The Thinker

Bang. One big bang to be exact. Then only a fraction of a moment after that was a universe. Up had no meaning as perspective had yet to exist. All of that empty space swallowed up all of that quantum mist. Nature and force eased things where they needed to be. Crazy stars and planet rocks made by perfect, hazy building blocks. Perfect. No maps. No directions. No mistakes. No corrections. Perfect. In a fraction of a moment, everything that ever was, or ever will be, was precisely on its way. Designing beauty, those hazy building blocks built perfect suns and perfect moons and perfect oceans and perfect air. Everything that ever was, or ever will be, was precisely on its way.

Then the thinker was born of the hazy stuff, the same as everything else, but somehow different. There were working parts inside that frame. Of the roots and the veins, the loose remains of a working mind made little sense. To the thinker, nothing was obvious. The thought was lost on him because he simply couldn’t see his connection to it all.  Perfect eyesight had blinded his perfect mind; his imperfect thoughts could not find the answers to it all. The thinker no longer knew which way was up because his true perspective had yet to exist. The thinker’s ideas were lost, but his thoughts persistent. He closed his eyes and looked inside where the ideas were infinite. Bang. A shockwave rang out. He tapped his hazy roots and discovered that he had within him every idea that ever was or ever would be. Each and every perfect idea was waiting inside, like the lighting in a cloud. Bang. He pondered differently now, wide with wonder; not that anyone could see the roots he’d discovered under his perfect skin. Now the thinker could begin. Bang.