A pale little dot exists in an endless space. From one point to another it floats, hung and suspended over a canvas they may call the Universe. Not yet given a name, the little dot searches for one. A journey so small, a body this resilient is hard to come by.
In the nooks and crannies the corners that span in eternities begin to walk away from the centerpoint — but the centerpoint is nowhere at all. Nothing to be found here. Somewhere up above where the little dot cannot fare through is a plane so dark and infinitely shaping. Mere movement in an eyegaze diminishes its entirety into even more miniscule speck. Into dust. The throb of non-air.
In the canvas, the little dot discovers itself all alone. For now, no sentient lifeforms tread about. For now, even the proclaimed fraction of an intelligence does not yet meet the footing of the surface that is not gas nor gemlike.
It took one Black Hole to make an indent. A new place to search for a name, Given from the hand of a God never and forever shapeless. Then, another Dot appears. Larger, greater, formidable. This is not a mere dot. This is a home. Houses of something in the later times to come, even so eternally a wide-awake, always-awake mouth of a maw. The jaw opens. Little dot walks — gets sucked in. Birth of a galaxy.
A galaxy comes around in a chaos of movements, signs, and echoes. A lightyear away see cousins, celestial beings twiggling, as a family spins into a cobweb, like branches of the first ever tree. And the tree has an eye which in every blink observes a now out-of-hiding universe.
As little dot fares it realizes a magnificent feeling. As it has started to inherit this thing called sensation. Intelligence is nearby too, but not to be met, yet. Little dot senses first a simple conscience, the first ever. Concepts that form like a ring halo. It moves with a flaunt within this loneliest cosmic stage.
Throughout its first half of the lifespan, the little dot spends time exploring. An occasional stop to ponder this menial existence but it beats on. Then, though the little dot has never counted, things start to appear — a form, a shape, a tumescent brilliance. One day in the distance a strobe of ray light flashes, the stars and dust all around turn queasy. Little dot shakes an unflinchable shake.
For so long it has lived in this Black Hole. Trapped by it, made a throne for itself out of protons and neutrons. Of zeroes and ones. Of scribbles harnessed by infinitesimal codes. Maybe it can pronounce itself King. To rule this nothingness. To float along this endless space. Because for so long a Black Hole this large existed, something must fill in the gap.
Things appear first in the utmost corners where the universe has placed a toy. Little dot does not seek out the toy until those have been discovered by its spherelike limbs; from its stretch of fingertips a sharp point of something pokes and makes it yank back in instinct. With its peering eye, sitting socketless, little dot watches. In awe. In a “something” unwinding. This is something they called a rock.
A touchable surface squared in shape. A radius not so large which a little dot learns as rotation energy. With the rotation energy, a force of attraction takes over the limitless sky.
A small pebble hit headfirst in a silent impact, attracted by the energy now glowing soft in gray. Of which more pebbles, littler and larger, follow. All to end up hitting this rock and become ridges, a sudden part of the matter. The color becomes violent: from gray to black and to blue to red then back to gray again.
In the latter half of its lifespan, little dot harnesses another concept. The giving of forms microbial and atomic in size. A wiggling cell composed of its dead skin that has fallen off and submerged into the rock. Now, fully bare, the surface the little dot lies on grows rapidly. Eventually, this toy reaches adulthood. Even though the rock can’t really mature. Such a concept is created by little dot.
Come centuries after centuries the little dot cultivates this rock into a playground. With its limbs, it made lands and mountains for the tiny cells to climb and reside upon. With its face, it kissed the surface and left the gift of oceans. Lifeforms begin just as a little dot is about to end.
When the time comes, the name echoes in little dot’s head. Darshan. All this time, it has served a purpose so grand. Its existence is not useless, after all — from now onwards, beings and matters will continue in a solid, physical plain.
A field filled to the brim by “creatures” and “natures”, fitted into a system affected by a new center which little dot, once from anger, spews its saliva and creates a hot spinning jetstream. A jetstream called Sun.
For Sun’s cousin, little dot then plucks out from its tongue-tip a fleck of texture and calls it Moon.
And at last, for this first ever toy, a spinning rock now walked over by great offspring and curious hinds, little dot’s own name is called: Earth.
เนื้อหา : ChillChill
พิสูจน์อักษร : Nye6657
กราฟิก : ginger cat