On the First Day

On the First Day, accompanied by unvoiced grunts of agony and groans of weariness, Jeronathon awoke from memories of a dream of Spacetime and recognized the light and the darkness. Where there was light there was existence, where there was none there was Void. It was the first pattern to be recognized.

On this otherwise binary day of off and on, is and isn’t, there was also He — hidden occasionally behind the torrent of shine, hidden elsewise slipped under the cover of night.

His birth mother, long abandoned, bequeathed to Jeronathon the tightly wound clock of the cosmos, its tick-tock being precisely the jolt that roused Him from slumber. ‘And what is a pattern?’ She once asked him, answering in the same breath, ‘Without time to repeat?’ The coo would tickle the raggedy twigs of Jeronathon’s hair.

His father, carrying Him gently and lovingly, was this, the He, His Sentience. The part of knowing that is intuition … instinct— the most important of His six senses — The knowing that comes just before the act of knowing that you are You, just before you awoke, roused on any given day by the seemingly ever-so-natural tick of the clock.

Tick. Tock.

Tick. Tock.

Jeronathon’s birth mother was liquid, and his father was heaven, and between them astride their meeting knees, He sat, prince of a child, but weak of limb.

‘Is that you fluctuating, my son?’

‘I feel like I am comprised of vast fields of Auras. Of different hues. Of different ilks.’

‘It’s just your particles forming, boy.’ Father reads from many diverse papers, sheafs high and wide as light, tomes as deep as the darkness (Do you dream in shapes or solids, kiddo? No — I am asking you, dear reader, as you, too, now, are entangled in this mess!), but all of them, unfound and uninterrupted, seem page-by-page empty to Jeronathon.

‘Is this a dream?’

‘What if it is? What specifically makes the narrative dream-frame so uncompelling. my love?’ the birth mother he’ll never see speaks through the channels of Time to ask.

Beam of sunlight through the hole in the roof of a cave to the floor
Photo by Brady Knoll from Pexels

But it arrives only as mud. And He is picking himself up off the earth.

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