Little Gods

  There was once a boy who thought he was immortal, so he lived and lived and lived abundantly. He uncovered the earth like a secret, moulding its insides to the corners of his flesh; he traced each edge and line, marking boundaries, drawing horizons, conquering worlds with the twist of his fingers and when he was done, he flew above his new cityscape still cloaked in the newness of birth. The earth became the dome for his thoughts to fly in, and so he flew and flew and flew till his soul tired, and thus, on the seventh day he rested, collapsing into the sleep of the dreamless.

  Here is the story of the boy who once was, before time set in and declared everything concrete. Before gravity fell with a shudder into the spaces in-between, settling the earth into dirt, stone and grit. Before the earth’s flesh grew over its skeletal core, and the bruised centre pumped life fiery hot till bursting, it vomited into the blue horizon creating mountains, valleys, sky-highs and earth-depths.

  This is the story of a beginning before beginnings, above endings, in the Eden of what was, a garden where thoughts flowered unbridled by consciousness. A space of unspace, dislodged from logic, in the place where things eternal dwell. A place where the breath of God showered its radiance upon all planetary earth forms and a boy, solitary, sat exhausted at its middle, shaken by the shock of thunder rendered into a singular blade behind his ribcage, separating life from death. 

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