(no subject)
There has never been nothing. There was always her. Listless and alone, she did not drift through
the cosmos; she was the cosmos, her entity of being inextricably linked with
the emptiness of space around her.
Endowed with creation, she knew not what to create, and thus the
emptiness of her failure loomed around her, eternally. When at last the
isolation overcame her, she succumbed to madness. In fits of rage, she forced creation by
destroying herself.
From her body, she created a planet, filled with the heaviness of her guilt. Her anger became the thunder, and her shrieks became lightning. With her isolation she created the icy poles, forever to be alone. Her helplessness became the oceans, endlessly idle. Her skin became the dirt, the earthy surface. Her broken bones jutted out painfully, sending streams of life-giving blood rushing courses down the mountains of bone. Her hair became the grass, and her labored breaths, the air. Her elbows and knees became rocks, and her mouth became sand, ever thirsting for water. Her eyes became clouds, occasionally weeping life back into her creation. From her senses she created the animals, to endow them with survival. And from her hands, with which she could not create, she produced the most important creatures of all- the likenesses of herself.
When she had no more left to give, the goddess’s spirit curled up tightly into itself, and, exuding the rich glow of her achievement, became an orb of light. Within this sanctuary, the madness left her and she was free to see the wonder she had created. Enthralled, she watched the tiny creatures that were, in essence, herself. And the creatures looked to her, as well, for they recognized their existence was dependant on her spirit. Alone no more, and content at last, the goddess circled her tiny creation, ever-present, ever-returning.
And so she continues to this day.
From her body, she created a planet, filled with the heaviness of her guilt. Her anger became the thunder, and her shrieks became lightning. With her isolation she created the icy poles, forever to be alone. Her helplessness became the oceans, endlessly idle. Her skin became the dirt, the earthy surface. Her broken bones jutted out painfully, sending streams of life-giving blood rushing courses down the mountains of bone. Her hair became the grass, and her labored breaths, the air. Her elbows and knees became rocks, and her mouth became sand, ever thirsting for water. Her eyes became clouds, occasionally weeping life back into her creation. From her senses she created the animals, to endow them with survival. And from her hands, with which she could not create, she produced the most important creatures of all- the likenesses of herself.
When she had no more left to give, the goddess’s spirit curled up tightly into itself, and, exuding the rich glow of her achievement, became an orb of light. Within this sanctuary, the madness left her and she was free to see the wonder she had created. Enthralled, she watched the tiny creatures that were, in essence, herself. And the creatures looked to her, as well, for they recognized their existence was dependant on her spirit. Alone no more, and content at last, the goddess circled her tiny creation, ever-present, ever-returning.
And so she continues to this day.