Time. Space. Reality. Divinity.
Humans think they understand what these are.
They give them names, stories, theories.
But they don't truly know.
Not really.
In the forgotten ages when gods ruled the skies, when dragons flew before history learned to write, when immortals watched empires crumble to dust and mortals dared to ask why there was nothing.
Nothing but stillness.
And then… something happened.
Was it a blessing beyond comprehension?
Or simply the natural unfolding of what was always meant to be?
From the void, things began to stir.
Not matter. Not form. Not even light.
But truths.
Beings so far beyond understanding that the mind must reshape itself to grasp even the simplest fact about them.
And the first fact is this They are.
They exist.
Everywhere. Always.
Even if we cannot see them.
Even if we cannot feel, sense, or name them.
They do not need our belief.
They exist in the silence between moments, in the questions without answers.
Concepts so ancient, so fundamental, we only pretend to understand them.
And because of this, we remain trapped not by chains, but by the oldest question of all.
Why?
Why do we, and all living things, have to die?
Why, in an infinite cosmos, are we born with limits?
Why are we born at all?
Is there a fate waiting to be fulfilled?
Or do we seek answers to give ourselves purpose?
Perhaps the first answer was not a voice…
…but a presence.
Before time had rhythm.
Before space had shape.
Before even thought had form
something watched.
Not like a god watches.
Not like a creature waits.
But like existence itself, waiting to become aware of itself.
And from that awareness, the first truths began to form not in language, but in meaning.
They did not arrive as laws.
They were not carved into stone, nor sung into stars.
They came silently not as declarations, but as inevitabilities.
They did not explain the universe.
They were the universe.
The first truth was simple:
''All that begins must end."
And with it came another, equally unshakable:
"Nothing truly ends."
And in the silence between those two truths between the beginning and the ending the first paradox was born.
From paradox came thought.
From thought came will.
And from will came beings.
Not beings of flesh or blood.
Not shaped by hunger, or pain, or fear.
But beings of intent.
Raw, conscious purpose.
Will made manifest.
Some would later call them Primordials.
Others, Concepts.
A few would whisper their names in temples.
Many more would curse them as illusions lies made too real.
They did not create the universe.
They are the universe, given form through awareness.
They did not speak the cosmos into being.
Their existence is what made the cosmos speak.
Because of them, the void began to stir.
Because of them, time began to flow.
Because of them, meaning entered the silence.
And so… the cycle began.
Worlds formed.
Light burned through the shadows.
Ash cooled into stone, and from stone, life crawled — reaching for a sky it could not yet comprehend.
Mortals blinked into awareness,
and their very first breath was already heavy with questions they did not know how to ask.
Not yet.
They looked up and saw patterns in the stars.
They looked inward and saw fear.
They saw death and called it unfair.
They saw life and called it divine.
They saw themselves and asked: Why?
Why do we live?
Why do we die?
Why, in the vast scale of infinite existence, are we so… small?
Is there a purpose?
A plan?
Or are we merely accidents — flickers of awareness in a sea of uncaring void?
And so, they began to answer themselves.
They built temples.
They lit sacred fires and whispered to them.
They invented gods with faces like theirs.
They carved their fears into myths.
They gave shape to the unknown, hoping that naming it might give them control.
They believed they were asking the gods for answers.
But in truth…
The gods were asking them.
What is life?
What is death?
What is the purpose of a question that may never have an answer?
The universe is not a machine.
It is not a system of predictable functions and equations.
It is a question one that echoes endlessly, waiting not to be answered, but to be understood.
And when mortals could not bear the weight of that question,
when the truth became too vast, too terrifying, too incomprehensible they turned to the one thing that gave them clarity.
Imagination.
Imagination is not merely escape.
It is not delusion.
It is the power to reach beyond what is into what could be.
It is the gift that allows beings to reshape the universe inside their minds to ask what if, and make that if real, even if only for a moment.
Through imagination, mortals create meaning.
And sometimes, they do more than that.
Sometimes, through dreams and stories, they create truths.
Some of these truths are called fiction
as if to warn us:
"This is not real."
But fiction is not falsehood.
It is the shadow of something deeper.
The echo of a truth too large to fit into facts.
Fiction is the mind dreaming aloud.
A story is not merely words on paper.
It is a projection of infinity an attempt to place the endless question of existence into a shape we can hold in our hands,
and feel in our hearts.
And so we write.
We dream.
We tell stories of gods and monsters, of heroes and fools, of love, of loss, of death, of rebirth.
We tell stories to make sense of the chaos.
To give shape to the shapeless.
To fight the dark, not with swords, but with meaning.
But sometimes, it is not existence that creates stories.
Sometimes, stories create existence.