Interlude: The Creation

I am having trouble thinking straight for long enough to write the post I had originally intended to write. So I’m going to write something else.

In the beginning– well, our beginning anyway– there was Father. He flew through the ether for a forever until He found here. He came to this land and He saw her beauty and knew that this is where His heart was, and in the heart land he made many children. He crafted them over a second forever, bringing clay up from the river beds and shaping his daughters one by one. Father had an eternity, you see, and the children must be perfect, or they might one day break His heart.

So: He made them, one by one, and built them a garden to live in. They played in the rivers and the skies, climbed the great wise trees of the heart land, and invented strange and wonderful games and stories to pass the endless days. And, as those days passed, his daughters learned the wisdom of the trees, which they in turn taught to their new sisters.

Every childhood must end, though. The day He created Dawn, He knew his great work was complete. He believed her perfect– neither the smallest nor the greatest of his children, made of rosy pale clay she stood alone on pillar legs. The children did not know what to make of her at first– she was not the fastest, she was not the strongest, and though she was clever she was not the cleverest– one of her sisters, small and dark and swift, was surely cleverer. Nevertheless, Father had decided, and with that another forever ended, another forever began.

Father told us of our great work. Just as he had created us, we were to make our own creations in the image he had granted us. He told the children that his love and faith was what allowed them to exist in this exquisite garden, but that he might not be around forever, and that the children’s children would be forced to find their own sustenance in the heart land if they were to survive. So began The Construction. Father’s vision granted the children their shape, and with the wisdom they learned from the trees they soon began to glean the secrets of feather and flesh and blood, bone and skin and scale.

Some of them bore this knowledge within themselves, and began to swell up. Others, fearful of the changes that were wrought on their sisters, hid it in and among the river rocks or gave it to the trees for safekeeping. There was a strange pressure falling over the land, the weight of creation coming to rest upon the children. When they swam in the river they imagined blood flowing through arteries, and the cool bark of the wise trees reminded them of skin and feather and fur. Nothing was just itself any more, just another unique facet like all the others: Now everything showed connections of similarity, and the connections defined a distance, and the distance defined a loneliness. The uniqueness which was their bond began to drive them apart.

This was the end of our final forever. Time was about to begin.


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