The story of the lonely god

A long time ago there was one who sat alone, filling infinity, everything and nothing, all at once, and he was silent.

He knew not, for there was nothing to know. In desperation, he began his toil. His lonely heart began to beat.

Agonizing, he discovered the only way to create. So, viciously tearing at his chest, he rendered life from his own destruction.

His voice was his scalpel, ultimately separating, with few words he carved out reason from the wells of the deep.

All was held in suspense, hanging over the face of the abyss as a division appeared, forever splitting the light from the dark.

The lonely god longed to dance with the firmament, and to call the stars by their names, and to give the heavens a voice, just so that he might sing with them.

In torment, broken down and reduced, the lonely god cried out.

He created time which birthed entropy.

Surging, violent eruptions of blood poured from the bosom of the lonely god to fill the empty cradle of life.

It was with a cry of pain that the universe began.

It was the lonely god’s tears that filled the oceans, and it was his battered flesh, splintered and torn, that was laid down for the foundations of the earth.

The lonely god’s willing and selfless limitations are what allowed creation to breath its first, apart from him, yet born of him.

It was out of his suffering that he deigned to create, and with mighty blows that shook all of existence to it’s core, he put a spin into each galaxy.

Who are you, lonely god? And who are we?

Why did you need someone to know you?

Who taught you that it was good to create?

With whom did you consult? And how did you esteem it all, and with what scale did you weigh it?

Had you a choice in these matters?

And what of man? Do you not see us? Do you not feel our suffering as your own?

If even one suffers, is any of your creation worth it?

It must be.

And you must be a lonely, lonely god to have made all of these things.

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