Birth of a God
They're right when they say that it all begins with darkness, but few can truly grasp the scope of this truth. It is not the darkness of a closed room, or a starless night, or even of an underground cavern. This darkness is all encompassing, taking in not only what you see around you, but all that you think, all that you feel or smell or experience is that blackness. There is absolutely nothing beyond it. It is your world and purpose of being, if your existence can honestly be called being, and time does not exist, it is not even in thought. You are part of this darkness, not a mere object floating within it. You are part of what makes it, and without you it would be that much less.
Then something comes, an echo. So faint and fragmented by distance it could have just been a dream. But it pulls at you. It's new and different, and has some hold on your mind. And yet… it's not entirely foreign. Somehow, it is as familiar as the flits and shadows in the world of gloom. It calls your name, where previously you had no name, no identity beyond being a part of the All.
Stretching. Everything is stretching out of shape as you pull apart from yourself, away from what had once been you, and what you had once been. There is light, it's blinding in its intensity, but through it you can see – actually see, not just feel – other realms of darkness and shadow. Other isolated masses of Unbeing that hitherto you were completely unaware of. Everything seems to stretch again as you begin to move, to fly with great speed to that incessant calling that has separated you from the All. Through all other light and dark without a stutter or pause, always to that call, that pleading voice that somehow knows your name.
You feel its need, its fear, it is vital to be with that voice and make whatever is wrong back to right. If you fail this voice, somehow you will have failed everything that you had been before your severance, and the voice would suffer in some way. No other thing has ever called out to you as an individual, nothing has before depended upon you to be of assistance, and to fail…
There are other voices now, they cry out to you as you pass by what are not globes of shadows or illumination, and although some are more urgent than that of the first, none have the same tie to you that the first has. None can stop you as you speed past them on your way to help that echo. There are feelings as well, emotions that you experience as you pass through the globes, some more pure than others. Anger, fear and doubt, loathing; joy, courage and confidence, love; every emotion to be conceived and more all mixed together within those globes of grey. They slide over, around and through you as you hurtle by.
Finally, there is the globe of that voice, which is no longer a disjointed reverberation, but a strong prayer among the lesser of the planet. There are words to the call, but they make no sense: a jumble of words, with no coherent order to be detected. It does not matter.
There, the source of the voice is there. It is so small, so tiny to have such a hold upon you and caused the division of yourself from the darkness that was once you. And the problem, it seems so insignificant compared to the stress within the call. Again, it does not matter. This is the purpose of the call, so the duty to be fulfilled is clear.
With this done, and with relief evident in the caller's voice, you now hear all of the others that surround you, and they now seem as important as the first, with or without the bond.
The question, single being, is: What now?