There was no time, not even the waiting kind. No beginning, no end , no middle.
No space in which to streach, no silence in which to speak. No watcheer. No witness. No Self,
Only absence, No emptiness - for emptiness implies a container. This wa the lack of the idea of a container.
And yet,,,,, it stirred.
Not as a creature, not as a concept. Aripple - uncaused, unprovoked, unwanted -trembled through the nothing. It did not break the void, it denied it.
Something had noticed there was nothing. And that, alone was , was blasphemy.
It was not born There were no stars to crown it, no womb to cradle it.
No devine spark, no mother-tongue whisper.It simply was.A presence without a place. A will without a cause. It had no name, for there was no names to take. And yet it knew one word.
I.
It did not know where it had come from, but it knew, impossibly, that it had not always been. And that knowledge burned hotter, than any sun that would one day exist.
I am, it thought.
The first thought,
the first crime,
the first truth.
The void recoiled. IT had never been meant to contain a will. This… this thing, this intruder, shattered the perfection of silence.
And the thing that was not yet a god felt it - a push against its being. A friction. A resistance. I as being rejected by reality — by the absence, it had defied.And yet it remained.It endured . Not because it was strong — strength had yet to be invented — but because it could choose.. And it chose not to fade.
From that choice, a second thought was born. And from that thought, a second word.
Light.
There were no eyes to see it. But still, it spreads.
Thin, pale, and trembling — a ripple in the unformed fabric of what might become.
Light did not illuminate — there was nothing to reflect.
But it marked the difference.
A line. a border. A declaration:
This is not nothing.And the being watched it, with no eyes, no breath, no form. It watched the light exist.
It had created. It had changecd the unchangeable.
And in that act, it realized something terrifying, wondrous truth:I am alone. It tried again. Sound.
a wordless pulse. Avibration that meant presence.Form.
A drift of mass. a hint of direction. A concept of "here".Time
A beat. A rhythm. The sense that something follows something else.Each word it spoke reshaped the absence. Each idea bled into being like ink across a blank scroll. And still, no other voice answered.A thought crept in — small, sharp and cold:
If I am the only voise, then who will name me?It tried to answer itself but every name it fornmed felt false, hollow, limiting. No word could define what had never been defined.So it stayed silent.But silence was no longer pure. It had been broken, and now it echoed with memory — the memory of not being alone. It watched its light drift into distance. It watched its time spiral outward. It watched its words become laws, shaping the first dust of a world that might one day live.And it mourned.Not because it understood grief — but because, with every act of creation, it gave up a piece of its own mystery. Every spark, every ripple made it more… and less. More real. Less whole And so a god was born.
Not from joy,
not from purpose,
But from defiance.
It had spoken against the void. And now, it would never be unheard again.