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Circular

August 22, 2011

The orb didn’t speak or know words. It moaned something and the moan gained a sense of order, so that it became a sort of song, and in the same way that the crying of an infant is a kind of song, the orb’s first words were music. Nearby, another orb took up the song. First it knew something: not song or music, because these are words. It knew a stirring inside—that was all. The stirring wasn’t a stirring—that too is a word—but it was something, and that was something. The second orb, not knowing what it was doing, trusted something. It trusted the first orb. Or it trusted the moaning of the first orb. Or it trusted the stirring that made it too want to sing.

Somewhere or sometime the orbs became aware of one another. They knew without knowing that the singing had begun something and that something was something and there was nothing but to do something in an attempt to—

This is the only way to describe the impression which both orbs had.

They continued to sing (because they did, and why not?) and through singing they began to distinguish color and taste and smell, and all these perceptions were formed out of the quality of the song, which, like an infant crying, was simultaneously harsh and good. The orbs did not know they were moving but they were. They had entered the wormhole of perception and had begun a loop—a wheel—in which existed a past (when they did not sing) and a future (when they would sing new songs) and a constant present, and time began to exist for the orbs.

If they had been able to count they could have kept track of the eons as they passed. It’s hard to say which word came first, you or me, but with time both words were known, and then the understanding of you and me, us, etc.

Each perception is a wormhole, which will lead the orbs into new dimensions. They look back, longing for a past and place of beginning. They try to sing the first songs. Now, there is a new understanding which they are only beginning to perceive: that at the first dawn of their music, they were a song, and infinite eons had already sung them.

© Trent R. Leinenbach, Ashen Apples, 2011

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