in the beginning there was the end.
Long before anything thought about the idea of life there existed a bleak and wintry spirit.
And in its deep and disturbed sleep, it dreamed a dream that would give its existence meaning, and after the dream had reached its end, the spirit awoke and repeated it to itself many times so that it would remember every detail, including the part where the dream gave it a name.
"Death," the spirit said to itself, slowly letting the sound of it fold around its breath.
And so Death set about fulfilling the dream. It focussed its thoughts and let them fly and burst inside it's head.
At first they were bright and vivid, full of light and imagination, but slowly as time passed, they began to dim. The colours faded to drab and miserable ochres, the light became a dull throbbing greyness which rotted Death's temples. Fearing the dream would never be realised, Death held his head in despair.
And then a strange thing happened. Out of the diseased and deteriorated pool of tired thoughts came life. A simple and poisoned life, but a life nonetheless. Death cultivated this bacteria with love and attention. It thrived in its stifling, hopeless world, sapping Death of all its energy, but Death didn't notice, for all its attention went on the fracturing, multiplying, fragmentary creations inside it.
And when the virus had eaten every fleck of Death, it lived on in Death's dry sarcophagus.
Life implied by Death.
And soon there was earth and a garden, strange and beautiful creatures singing songs and teling stories by the light of an amber sun.
But everything has to sleep, and during these small deaths, the dream continues, reminding everything of its beginning. in the beginning there was the end. And sometimes they see past the fabricated constructions of existence and glimpse the cold husk of Death that surrounds everything.
THE END
