In a time before time, when the world was unborn, the void was empty; the emptiness void.
Colours, sounds, energy, thoughts. Unfurling as liquid smog suspended on the shelf of the deep. Like petrol on the surface of a puddle, mixing yet unmixed.
This unoccupied universe, this unfathomable unconsciousness, detached from time’s tapestry. Unwoven feelings and fibres without firmament, contained only by Love’s vivid imagination.
Then, He spoke. Like cutting invisible custard, it started slowly, softly. Silently, a needle of light sliced the viscous vacuum, pulling a thread of liquid gold that knit a cocoon around the abyss and swallowed it whole.
Suddenly, sunny yellows and bright whites drowned the empty space. Warmth gushed from their hues, setting this story’s soul ablaze. Light pushed molten shadows into the corner of the orb, sending darkness dripping like wax, filling the mould of history’s bookends.
He spoke a second time. Not with thunderous rumbling or lightning cracks, but with soft melodies, round and smooth. Hollow at first—like a distant memory. Then a whisper, a lyric, a reunion. A rushing, royal blue resonance, declaring the coming of the King. Again, His voice reverberated, floating up from the belly of the deep, puncturing the surface and tumbling from the ocean’s lips as it echoed His tune and crashed into the shore.
Launching up through the spray, His music left twinkles in its wake. With each note, luminosity lingered. One breath, two, three. Moment by moment, celestial lights morphed into giant fireballs of splendour, spiralling into galaxies like bullet holes in twirling black blankets.
Then a loud whoosh. Tendrils of green and blue grew from the ground, bursting with elixir and sweet sap. Lollies of life congealing beneath the fiery golden bowl, waiting to sprout succulent, syrupy seeds, ready and ripe for mouths to feed.
Love lying on His back, submerged in slender emerald blades, He taught the earth to sprout riches, to mould pale dough into bones, and bones to flesh. Springing from hilltops and highlands, muscles galloped and fleece frolicked, noses nuzzled, claws cuddled and skin snuggled, while feathers fluffed and flurried. And giggles abounded, each creature connected in the technicoloured dance.
With language He built His living library, leaf by leaf, page by page, day by day, bookended by swallowed darkness and a great white Light. Songs emanated from each chapter. Memories waited to be formed. A perfect playground was born, but the vine-strapped swings hung empty.
Gently tousling the tendrils aside, He didn’t speak this time. He didn’t command the ground to mould, or the bones to move. He was silent. The garden held its breath. Then, with light-filled hands He rubbed rough dirt between His fingertips, as it sparked and zapped, unlocking new life.
Enveloping the earth with one bold stroke, Love clutched the dust He had made and heaped it into place with strong arms, embracing its weight like a steel vessel. Kneading each shape and sculpting each frame, He breathed His song into its lungs. Glistening light wands reached from inside, forcing the creature upright as radiance pumped through its veins. Luminous rays encircled its head, forming round reflections in those deep green eyes, fixed on Love.
“Adam,” said Love, His words dissolving the dirt. “You are very good.”
