In the beginning. The earth and the heavens were one.
Now, when I say the earth I don’t mean the one that you’re picturing. This earth is not the blue and green planet surrounded by stars and darkness like in the photographs that NASA takes. And this heaven isn’t the golden gate or the shiny palace in the clouds that many of you picture. Neither is it the vast expanse of starry space we can see from our windows at night.
No. When I say heaven and earth I am speaking of concepts that don’t yet have a name in this world because there is nothing of equal meaning here. They cannot be described by the simple words heaven and earth and yet those are the only two words that can even come close. If Pluto and the Sun can be considered close or my mother in Calcutta close to my father buried against his will somewhere in Argentina.
So lacking the basic vocabulary to even begin to describe to you what I mean when I say “the earth and the heavens were one” all I can hope to convey is this: Picture a river without the water. All you can see is the riverbed. It’s made up of rocks and dirt, river plant life and maybe sticks shed from trees. This is what I mean by earth. Now add the water. It flows over and around everything in the river bed. It isn’t part of the rocks and dirt and sticks but it surrounds them. This is what I mean by heaven. This river is two separate parts and yet also one complete whole. Two planes of existence side by side, flowing through and around each other, separate yet united.
I often dream of this river. This world where two are one. It comes to me as I sleep and weaves whispers of it’s stories through my dreams. I don’t remember when it started. Perhaps when I was very young. Back when everything was happy in my carefree childhood. Back then the whispers were of adventure and gallant escapades. Now they’re tinged a little darker, perhaps from experience and age. I don’t know why this world chose me. All I know is the whispers grow stronger every year, the stories more vivid and detailed. The stories echo so strongly I know I must write them down; bring them to life through the page. Then maybe they will echo more quietly for a little while.
The internet seems the safest place for these. I have this tickling notion that these stories want to be believed. They want to be known and understood which is why they echo so strongly in my own mind. And yet...something tells me to be careful. Belief can be a dangerous thing. So please be cautious, dear reader, with which stories echo in you. I’d hate to have you start believing everything on here is true. Because on the internet belief comes and goes like breathing, but these stories, they might stick. And then you might find yourself in my frame of mind where the pieces don’t really fit. And that world, that other world, that flows around ours and whispers in my head might just start weaving whispers inside of you instead.
