God is Love: a Proof
The stars blink out, leaving our world alone. Aimlessly rushing out along a trajectory that was once elliptical. Our star falters, and fusion fails, but we are not cold.
The nations fade away, leaving us without identity, realty, or anything worth fighting for. Yet, we are the royalty of loyalty.
Borders blur and languages coaslesce into meaningless mumblings and babelizations. Without explanation, we have no trouble understanding each other with a look, a gesture, or a lifetime.
The cities become lost in the haze, hustle and bustle reduce into a din of insignificance, leaving us only the sounds of the Earth. These themselves flange and echo and distort and then fade away in a red shift chorus of retreat. Yet we are at the symphony. Front row.
The birds in the air drop off, their wax decayed and their lift deflated. Graceful swan dives corrupt into plummets of Daedalic embarrassment, and nothing alights any longer, melted by the sun or wetted by the sea. We ourselves soar.
The seas and their denizens heavily sink substrata, joining the Atlantans, Davey Jones, and the Titanic in peridiluvian oblivion, perfectly salted to taste. Sodium and chloride address them with chemical digestion engendering incoherent entropy.
The slitherers and crawlers and borers slither and crawl and bore away, leaving the fabric of the very ground porous for no followers.
Flora and fauna become unimportant, joining the pits of the dinosaurs, perhaps to fuel the transport of some forthcoming race. Their acceleration, deceleration, stopping and going, and miles per gallon mean nothing.
The air equilibrates. Ambiance homogenizes. There is nothing to set in motion our senses. In ours skin, our organs, or our sinews. No warmth, chill, pressure, or buoyancy. Our only world becomes a gift wrapping of sensory deprivation. There is nothing at all.
Except for us, who implode, dragging time and space and mind into our singularity.
Creation rekindles anew. While all else wanes, we wax: a gestalt of creatures lost in the abyss anchors into the ashes of a world made new. The universe, in the mind of the beholder, disparate between two, but redefined when one. Beauty exulted by its own bootstraps.
Male and female he created them, and he blessed them and named them Man when they were created.
A fable, perhaps, to some. To others, unshakable truth.
Missing the point means missing the boat, one populated with all types of creatures who amble in, two by two: God is androgynous, separable into two parts, and it is this longing for reunification of two separate beings to come together as one that is desire. And once joined, God is love. And we are God-like.
And complete.
Time and space--what of it?
Cities and nations and worlds and the whirring and shining points in the cosmos--meaningless maps. Living by the skin, the feather, the scale, or chitin--all pale. Wherever and whenever, here or there... It does not matter. For I am where we are. I am who we are.
Traipsing alone, we wander astray, seeking relevance. In the innocence of love--the irrelevance of all other things--we are never lost, footfalls carefully stepping in the footprints of God. Only God knows where it will take us.
(Originally meant for the Challenge of the Week: Loss of Innocence, it was my second submission and therefore disqualified. But it stands alone.)