The Ballads of The Skeleton Crew

The Ballad of the Origin (4|2)

(№4.2)

Once, aeons ago, when the universe was only a hot mess with energy structuring and changing, warping and distorting any second, evolving, originating, deforming, reviving, boundaries not known to any form of life, by sheer accident, was something else born by hazardous mistake and painful error to us all, something with the tinge of intelligence, spontaneously out of complete nowhere, alike a confused weed, blooming in the midst of sand dunes, inside the hot-blazing desert.

In this hot mass of weird atoms creating worlds and destroying them in one human breath, where radioactive gas would kill any living being in the matter of seconds, there was another form of existence, already someone that was watching and comprehending, gathering information and growing with their garnered lore, immune to the smarting, overbearing heat, unfazed by the exact smashing coldness rushing in after only to what appeared seconds ago. A creature of thought and intent.

Maybe that was the birth of God, or any god just existing and in order to rise caused the universe's birth. The real felting one, the famed one for expanding till brushing the very edges of the abysm outside, the set boundaries set once out and never reached, hungry for many, claiming everything in the way, it swallowed and swallowed more.

Anyway, I'm definitely not the one who should open up such dire material, hence the reason we're just skipping that. The sanguinary bottomless appetite of the universe shouldn't be of any real necessity for us to deplore right now.

Where one force was, soon others would join, immersed and perhaps created out of purpose by the first one, being drawn to the immense power which was neither dark or light - if you were asking -, radiating immensely from that first figure, sprung of complete mishap, prior to the birth of Fate and her child Destiny, long matutinal meaning could be put and interpreted, foreseen, provoked by actions. Perhaps it still was all just meant to be, the most surprising coincidence.

Creating planets was just a spin of a finger for those creatures, building up their palaces and increasing their wealthiness until reaching other dimensions in lighting bliss and unaccountable power, the secret of the universe, the heart of the making all beating and throbbing strongly in their forms in united accord.

Wars and other rivalries ended for some planets to death and "inexistence", puffing them to mists and clouds of shrivelled gas and destructed shrapnels, a few stars being destroyed fro and lo, getting completely ripped, bombarded out of whatever was this fragmented existing.

Such was the thing with a certain planet, a very interesting one to be exact who was covered in something quite odd for those forms of billowing energies and in general was always surrounded with a very persistent, wary energy, as something was going to happen, supposed even, something grand, delusional-fantastic to conclude in a glorious and curious ending, ringing long afterwards with the indented bravery and agape shock of what had been there made.

They all watched for a couple of millions and millions of years, before throwing their toy away, with numb features, watching how the blue planet tumbled away, a potential glory broken.

They had no idea what it was to become, but maybe it was in the best interest of the planet to be left alone, so it could take its own course. And maybe their anger and their disfigured forsaking was exactly what was needed, the nudge in the right direction, the punting to something more meticulous and glorious they could have ever made. Those humble, self-unconscious specimens, involuntarily governing and shoving to action the entire debut of the tale on hand.

The slight annoyance of its makers - that even created fabulous heat far hotter than all ovens ever created could - made the ice to melt and dissolve into water - luring closer more liquid and moisture the way others did gas and sediment -, forming oceans and seas, then snuggling deeply interwoven around the water comparable to a big, huge, gaping bubble steadily closing and thickening, clinging as if being plucked astray and pushed into the unendingness of naught and everything, gases and the very baby-air breathable to mortal creatures, laying in its cradle steadily becoming to what it was supposed to be, not with the guidance of any of these "gods", but per the request of the universe, per wish of zealous chance, something else formed, aided by the filling with ardour and lifeblood to continue its latest project of success.