The very nature of our existence is dependent upon our imagination before our intellect.
Another way of saying it is that in order for us to think, we first had to dream.
Please keep this point in mind at all times.
Close your eyes for a moment and consider it the first moment of time, there is neither light nor sound, nothing but you and the essence of all you
are floating in that ultimate emptiness.
Some would say this leads to madness. And it should, for now we have chaos. Thrown against the fragments of your own mind you would begin to
reassemble reality anew from its pieces, picking up memories and knowledge like some grumbling beggar digging through the refuse.
How much would you throw out? How much would you keep?
Would you make something of form or substance with all those broken thoughts? A landscape of depth and perception to serve merely as a shelter against
your own disoriented perception of reality.
A rock would be a rock.
A tree would be a tree.
Like a child you might get lost in the game, making these things called flowers in a thousand orgasmic colors that you didn't merely paint. You
expressed them, you gave them all the emotional content to which we now attribute a rose, a daffodil or a sunflower. You would just not name it and
wander away, no, your memory of that thing would hit you like a wave of power and emotion.
You would be the flower, every flower that would come from it's seed, spiraling down into infinity and back in the breath of a moment.
Delighted by the rush of creation, a rush we still seek in the ages that come to follow, you let those safe and sweet memories surge forward again and
again, ecstatic and enraptured.
Your joy and innocence would be the sweet pleasures of spring, the joy of the winds, the promise of new life.
Whether it took a day or ten million years your joy with the flowers and trees would end.
They would be too simple, to silent.
The roar of the jungle, the swift and pounding heart of the prey. Like all things would go grow into an age of predator and prey, of violence and
blood. Perhaps at first you would play with small things, feeling shy and soft, but that would change. As teeth and claw met, as the heat of life was
spilled and the remains gorged upon for salvation from an unending hunger you might let it win.
The summer's would be hotter and shorter, and perhaps darkest of all.
Flesh would be claimed, lives would be ended, the hunt would continue until all had fallen.
You might lose yourself in that thirst for blood.
Greater challenges would need to be met, the urge to conquer would be unstoppable, and so with each new beast there would come greater sizes, greater
fangs. The hunger too would remain, the need for more meat in greater numbers might begin to push the limits of your fragile flower filled world.
The Fall sweeps over you like a rage that first burns hot, then chills the blood to the core.
WIth life broken and so fragile, your heart would soon go cold.
Winter, the season of death, would claim all that it could and always will.
But the spring would still come.
With the rising of a warm sun, and the thawing of your ancient heart, the world would see another day.
A more crafted day, one driven not by the thirsts that had once overwhelmed and controlled.
With each new beast you would provide a balance, nature would take sway as you left the world to its growth, but you would always be there to watch
closely and cull that which threatened everything. As you watch the growing lives around you, seeing their intricate and intimate play, you lose
yourself in the wonder of what you have created and granted life.
Then, a memory that makes your heart ache, that you were not always alone.
Man, or some approximation of it, some dim haunted memory of a tortured past for your people.
Suffering in the cold, fighting for flesh, living like animals.
You watch them closer then everything else, you see your own past reflected in their eyes, your own swirling chaotic emotions ruling their hearts and
clouding their minds like a storm.
Maybe, just once, you add yourself to their numbers. You walk as you once did, offer a gift of fire from the skies on a cold night only to end your
years in hunger and death like all things must.
You drive them onward, sometimes with the quiet weathering of ages, sometimes with the calculated need to teach and experience. And the flesh has
always failed to fully conceal the divine.
For that small spark of you, either by instinct or intelligent choice, would remain in the blood of all those you had sired.
Great hunters and Rulers of men would be born from the seed of heaven.
A cherished truth that so many cultures would one day share.
They begin to see too much, begin to see spirits and gods in all things. They call out names into the night, male and female, animal or tree, begging
your return. Needing your presence to guide and shape them.
Sometimes you would come, by need or desire.
edit on 28-7-2013 by Thorneblood because: (no reason given)