There is a pen. A pen which never stops. A pen which moves deftly across the blank pages of existence. Writing everything into being. Except that is only one way of looking at it.
There is a wheel. A wheel which never stops. A wheel which turns and turns, spitting golden sparks, carving a yellow path across dark blue velvet skies. Life erupts, suddenly, in its wake. Thinking itself immortal. Building empires and civilizations on the path of gold. Until the wheel returns, crushing everything, pure annihilation. Then life starts anew. A faint memory of the old in its new genetic makeup. Remembered, yet always forgotten. Except that is only one way of looking at it. Continue reading