Genesis

This morning, the eyes opened, and there was a world. Incarnation. Spirit made flesh. There was something new under the Sun, something that had never been there before, something that could never be there again. A world had been thrown out of the Void, something had emerged from nothing. I looked around. There was a room. Curtains, a cupboard, a stack of books, a chest of drawers. Two feet dangling off the edge of the bed.

This was a new world, an undiscovered country. Nothing in the history of the Cosmos could compare to this.

How could any of it be possible? How could there be something? Anything?

The duvet was thrown off the bed. A body appeared: the first body, the first man, Adam himself. Two legs, two arms, and the rest. A miracle had occurred! Creation ex nihilo! But it was a dynamic, restless miracle: the body moved, first to eat breakfast, then into the bathroom to wash itself, then to the door. Nothing could stop the miracle from unfolding. The miracle was everything.

Outside, there was a bitter wind that chilled the face. The body boarded a bus. That is, I boarded the bus, but there was no I, and no bus, and certainly no body that could possibly board any bus. But still, I boarded that bus. And on the bus, the miracle continued. I looked around. There were others, others like me! Arms and legs and torsos and heads with funny little scrunched up faces, some smiling, some gazing into the middle distance, some filled with the sorrow of the world. But they were my brothers and sisters, all of them! We were all the same, there was nothing to divide us at all, absolutely nothing. One family under the burning Sun, bound together in more profound ways than we ever could imagine.

We were all one, which is to say there was nobody at all on that bus, nobody at all. And yet, there were those bodies, that was undeniable.

And I got off the bus, and walked around the town centre. Humanity throbbed. Thousands of people packed into shops, bustling around bus stops, chatting on benches, drinking coffee from little paper cups with fancy logos. Lovers embracing, husbands and wives quarrelling, bus engines roaring, children playing hide-and-seek.

What were these creatures? And how was it possible that I had woken up this morning as one of them? What had I ever done to deserve it? I caught my reflection in a shop window. Oh, the miracle of the human face! The miracle of arms, of legs, of a unique appearance distinguishing me from the others, whilst at the same time binding me to them forever...

And though we were all wrapped up warmly in our winter clothes, I knew that the miracle went even deeper. Under these clothes that marked us out as seemingly separate individuals, there were things that bound us inherently to each other, things that marked us all out as of the same blood. Dirty things, shameful things, secret things. Penises, vaginas, breasts, sweat, urine, blood, pus. Cancers, incontinence, missing limbs, growths, deformities. We tried to cover these things up, but today I could see through the disguises, today I saw our common humanity, and it was almost too beautiful to bear. I saw the lies and half-lies and half-truths and props and masks that we used to divide ourselves from each other, to hide ourselves, and I saw how these things only ever served to make us more human, to disclose exactly that which we sought so desperately to hide. Yes, today I saw through all of that, I saw to the heart of what it meant to be human, of what it meant to be alive on this day; on this day of all days.

And what I saw was nothing more than what met the eyes, and what I heard was nothing more than what met the ears. What I saw was so obvious, so painfully obvious, so obviously present, that it was perhaps another miracle that we all didn’t see it, all of us, all of the time.

And yet, that day I really saw nothing, for there was no I to see anything at all.

*

It was growing dark now. The body was becoming tired. There was hunger and thirst. I boarded the bus back home. Still the miracle, still the miracle. Always the miracle.

A key in the lock. Light switches flicked on. Shoes off.

Today I lived my entire life, without remainder, and now there is nothing else to do, nowhere else to go. It is night-time, and I find myself back here, in my bed, where the world first appeared this morning. Perhaps a world will appear tomorrow. I don’t know. For now, just this is enough. Just this is the miracle.

Today I lived my entire life, but it has already faded into memory, back into the Void from whence it came.

Today I lived my entire life, and as I lie here beneath my duvet on the verge of sleep, no less comfortable than I was in my mother’s womb, I am ready for death, the Womb of all Wombs.

But for now, there will be sleep. And tomorrow, there may be a world.

And the eyes close, and the world dissolves.