The Theory of Everything

Theory of Everything

     One millennium, long before cognizance and time as we know it took shape, the Universe dwelled alone in a pocket of nowhere that was in fact everything. The Universe didn’t want anyone to see her weeping, so she drifted as far as she could to sulk and devote her time to self-pity, perhaps a touch of loathing too. She was tired of the taunts and the ridicule because she was so different. She figured a good cry was in order to release some of her pent up frustration. A cry was therapeutic, even in those long gone days. And so she indulged her melancholia, and wept.

Still, far as she was, eons away from the heart of everything, she could not evade creation’s light. For you see, there was always light, The Light Eternal, but the luminance differed from starlight. It just was, pristine, silver and magnificent and endless—unexplainable but all encompassing.

     Now God, being the kind of fellow he is came to her. He just watched, patiently. The Universe noticed his presence and turned away shamefully, awkwardly perhaps, looking back every so often to see if he was still there. And he always was—just waiting and not prying or being a busybody. He had not truly created time just yet and nothing was ever pressing.

     Finally, after what probably equated the time it takes for a star to form from a composition of hydrogen, helium and heavier trace elements, then exhaust its hydrogen reserves to become a red giant, before finally expiring into a degenerate form—scattering clumps of its dense matter across the cosmos to form new stars—the Universe finally sniffled, put the breaks on her panting with a hiccup, shook away her tears and asked, “what?” A bit defensively, I might add.

     God smiled, and the smile alone lifted the Universe’s despairing heart up a notch. Artists have tried to capture such mirth, such joy and undivided love, in their writings, songs, performances and paintings. Yet for all their attempts, wondrous as they are –such as Shakespeare’s canon, Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel and Vivaldi’s Four Seasons – but to name a few, these artists merely sipped at the fount from which it celestial joy springs.

    God cupped her in the palms of his hands, brought her close to his lips and asked in a whisper, which echoed across the span of all creation (listen close and you can still hear it), “what’s wrong my child?”

     “I don’t like me,” she sniffled again. “As a matter of fact, I think being me sucks.”

     The Creator lovingly caressed her, wiping away her tears before speaking. “What’s not to like,” he asked.

     “Well, I want to be like the angels. I want to fly and glow pretty. I’d like a pleasant singing voice too!”

     “God chuckled, and no laugh has ever echoed with such mirth. “And what’s wrong with your voice?”

      “What’s wrong,” the Universe huffed. “I’m practically tone deaf. When I hear the angels singing hosannas, and I try to join in and harmonize with them it’s immediately noticeable. They share looks amongst themselves and roll their eyes and laugh.”

     “All of them?”

     “Not all, but enough,” the Universe grimaced. “Pretentious jerks,” she sniffled. “Keep trying little sister,” she mocked. “You’ll get it one day. It’s so annoying,” she scowled. “Especially Lucifer, he makes me feel small and inadequate.”

     “You are not so small child.”

     “But I feel small Father.”

     “Point taken.”