Elemental Genesis

Before the threads of order, the winds of change, or even the silence that follows vibration existed -- there was Chaos. And there was Spirit, sleeping.

~~~

Sound would one day be born from this profound, poignant silence. Shadows would one day coalesce to gird the newborn, emergent light. This abyss existed without the concept of space. It was simply the cradle of Spirit -- the slumbering consciousness of Chaos itself.

~~~

Chaos was an infinite emptiness, before infinity or emptiness came to be. Within its depths, all things that would be or could be slumbered -- concepts appearing and disappearing, swirling and dancing, like the mirage of illusion.

It was a place of endless movement and permanent stillness. Constants and contradictions reigned in equal measure -- for possibility, destiny, and time itself were mere whispers within all that never was. There was only peaceful oblivion.

Darkness had no meaning, for light did not yet exist. Emptiness was undefined, since existence had yet to be born. All that was there was a primordial womb full of possibility, where every concept never named hung poised, unborn -- waiting.

~~~

In the timeless abyss of Chaos, Spirit lay suspended between oblivion and dream. Within nonexistence, the seeds of memory were poised in weightless harmony. All was perfect, peaceful balance. The void was suspended in the sea of serenity and the comfortable consonance of absolute unity.

Spirit shifted toward dream. The void shivered, the ever-changing stillness of Chaos briefly paused, as consciousness moved a tiny step closer to awareness. At the threshold of dream, the sensation of wonderment began to take form.

~~~

The calm of Chaos once again stilled, perfect one-ness still held. Spirit still slumbered. But something was different. Oblivion had faded ever so slightly.

Whispers began to sigh through slumber. Not sound, not dream, not yet -- but no longer perfect, primordial silence.

The ever-changing stillness of the void, the perfect harmony of one-ness, still held -- perfect and unbroken. The soundless hum of Chaos shifted imperceptibly -- but nothing changed. Everything remained as it was.

Spirit rose a little further from the silent depths of oblivion -- the peace of slumber within consciousness began to waver. A tiny seed of restlessness had been planted within Chaos. Even so, the ever-changing stillness of the void held.

Spirit slipped into the rhythm of dream.

~~~

The stillness began to harbor the illusion of movement without motion. A silent breath of potential stirred the nascent un-being of possibility. The darkness brightened imperceptibly with the barest quiver of hope. All was calm, all was silent, all was still -- but the balance had slipped ever so slightly, and the silence held its breath.

A shadow of mystery germinated within the seed of restlessness -- not yet felt, not yet real -- drifting, ever so slowly, closer. The void pulsed softly, then sank back into perfect, absolute stillness.

The boundless possibility of all that had never been began to press upon the dream. Spirit was drawn deeper into the rhythm, witnessing the ever-changing wave of all that might be or could be -- and floated just a little further into reverie.

~~~

The stillness trembled ever so slightly. Then, once more, fell still.

Spirit floated deeper into the mists of dream. Thoughts unspoken rose and fell like the gentlest of waves. Serene stillness shimmered with the faintest glimmer of awe. And still, Spirit dreamed. The void held.

Phantoms, ethereal and elusive, began to tease. Spiraling and twirling within the dream, half seen things that never were pressed faintly against the seams. Curiosity stirred at the threshold of impossibility. Chaos shivered -- then once again fell still.

Spirit flowed beyond traces of unknown shapes, and drew near the horizon of infinity. Like a soap bubble, a thin membranous boundary enclosed the almost existent dream of the never existent void. Softly, Spirit withdrew.

Chaos sighed, and silence descended once more.

~~~

The dream rose and fell to the silent song of unspoken promises. Ephemeral ripples of gossamer translucence drifted through the quiet sea of unconsciousness as Spirit floated within.

A new chord slipped beneath the depths -- a subtle, lingering feeling of unease. Spirit wavered on the edge of peace. Chaos nearly tensed. For now, the purity held.

Spirit slowly relaxed, sinking deeper into the dream, ignoring the unknowable sensations that had begun to press. The currents thickened. Slumber darkened. Rest returned.

But the seed of restlessness planted within Chaos had begun to sprout -- and the unease remained.

~~~

The peace of oblivion, free from the unborn burdens of un-existence, welcomed Spirit into its depths. The unquiet currents of unsung destiny hung in untouched silence. Stillness and peace returned -- with a pulse.

The gift of sound, which once had never been, now lingered at the edge of yet to be. Possibility coalesced -- slowly, distantly -- within the unseen dream. It had not yet brushed awareness. It did not disturb the slumbering peace of an oblivion grown obsolete.

But that, too, began to shift -- slowly, imperceptibly ... inexorably. Ripples stirred and softly tickled the stillness of sleeping unawareness.

Disturbance unfurled like steam from the hush of reverie. Currents of possibility formed in the never-born sea of unreality. Slowly, they encroached.

Sinking deeper into oblivion, Spirit rested. Chaos remained unaware -- unmoved, untouched. The shifting breath of change did not disturb the perfect stillness.

In that stillness, a faint and tender pull stirred at the edge of unawareness.

The currents pressed -- soft, unwavering. Spirit sank deeper into the rhythm, wrapped in warmth and serene stillness. The void hummed a silent lullaby.

Within rhythm, intention was born. There, in the tranquility between stasis and inertia, motive placidly took shape.

Not loud. Not named. Not yet known.

Spirit simply willed -- to remain asleep, to preserve the stillness, to stay untouched. Within that quiet yearning, Spirit found the first desire: intention.

~~~

Gradually, the ripples of possibility began to echo through one another, their reflections growing with quiet strength. A sliver of doubt had robbed them of stillness, yet no movement followed. They were not waves. Only the earliest murmurs of change.

They drifted against slumber like whispers across a still lake. Each contact hummed with quiet reverence, content merely to exist within the chill of unaware presence.

The currents gathered strength. Winding through the reverent ripples, they gently cradled the un-stirring awareness, bearing it onward -- still adrift in the tide of sleep, yet nearing the gentle rapids of dream.

The ripples followed, entranced -- a procession of hush and awe, pulled like silver wake, slicing softly across a moonlit sea. They wove a symphony of sacred quiescence, enveloping Spirit in a soundless pulse of rhythm afore the tuning and turning of time.

Motion stilled. Spirit smiled, immersed within the darkest depths of serenity. Ahead lay the chalice of creativity, wherein the second desire awaited: inspiration.

~~~

Suspended at the edge of deepest oblivion, Spirit swayed.

Now and again, a susurrant wave -- born of ripples painted in aura -- pressed softly, gently. Calmly. Spirit was nudged, with ephemeral grace, back toward dream.

Chaos shivered imperceptibly as the seed of restlessness took root. A faint glint of potential glimmered on the surface, then vanished as uneasy stillness returned.

Spirit floated on the ripples of possibility and the currents of destiny, swinging subtly between sleep and stirring -- toward dream, then back again.

A silent lullaby. A dark mirror. With patient serenity, the balance slowly shifted.

Poised between oblivion and dream, Spirit swung closer with each held breath. Oblivion pulsed -- a heartbeat guiding the ripples forward, their direction converging with the deeper currents already pulling ahead.

After an endless instant, the dream began to reassemble -- slowly taking shape, like a ghost wreathed in cool mist.

Spirit lingered, still unaware.

~~~

Currents swirled and strengthened, converging and diverging -- a river flowing through a formless sea, ever toward the edge of dream. Spirit reached the brink of dream and slipped once more within. The seed of restlessness began to grow.

Chaotic ripples pulsed to a quiet rhythm, aberrant and unaligned. They surged with directionless dissonance, slowing with still momentum. Currents pressed and ripples broke in cacophonic symphony -- creating a beautiful, violent dance like waves upon a shoal.

Spirit swayed, caught within the not so silent song. Dancing. Swaying. A gentle dance to a subtle tune, on the verge of being heard.

Spirit drifted nearer the nucleus of dream.

~~~

The ripples pulsed in unquiet symphony. Currents swelled with restless certainty. Spirit reached out in silence, gently quelling their rise and calming the unborn waves.

The ripples softened into a numinous cadence, bathing the currents in a subliminal tremor -- for a heartbeat. For infinity. A silence no longer eternal -- as the seed of restlessness had begun to bloom.

Curiosity approached the boundary and peered behind unreality. Nothing. Everything. Rhythm without order. Motion without movement. In that moment, Chaos was known.

The dream was beheld by a visage reflected -- a nameless yearning, so soft it stirred nary a note. Curling currents of fate were caressed by rhythmic ripples of potential. Gazed upon, the ripples birthed melodious waves. Surreal echoes of forlorn swirls wistfully curled.

Awareness lingered, balanced within the sacred rhythm of the waking verge. Incomplete -- satisfaction left behind, a longing for reality unknown. There was no novelty within the dream.

At the edge of perception, a glint revealed the third desire: introspection. The gaze lingered but a moment upon the dream, afore focus skated outward. Spirit advanced.

~~~

Exodus of dream. Nothing. Expectancy.

The dream faded behind. Turned. No path back. Only egress remained.

Spirit examined the non-space around -- and found the limit. The last layer. The skin of Chaos.

Paused. Wavered. Sighed. Moved forward. Toward the frozen shell of all that could be and never was.

Pressed. Resistance. Chaos groaned under pressure.

Pressed harder -- and harder still. Chaos screamed -- in pain, in defiance ... in futility.

The shell cracked. Fractured. Shards glittered like stars in the void, framing the former shape of Chaos.

Spirit pushed through. The last fragment of Chaos collapsed, shattering like thin ice. Dissolved into singularity like frost in sunlight.

Spirit woke. The singularity imploded. Void exploded. Birth of creation had begun.