First, nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Now—

Pinpoints are jabbing the empty, scoring its skin, pressing their knobbly heads through holes that weren’t there before. Maybe it’s a pop-pop-pop sound. You wouldn’t know. You weren’t there—yet.

Now.

Less nothing, and some black. Black, white, yellow, something in between. Heat, and cold. Nothing much in between. Light, and dark. Degrees of difference.

Now—

The vastness of the sun! But it’s not really a sun, what is it—maybe there’s even a sound. Maybe it’s a pssh, pssh, pssh sound. Maybe it’s a KREEEEEEE! Maybe—

You don’t know. You weren’t there.

There’s a shift. Something moves. Something exists in the void between the dark and the light; something is. You couldn’t define it. It’s not light or dark. It’s not black or white or even yellow. It doesn’t make a sound.

It’s just there.

Let yourself age. Let time press through your skeleton like water, dribbling through your pores, let it sing right through your bones (do you even have bones?) and, having been filtered, create something new.

Let the something expand. Let it gain color. Watch—it’s now blue, green, purple, white-ish blue, and other things in between. On the edges it’s orange. In the middle it’s black or maybe a dark brown. It’s a kind of force, but you know it’s not really a force, it’s a mass, and there is mass now existing—isn’t that something—and this mass at least has force, or maybe it one day will. It doesn’t really matter; now and soon are practically the same thing when time is so young.

Let it grow. You can’t control it, growth is a force beyond you. So you listen to it—maybe there’s a little murmur emanating from its body, a kind of mmmmnmmmmnmm… or maybe a fffhfhhfhhh… 

Maybe there’s even an odor. A soft, sweet smell. Could one even say… earthy? But we’re not there yet. That would be like saying a newborn smells like its grandchildren. 

Relax. Enjoy the swampy-nothing-earthy-sweet-soft-smelliness. Relax. Time will begin, soon.

Something’s happened. Your something has grown; it is sustaining itself on its own void and has subsumed the void into itself. This is a lot to take in. You didn’t even notice. It happened—to you, for you—too slowly and too quickly, both of those at the same time. 

It’s hyperventilating.

You want to put your mouth on it. You want to breathe in, breathe out, help its lungs handle this new capacity. It’s never had to hold capacity before, no matter what kind of capacity… it doesn’t even know what capacity means yet. You don’t know what capacity means yet.

Breathe your own breath into its lungs. It’s struggling. It’s hard to be more than just there.

Now you’re there. Now there are two of you. Now there’s something, somethings, other than oneness. You didn’t know that was possible. You didn’t know you were possible. You didn’t even know you were.

You hale, in or ex—it’s irrelevant. You suck. You consume. You are.

There’s something there, and it’s growing.

It’s growing around you. It’s enveloping you. Maybe it’s making a ghghghghgh sound. Maybe an eeeeeshhh. You wouldn’t know. It’s smelling stronger—like the manure of cows, like the stale emptiness of space, like fresh mold—you don’t even know these things can’t exist yet, that smell and time are inextricably intertwined. And it’s smelling like you, but you still don’t know that either. You were there, but you don’t remember.

There are other somethings, now, more than you and the something that bore you or maybe released you or maybe just was a precursor to you (if precursors are even possible—does something really exist if it doesn’t exist with you?)—you’re not really sure. But there are more somethings now. Some of them are you. Some of them are parts of you. And some of them seem like completely separate entities. This matters to you. You want to know the answers to these questions. But no one is telling you. You don’t know whom, let alone how, to ask. 

This is the first time you’ve ever had a question.

Maybe there are other sounds now. Maybe there’s an aehhh. Maybe an AEHHH! Or maybe even an eheheh.

You’re listening hard. You’re actively listening.

You’re trying to smell everything now, too. This smells new. That smells less new—old. There are lots of things to smell. You smell them all. You try to engage with them. With everything. You press the many somethings against your body. You can’t feel them just yet, you don’t even know what feeling is. But you know there is something to be gained through proximity. 

You put a something in your mouth. It tastes like the sea. Maybe it is even a part of you.

Is a part of you the sea? Are you a part of the sea?

You grow greedy for things to taste.

Everything is in your mouth. Your tongue begins to feel these things, these everythings which you have attempted to subsume. Because subsumption seems only natural—you can’t articulate why but it just does. You attempt it now and often. There is also a difference, now, to now and soon. 

After some soons have passed you realize also that you can do more than just taste the somethings you subsume. You can detect differences among them. Some are large and some are small. Some fit easily in your throat, others less so; some cause discomfort to you, some are a part of you, some are not, and some create pleasure. You begin rubbing these things against the outside of your face before you test them inside your face. Now you no longer want everything in your mouth. You have tested enough things. Some you even predict how they will feel on your face before you feel them on your face. Some you now avoid.

It takes you a while to understand why some things are to be avoided. You suppose those are the things that require you to ask questions you don’t want to ask. You have wants, now, and you have don’t wants as well. There is a difference between the two. You prefer the wants.

Sometimes it is hard to find only wants. Sometimes it seems there are too many don’t wants. Sometimes your skeleton is a don’t want. It asks questions of you that you don’t want to answer. It rubs against you in ways you do not want. You begin to recall times, times before soon and even before now, in which this was not so.

You are remembering. Well, you have been remembering for a long time—as long as time is long. But you were not aware of it. You suppose you are not really remembering anymore, not just that.

You are reminiscing.

You think of the wants, and of the don’t wants. You think of the time when there was no difference between the two. You think of the time you didn’t know that you didn’t know. You think of the time when everything was nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

You wonder if you were there. After all, it’s now all you want.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Now—