One can look in oneself and find nothing but torment.
Imagine a world so much like our own,
Simply making these simple changes,
Devoid of time,
Devoid of artificial constructs,
Devoid of humanity,
Devoid of life,
Devoid of terrestrial bodies.
There only lies the sea,
And the stars,
The shores that consist only of the horizon meeting the sky.
In the vastness, easily heard,
The beating of an ancient heart.
A rhythm that has existed since time immemorial,
That starts in this world's core,
And echoes between the void betwixt stars.
A pulse that all can hear, but none choose to listen to.
Much like the beating of our own hearts,
As broken and wounded as they may be.
It reaches out to us, its many eyes watching,
Its many tendrils grasping,
Desperate for companionship, for acknowledgement.
And it finds nothing.
Land is born, and upon the shores, the pulse is clearer,
The beating of an excited heart, searching unexplored territory,
The thrill of discovery that has long since died.
And it finds nothing.
Soon, from its black depths, the sentience that resides within the Universe hears the first incoherent meanderings of thought and instinct.
It finds a pulse not unlike its own,
But its movements are strict and ordered,
Predetermined and set along a path of self-preservation.
And it finds no companionship.
The Universe blinks, and soon the as the thoughts become more ordered and coherent, movements of the ever-growing pulse grow more chaotic and varied,
As if the Universe were looking into a mirror,
And it finds comfort in the change.
Through the stars, and under the waves,
It transforms and manipulates,
It adapts and makes room for these thoughts,
Gathering and harvesting,
Chaining them together in one endless, trembling note,
And it discovers Love.
Born from this are myriad different concepts completely alien to the Universe,
Some are warm and shining,
Others are pitch-black and chilling,
And the thousands of different shades and temperatures of emotion and thought.
And it ponders over these tremors, as numerous as the stars, and as boundless as the spaces they occupy.
Soon, the pulses innovate and transform, and the pulse of the Universe is like a thunderclap that heralds the coming storm.
Structures that are as cold as sadness, and others as burning as hate.
Some are as warm as love, others utterly sterile and cool,
Attempting to mimic the void, but taking up too much space to truly name itself such.
The Universe wonders how so much could have changed in the space between its heartbeats, the pause between breaths.
Finally, Time dawns upon the Universe.
And suddenly, the boundlessness becomes confining.
The billions of pulses are a cacophony, and the Universe's singular pulse soon becomes washed away in the pain.
For every warm light, there was one twice as cold, and dark like the abyss.
For every cool breeze, there was a blast that much hotter, as if spewed from the earth's innards.
And the Universe was lonely once more, for in the chaos, there was only itself.
It relied only on itself, its wounds were never healed, only hidden.
And the sea, the stars, the void between, the shore between the sky and the sea, the shore between the sea and the land, every beast that crawled and creeped and flew, every man, woman, and child, and every machine, all had wondered where it had gone.
They felt vulnerable and naked, and soon, all became very cold, and the only way to keep the cold at bay was to become a blaze, or grow ice within.
They had listened too late.
And all went silent.