The creation of the world

Out of the deepest depth, from complete unbeing you created a world that was heretofore without form, and void; prelogos.
Up from underneath you pulled the ground over and above the vast sea. You shook them once, or perhaps twice, to be certain they were dry, simply to settle your doubt for you wanted this to be perfect, and you placed the newly dried sod just so, a fragment of earth here, a fragment there, and set down what would be the great divides between man and man.
Once atop the fresh and rather green ground you kicked your feet to and fro, not unlike a small child who is for the first time attempting to kick a soccer ball, to dry off the ocean’s wet. In your haste, you send droplets of water all around you which, upon landing, do not simply come to rest on the ground but rush and spread and nevertheless multiply into rivers, and streams, and lakes, and seas. The Nile here, the Amazon there, and the Mississippi elsewhere.
This you did not expect. And in your delight of this surprise you move in a way that came naturally to you. A movement that cannot be explained but only experienced firsthand. In your joy you created dance, swaying back and forth, leaping to the tall peaks you created from the grip that was placed on the earth at its shaking. From this new height you continued in your reverie but transition into a shuffle from which such bright sparks fly from your feet because of the rocky mountain surface and into the heavens birthing such constellations as the Orion and the Leo Minor. Rather large junks of the mountains also took their leave of you and your so young earth to find a place outside of it but caught a flame exiting the atmosphere you had formed by your breath. These heavenly lights found a purpose in their escape to light the day and night. You laugh at such a gesture that any of your created thing could lack design or purpose and leap from the heights you have been jiving upon to land on the smooth valleys beneath that bend under your weight for you are no small thing. Your footstool, that which was the product of pure imagination is no longer flat but vertical and interesting.
While not being at all fatigued by all this physical activity you take a run around the waistband of the earth kicking dust behind you which culminates in deserts. And from this act you are winded, and want to take a rest but have nothing to rest upon. One of the larger stones that took flight from the mountains has become hot and sweat pools on your forehead. A thought occurs to you and you stick your hand into the ground and pull out of the grass the sycamore and the redwood and the palm trees which serve dual purpose. A place of shade, and support.
But this does not squelch the feelings of autonomy that drove you to your creative impulse, and you speak into existence such strange looking living things that the earth is overrun. More than enough companions. But one thing is forgotten. None of these creatures can speak. So you one up yourself and birth man.
He is like you. Looks like you in fact, except younger. More boyish. More coy. More clumsy. Yet strong, and able to communicate feeling and ideas, and able to understand concepts. You brush the dust from his hair and breathe into his nostrils the breath of life. He sneezes. And asks you why you have that funny grin on your face.
To which you reply: “Because today I’ve achieved perfection. He is you.”

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