Cosmology of fragmentation
In the beginning, there was only water.
Deep. Silent. Complete.
A hum so profound it was not sound
it was a feeling being felt
that never needed to be found.The kind of hum that slides up your spine
and intertwines
between the folds and the synapses
of one’s pretty pink mind.In the beginning there was only the dark
not the absence of light,
but the origin from which it fought.A fullness.
A wholeness.
A womb too vast for edges.
We were not in the universe;
we were everything,
all at once.We were the universe
motion without friction,
knowing without words.
Freedom was not a concept;
it was the nature of existence.I was a solo body of water,
yet still part of the infinite ocean of vast.
Our waters moved as one body.
No storm.
No chop.
No violent clash.There was no need for growing,
no need for reaching—
for what is there to reach for
when you are your very own creation?You can be a single wave
and the entire sea all at once.
That’s the truth whiteness prays
you never remember
how the darkness was once
the blazing sun.When something needed to be known,
it was known:
a shift in the current,
a change in pressure.
Word talk, language was primitive,
an early sign of regression
Cosmology of fragmentation
We were the sigh of a summer breeze,
a communal knowing.
Not a demand,
nor a silent scream.Then that stillness fractured
not with a bang,
but in a spread like cancer,
a spiritual rot from within.Like it didn’t understand
how there were no beginnings
just as there were no ends.Something inside us grew empty
a hollow wanting,
the kind that doesn’t whisper,
the kind that holds weight.
Pressure that bends the bow,
pressure that breaks.The emptiness decided
it wanted to be special
to be seen apart
from the rest of itself.
It wasn’t enough
to be part of the infinite vast.
As that cancer grew it thought,
How can we last?From that rot grew rough waters
disharmonious ones.
The ones that brought the brightness,
the ones that brought a yellow sun.And so the waters turned.
Soft waves broke into chop.
The chop cracked into thunder.
And from the thunder and the chop
came the first siren
s
not creatures,
but voices
from down under.
The kind that leave you spellbound to your core,
a hollow, empty sound
the echo of water
mistaking itself for something more.
cosmology of fragmentation
The sirens called out to the other waters,
not with humility but demand:
See me.
Name me.
Validate me.
And many did
because the sound was seductive.
The echo of yourself always is.
If you’re not listening close,
blessings start to sound like sin.
And that’s how the split happened
not from an outsider,
but from within.Bodies of water swept in by the sirens,
hypnotized by harmonious thunder,
unable to flow back.
Those solos got stuck under.
They were fragmented,
cut off from the oceans of vast,
their fragments swirling
with the disharmonious waters
their union creating something new,
akin to water,
not like it,
but of it.
The sirens called it land.But it was Whiteness.
It was brightness
not a people,
but a parasite.
And a plan.Before the fracture spread too far,
the sirens started to sing once more,
trying to trick the other waters,
telling them they could be more :Beware the darkness,
they sang,it hides monsters.Forget the dark tide and its nameor it will soon come after you.The vast is great yet all the same.Come to Whitenesswe’ll give you a name.
cosmology of fragmentation
These new lands couldn’t speak
the water’s language of being,
of freedom,
of surrender,
so they invented a language
of ownership
and called it English.
A language of grants and deeds,
of borders and blood quotas.Whiteness is deafening
loud,
sharp,
incapable of silence.A light born from rot,
a beauty that guides ships to the rocks
alluring,
relentless,
a deceivingly safe reprieve,
a riptide disguised
as a welcome-home wave.You start to wonder what this new land offers,
forgetting you are the offering.
Forgetting you made the world.
Forgetting the water was here first,
and there could never be an after.Solo waters get pulled in
they always do.
Because Whiteness doesn’t whisper.
It broadcasts.It’s the siren's song of the spiritually bankrupt
not the language of cavemen
but of corporate boardrooms
and imperial decrees.The sound of things
no longer alive
fragments of what
we once were,
turned into
the incompetent,
the fearful,
the ones who think they need a team.White is the vacancy of color
the desperate performance of brilliance,
the arithmetic of the void:
zero times zero always equals zero.
One times anything
just encloses itself.Whiteness mirrored itself,
called it the gospel,
then invented the sin,
demanded tithes and penance,
then said,
we’ll let you keep your soul
but we getting your submission
Cosmology of fragmentation
Whiteness sounds so familiar,
like a hymn you learned before you could think.
That’s because Whiteness is the fragments of ourselves
whenever we decide to shrink.The fragments call to you.
They feel like yours
because they are pieces of you
stolen and re-branded.And this is where the water turns damning,
because Whiteness is a system
that makes you complicit
in not only the flood
but also your own drowning.
Drawn in.
Swept in.
No warning.
No blink.
Just a spiritual storm
a cultural surge
and lands that prohibit you to speak.The lands look like cousins
not water,
but thieves wearing the skin of kin.
The mighty oceans once whole
now fragmented,
broken,
holding up these parasitic mounds of illusion.But without our water
they are nothing
barren,
brittle,
dust
a ball of confusion.It’s only when water touches them
that the mirage of life begins—
a trick,
a seduction,
a civilization
built on the grave of remembering.The mounds, the sirens, the winds
they all speak Whiteness.
One language.
One delusion.
A song meant to keep water from reclaiming itself.
cosmology of fragmentation
But the unshrinking happens
when the current tears at your soul—
when grief screams,
when rage burns through the lie,
when the pressure says
this negotiated existence
is a death sentence.That’s when the axis shatters
not up,
not out— in.
Back.
Back to flow.
Back to hum.
Back to water.
Not war.
Not ladder.
Return.But listen
the return is not peaceful.Whiteness is a land and a language
like England and English
a mimicry of light,
but at its core, a void.
And only hollow things
and fragments
are born from voids.A land built on mimicry
can never create anything real
only new masks,
new copies,
new lies dressed as suns,
new words disguised as feels.Whiteness convinced itself
light was needed to see,
when the truth is:
we are of the darkness,
one with it,
born of it
never needing light to be.
cosmology of fragmentation
This performance of light,
this parody of life,
didn’t cast the monsters out—
it called to them,
invited them in,
and said, Hey, I’m white
want to live in my world and play pretend?That fake bright light
cracked the surface
and let the deep breathe again.It stirred the darkness inside,
reminding them
they were the monsters withinthe ones the sirens warned of,
the ones born from darkness,
the ones who bottle the light
and bring the dark sun
the ones who bring sounds so profound
Whiteness built myths and hymns about.The darkness
the light built its demons around .The shadow it swore to keep chained
beneath its performance of illumination.I am the hunger it named evil,
the force behind Whiteness’ condemnation.
I am the tide it tried to dam.
I am not its fear,
but its consequence.And now that I have remembered,
the warning has become the prophecy.
The real monsters of the dark have risen
not to hide, but to feast on Whiteness
and its mimicry.
The darkness will be the light
as it was
and always will be.