Somewhere in the incipient universe.
THE BEGINNING
(With a solemn voice, the Narrator begins to relate amidst a misty and opaque light).
CHORUS:
In the beginning, CHAOS reigned supreme. Its darkness was its mantle, an abyss devoid of light. Suddenly, a motionless and silent glow vibrated, thus giving birth to MUSIC and YEARNING. MUSIC dictated the rhythm, and it transformed NOTHINGNESS into EVERYTHING.
(The voice grows softer and more lingering)
From the EVERYTHING appeared the bridal bed of stars, the crucible of planets. From doubt was born unreason, which bestowed meaning upon the acts of love. Love emerged from CHAOS, wearing a radiant countenance, more brilliant than the suns. Upon his back, a cluster of songs gave life to a pair of wings.
CORYPHAEUS:
Yet, DARKNESS remains an opaque energy; in contrast, the EVERYTHING is a flaming, diaphanous, and prevailing force. For a moment, SILENCE muzzles existence.
Later, the absence of sound breaks, for an interval, the wavering DARKNESS to the delight of a luminous symphony. Meanwhile, CHAOS expresses itself amidst the planetary webs:
CHAOS:
(Moved, the chaotic energy emits a grave and deep hum that articulates the first name: EROS)
—Oh, boons of profound love! Gift of strange passion! I do not understand, yet I love you! Proceed in that eternal dance, beautiful hummingbird of space, and continue to gracefully beat the radiance of your wings. Radiant plumage of voluptuous lunar emanation! You have shed essential, ineffable tears that have filled the universe. Therefore, you offer the finest and most delicious of your passionate love.
—EROS, winged and flowery moon, you are a passion that crackles!
—Oh, deiform of erratic movement! Cool your fire, for before this passion, EVERYTHING, NOTHINGNESS, and I have not reacted in unison with your first heartbeat, though we are one and three at once.
CHORUS:
And in the swaying of the coming and going, the mark of time was not yet sighted. In that moment, both the uncreated and the created beings struggled to find the rightful way to define history.
(The Narrator’s voice turns from solemn respect to solemn dread)
The need for a calendar was also heard by the hurried ear of a being of demonic hatred, who lacked neither understanding nor refinement. He raises his voice from the depths: he is the royal lord of TARTARUS, the god of the underworld, whose creatures of the abyss—with burning sockets, pestilent humps, and skin as red as blood—are his divine handiwork. As he approached his peers, the beating of his wings emitted a myriad of laments.
TARTARUS:
—Time... a suggestive theme —he speaks with a hissing voice—. My ideas might be of use. I take pleasure in recording deeds; above all, those of blood.
EROS:
—Of what use is that to us?
TARTARUS:
—Of much, my dear laughing one. The recording of deeds allows for the establishment of a chronology. That which is murdered is not forgotten —he emits a ghastly laugh—. If it interests you, I shall proceed.
CHORUS:
Gaia could not hide her loathing and was on the verge of stopping him. Tartarus flies around Eros and Gaia in an intimidating fashion. He unsheathes a blunt dagger with which he claims to materialize his art. As he speaks, he moves his knife as if conducting a melody of blood.
Fury masters Eros. The color of his aura turns into a chaotic impatience to tear the wounded wing from the god of shadows. Perceiving that vile trap, Gaia separates them and finishes breaking the dark wing.
TARTARUS:
(Enjoying the pain and the action that draws Eros into his domain)
—Continue, mighty Eros, can you feel it? What a delight! —he says, savoring the pain—. Look at my tears: more than pain, it is satisfaction.
CHORUS:
Wounded, the monarch exerts his dominion and summons NYX from the shadows, commanding the worst of punishments against the divine love. Thus, the organization of time was indefinitely forsaken.
Reflecting on the inclusion of wallet addresses in previous posts, I realized it interrupted the reader's immersion. I have decided to clean up this space to preserve the magic of the reading experience. Soon, I will enable a dedicated portal for those who wish to support my creative and technological ecosystem. Thank you for valuing my work and for being part of my world.
— David Gilberto Iriarte
Letter Sculptor
All writing is 100% my own. The accompanying images are AI-generated, crafted from the original ideas and themes of my work
