time and its distortions, and into the light that continuously danced between the sun and moon. He dipped into the reflections and funneled himself into his very own world. Everything else before had only been practice for the main act.

He reached down with hands no smaller than growing fruit and almost as soft, and dug fingers into warm giving clay, simpler and sweeter than the raw firmament above, the aether. He worked it and shaped it, remembering the future and looking forward into the past, keeping the reflections in mind. And in doing so, he had created himself.

He breathed life into the man, but before then, he slipped a seed into his heart… the seed of destruction and creation, to do freely unto his own… to create other words, other futures, other dreams… to open up his eyes to all the possibilities, if only one would coax it open. And one day, exposed to the ever flowing river of time, it would grow into a tree of life.

He smiled, and the man smiled back. It was exceedingly good. Then the man looked at him, and his child, the first and the last, the apple of his eye, said, "I'm lonely."

At the end of the sixth day, the man lacked a few vital bones in the chest area, but it didn't matter in the long run because life was running the race at full throttle, hand in hand, heart in heart, and it was so good. Out of man came woman; she named him and he in turn named her. The man was Adama, and the woman was Howa.

On the seventh day, at last he allowed himself to rest, with the firmament as his covering, everything drained away. He dreamed of the beginning and the end, of new games and old losses, of prisons and freedoms and epiphanies, and what, finally, he knew must come, when the grand trick was revealed and there were no more days to be had at all. Some of those dreams seeped into the fresh new minds of burgeoning humanity, and colored their perceptions, reaching out and subtly changing the world, eddies in the current of the times, shifting it into a thousand shades of blue and grey, waiting for the moment until he woke again, ready to face the inevitable. As was the beginning, so would be the end. And it was good.

Description
HE was as good of a pronoun was any other. He was nothing, and he was everything. He did not need a name. He was the only force in existence. There was no past or future – only endless eternity. There were no words, no sounds, no sights. Nothing to see, nothing to be, and nothing whatsoever to do.

He found himself to be lonely, and bored.

He turned from the empty void to the aether, raw firmament, building blocks of creation and beyond, far more than simple clay. This was a beginning. He could see it. He could see everything, through nothing and into endless possibility. Much more than a game of chance, though some would see it as so, when they came along.

When the decision had been made, there was a sharp soundless sound, a hard snap… Everything that was… In one sudden second… broke. Light stood on one side of the darkness and the flood waters of time crashed in between their impossible heights. There was day, and there was night. It was good.

He hurt for the breaking, despite his careful plans. It had not only been the universe – he had broken every bit of himself, his body and his mind. Tears seeped from the corners of his eyes, the liquid pooling… dripping down the line of what could have been a jaw… A gleaming orb fell down into the aether, crystallized memories of the future held inside, a precious and dear treasure milked from his pain. He stared at it. The world, a perfect globe, his tears the sustaining water.

The light and darkness flashed before his eyes, and this was the second day.

He laughed with the thought of it. Not in wonder, or amazement, or even surprise. He knew. Pure joy radiated across everything that was yet to come, striking awesome chords, reveling in the power and terror. The echoes rippled across the seed of the world, coaxing it out, shaping the hollows and pushing out the mountain peaks. He watched it intently until the darkness came again, on the third day.

With the next bit, he was more careful still. It was all so fragile, like a young thing just out of the egg. One little push and it would all fall down in a trillion smashed up pieces. He could not bear that pain. This… this would require a hefty price.

In the void, he turned himself on himself, and peered inside, baring the white curve of the spine and the cage of the ribs and the heart which was the beat of everything, which told time itself what time it should be and how long it should keep ticking. The blood drawn out sprinkled across the universe – once, twice, three times. He shivered, cold and exposed.

"Give me the light," he said. "For I need it to be, and make it so." The scattered beads began to glow. Some were larger and very close to his new world. The sun and moon, reflections of the great divide. And stars, farther away, pinpricks on the cloak of the night, forever emblems of distant hope. When the light finally fled, in exhaustion, it was the fourth day. But he could not yet rest.

Next, he considered the shadows, children of the night, precise parallels to the stars and cast in a complex array of their own. He pinched a bit of aether and rolled it between hands that spanned galaxies, spawning currents and breezes and every new pattern imaginable, stirring the dust to and fro. Then he picked the shadow, the very first one, the shadow of him, and started to spin it all together. Shapes were flung in every direction – birds on the wing with breath rushed into them and sleek scaled shapes flipping their tails through the water, gills gaping. Fish and fowl, with each one's shadow in tow. The world hungered for new life; on the fifth day, he had only begun to sate its appetite.

This world would be the final push, the eleventh hour, the true question of craft – which soon would be answered satisfactorily to all ends and purposes. He looked into the mirror of time and its distortions, and into the light that continuously danced between the sun and moon. He dipped into the reflections and funneled himself into his very own world. Everything else before had only been practice for the main act.

He reached down with hands no smaller than growing fruit and almost as soft, and dug fingers into warm giving clay, simpler and sweeter than the raw firmament above, the aether. He worked it and shaped it, remembering the future and looking forward into the past, keeping the reflections in mind. And in doing so, he had created himself.

He breathed life into the man, but before then, he slipped a seed into his heart… the seed of destruction and creation, to do freely unto his own… to create other words, other futures, other dreams… to open up his eyes to all the possibilities, if only one would coax it open. And one day, exposed to the ever flowing river of time, it would grow into a tree of life.

He smiled, and the man smiled back. It was exceedingly good. Then the man looked at him, and his child, the first and the last, the apple of his eye, said, "I'm lonely."

At the end of the sixth day, the man lacked a few vital bones in the chest area, but it didn't matter in the long run because life was running the race at full throttle, hand in hand, heart in heart, and it was so good. Out of man came woman; she named him and he in turn named her. The man was Adama, and the woman was Howa.

On the seventh day, at last he allowed himself to rest, with the firmament as his covering, everything drained away. He dreamed of the beginning and the end, of new games and old losses, of prisons and freedoms and epiphanies, and what, finally, he knew must come, when the grand trick was revealed and there were no more days to be had at all. Some of those dreams seeped into the fresh new minds of burgeoning humanity, and colored their perceptions, reaching out and subtly changing the world, eddies in the current of the times, shifting it into a thousand shades of blue and grey, waiting for the moment until he woke again, ready to face the inevitable. As was the beginning, so would be the end. And it was good.