# <center>  Once Upon.  </center>




<div class="text-justify"> This is a series of texts.
A leap into the exploration of imagination. To explore the wonders of the minds long gone.
In my own imagination. We will jump down the rabbit hole of things we don't know. We will cross the borders of a kingdom we don't see. We will embrace magic and let dreams run free.

I have no idea where to begin on this journey. Perhaps the best place to start, is to tell who told me the story. Or would it be to go straight to the beginning.
Oh, sure, the place where I heard the story. Will take us there anyway.
Tales of the deep and all the tales of the sea. Sinbad the sailor. Jin stories. They are more than a story, they are you and me.
The work will be fictional with parts of lore and fairytale used to validate the writing.
This will be used as it seems appropriate for the purpose.

Later, I may decide to refine this process. Right now I am writing only for the pleasure of exploring my own thoughts. I will say it again.
This is a work of fiction.
The views expressed in this post and future posts will certainly offend you. I don't care if you are offended. If the content of the series of posts bothers you. If you misunderstood the post.
Reflect.


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## Storyteller.

The shadows cast by the moon were darker than the night itself. There was only light coming from the one building ahead, on this narrow stretch of road. An orange glow forced its way through the window at the far end of the tavern. Above the door, a yellow glow from a candle showed the sign.

The Corner.

From inside came the muffled echoes of conversation, music, and the sound of feet hitting the floor. "This is the place, all right," he said loudly but to himself. As he pushed the tavern door aside. Silence fell on the room. Heads turned just as quickly. "Come in, come in!" came a voice from from the barkeep.
The old man’s boots made soft sounds against the worn floorboards—tap, tap, tap—keeping a rhythm with his stick. He moved through the sudden silence like a stone dropped into still water, waves of whispers spreading behind him. At the bar, he stopped. The bartender, a broad man with flour in his beard and questions in his eyes, opened his mouth to speak. But the old man shook his head—once, slowly—and continued on. He made his way to the chair by the fireplace. The chair that was, somehow, empty. Waiting fora soul to claim it.

Falling into it with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of centuries. The tavern began to breathe again. The conversations continued, though they were quieter now. The music picked up, though the tune had changed to something older, something half-remembered. The feet that were beating on the floor found their rhythm again.

Who is it? Who is he? Do you know him? Have you ever seen him before? He is certainly not from this place. The whispers traveled from table to table and echoed back again. Then the conversation returned and the music played, the feet beat again and the young people danced on the floor. And everyone looked back now and then. Leaning forward with both hands on the top of his cane. He looked into the fireplace. As if listening to the story of the flames and ashes. As if he could read his story from the flames.

The bartender crossed the room, setting a tankard of beer on the table next to the old man. Without raising his voice, he lifted his head slightly from the fire. "I have a story to tell you, come and gather around." His voice was not louder than the cackle from the fire. Everyone heard it equally clearly. Over the music to the far side of the room. Feet and chairs began to shuffle, until a semicircle formed around it. Then they stopped, while the old man took his pipe from his pocket, filled it with tobacco. He put it in his mouth. He did not light it, but he laughed. Somehow, the laughter brightened the room more than the fire itself.

Listen closely he began. "I will tell you a story tonight. A story beyond time itself," he said, his voice like gravel rolling in a stream, "that the priests will not speak of in their temples, the scientists will not write about in their journals, the philosophers will not debate in their halls. His story begins. 

Back before there was any time. Before there was anything at all. And just after the first thought. Something happened that has been untold and remains a secret ever since. Tonight we will share this story together.


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## <center> Long ago, before the first tock. </center>

Back before time happened. Before the universe took its first breath. When emptiness filled every corner to come. The emptiness asked itself a question. "What would happen if I forgot myself?"

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In that moment of self-inquiry. A crack appeared briefly and closed in the darkness of absoluteness. Something had so quickly entered the darkness. The void of nothingness knew that something was missing. But it did not know what.

What slipped through that crack?
Some say it was the first proton. The first light that wanted to be.
Some say it was thought to be so powerful, it could not remain unmanifested.
Some say it was the universe laughing at what would be.

But! Those who know, who really know. They will tell you that there was none. It was something else entirely.

It was a wink.

It is not a metaphor for something else. It is not a symbolic representation.
An actual wink. From eyes that were there before eyes were seen. That had humor and laughter in them before jokes and meaning in humor. That had misfortune in them before there was anything to be unfortunate about.

Come closer now. I don't want him to hear me say his name. Everyone drew an inch or two closer. The storyteller turned his head and looked back at the fireplace. As if asking permission.

Turning back. He continued toward his audience. "His name was Cuan".

The only thing was. There was not much to do but think. Cuan sat down on nothing, his legs crossed and played with the hairs on his chin. Of the frying pan, he thought to himself. Then he thought, what is a frying pan?

Cuan thought to himself. If he could make a fire, he would be able to see if there was anything around that he couldn’t find in the dark. But there was nothing to make a fire with.
He thought about this for a minute.
Then he thought about fire and took the thought out of his head and put it down next to himself. He did this over and over again. Until he had a giant ball of thoughts.


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The divine already had his own plan, you see. A grand design, a work of art in motion. The void, the canvas to work with.

Angels were to come first. creatures of pure light and holy purpose, organized in perfect hierarchies, singing in perfect harmony, serving with perfect humility. They too were, I was that infinite moment before moment.

The Seraphim burned with holy fire, their six wings covering their faces in eternal adoration.
The Cherubim stood guard with flaming swords, guarding the threshold between nothing and something.
Michael took his place as the warrior, the protector, the one who would ask "Who is like God?" and expect no answer.
Gabriel was the voice, the messenger, the one who would carry words between realms.
Raphael received the gift of healing, the power to mend what would eventually break.
Lucifer—ah, Lucifer—the light-bringer, the morning star, the most beautiful of all creation. He stood at the right hand of glory, perfect and shining and proud.
The angels were magnificent. Orderly. Perfect.

While the Divine was busy bringing angels into existence and the Seraphim learning their songs and the Cherubim taking up their posts, Cuan was exploring. He fell through pre-space, spun through time that was not yet there, and laughed a little - a little laugh, really - at the sheer absurdity of existing before the world was officially opened for business.

"Well now," Cuan said to himself (for there was no one else to tell), "this is interesting." He was right behind the new Angels that the Divine had brought into existence.

"A little serious, though, how big are you?" As soon as he asked, he knew he shouldn't have been. He felt the eyes of ten thousand eyes on him.

As fast as his legs could move him. He ran to grab his thinking ball. At the same time. The god cried out There was light. Cuan’s thinking ball burst into flame and ten thousand eyes saw it. The god reached out to grab Cuan the leprechaun. But he was as fast as light, then god’s hand barely touched Cuan. But in that moment he touched him. He took the best of the good that the leprechaun had and the Good he saw. This is mine. He saved the best of the good from the leprechaun.

Some say that was the essence that billions of years later was used to make Jesus. The best of the best of the best.

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