Sunday, July 24, 2005

Cosmiopia

When God awoke, bleary eyes and cotton mouthed, the sight of nothing disturbed him like no other morning. What was it, he asked himself, which was before him. It’s not beige, but an off beige. An indefinable shade of beige that signifies nothing. He reached out to touch nothing and felt it. Like the shade, the feeling was also impossible to define, even by God who created everything, including the nothing, which was before him.
So, after his jog, God decided to change nothing into something and he planted a seed with as much effort as half a blink. He sent out the small, dense something, the tiniest of particles that he could only just see, into the off shade of beige and an explosion erupted tearing through nothing, obliterating it, and leaving the universe in it’s wake. And within a millisecond, every chemical required for life was created, filling nothing with smells and sights and gas bills and ice planets and people and plants and computers and sub woofers and pretty girls and ugly guys.
But God was old, his sight failing him and something was harder to see than nothing, so much harder to define. So it became, in a few short millennia, his sight gone and his hearing chasing after it, that he could not hear the prayers of the people he created to fill his kitchen window with wondrous visages. And they forgot about him, only to destroy themselves trying to replace him. But Gods memories remained of when they loved him and believed in him, so he could get get up in the morning, with a smile on his face, and touch the universe he created.

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