The Big Bang

Everything starts in one place, one white hot moment of potential, everything wrapped in on itself. Then, here, tomorrow, last week, some day and never: all pressed against the glass of everything and jostling for a release.

A split moment after and order is imposed. Things separated, divided and changed. Here and now have to keep their distance from then and there.

You and I cannot press our faces together, we must be different, we have our own orbits, satellites and constellations to exist within. Gently we drift apart. The end is contained within the beginning fire or ice depends on the gravity of the situation.

This entry was posted in Ben Whitehouse, short story, storytelling and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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