The world existed

The world existed.

Before anything else, it was all fire: Golden, molten, radiating, relentlessly bright flame.

Nothing was hidden. But nothing could be seen either, because it would melt the eyes. Even God was nervous to approach the world.

God longed for the dark things. Ash meant everything had burned, but it also meant substance had cooled. God could gaze upon charcoal and see all the folds and tunnels that ran through it, marking a flame's path. God could hold it in the hand, stick it in the pocket, carry it elsewhere.

God said, “Let there be shadows, where I can hide from the light, rest from the day, and cool my sweat." A shadow descended over the place God now sat resting.

God imagined the heat itself could rest. God laughed and clapped. “Yes! I do not want to kill the heat forever, just offer it relief from its relentless work. Let it take on another personality from time to time." God filled a tub with silver movement, with blue sploshing. God called the magic “water," and it was good.

Gently, curiously, slowly, God upturned the tub over the flames whose pulsing screams snuffed into a hissing whimper, a relief, another way to exist.

God stopped and looked around the world as it stood. True, many corners still pulsed with energy and heat, but the harshness of it dimmed because there were ashes to replenish the ground. And there was water to offer to the ashes (imagine what magic might now sprout there!). And there were cool, shadowy corners to nap in. Or, God now considered, where one could invite someone else to sit, too.

Now God longed for “Someone Else." It was a desire even stronger than when God had wanted ashes, or shadows, or water. Out of this great desire — this love — God conjured all the bacteria, the fungi, the plants, the animals, the humans. And the world now hummed: with the pulses, the hisses, the sploshes, the snores, the chatter of it all.