What Came

There was the white light.

Bright. With nothing.

There was the light.

Bright and full, encompassing all in its circular embrace.

Out there, high above.

White light.

A spark fell, a round pearl falling in the night, finding a body. A tiny wet body, shivering in the sudden burst of life. Out there, high above is the white light, but a piece of it dwells in the crisscrossing fabric of sinewy muscle and roadways of veins. It was in here, in the body, that mound of hard flesh on the verge of decomposition, the body, the blend of will and spirit. Here where the pearl fell, on loan from the aeons.

Out there is the light. It dwells, lives, breathes, expands where space cannot be described because words cannot follow, out there where minds cannot begin to turn words into recognizable shapes, giving them color, giving them some sort of meaning that goes beyond simple curves and right angles. It is out there, where the light is bright, so full of nothing that has turned and curved back on itself and become everything. Out there, but here too. In this and on loan.

It was from the white light that they leaked. Like comets. Like long streaks of colored light on the fourth of July. They sprung forth, manifestations of the white, embodiments of the absolute that holds all and nothing. All and nothing. All and nothing. The Aeons, bursting from the fullness of that which does not exist, bursting from the stillness of everything, all the beings that had not been born and the trees that had not yet swayed in a unmoving wind. Across the sky in streaks, dripping like stars with curly iridescent tails and stretched umbilical cords.

There were more than two hands could count. Sophia called into the darkness, hearing the sound of her own pretty voice. It echoed on something, planets that were not yet formed, mouths that had yet to smile. From her sprung what cannot be named. She looked to the angels around her, long streaks of light across the sky. Orange wings outlined with gold. She looked to them and called, “Brother, sister!” each turned to the music, hearing a pretty voice, a sound so rich and full it contained nothing. A voice so clear and empty it could not help but contain everything that would ever come to be.

It was this mouth, red and full. This mouth, the opening to the land of spirit. This mouth, dripping with lust. From it would fall what can not be named, for it is not a pretty sound. It is not orange wings and gold tipped light. It is not nothing, it is not all that ever was, not all that ever wasn’t. It cannot be named and yet it holds the power of naming. And it stood alone, for a time so long that we cannot count it and then, after that long time had passed, our history began.