It is blasphemous to enquire the origins of your maker, you will hardly find yourself anyway. For It is said that she is an oblivious kid chosen by the universe, nonmalleable to time’s haste for death, casting immortal spells as if skipping stones on a lake.
The true enquiry therefore becomes “from what was I made?”
Some say the Antecedent were the concoct of soot and candor.
“The soot of hades, and the candor of day,” heave the sages.
Others say it is lunatic to attempt the answer, for true knowledge of origin is concomitant with death.
Although the ages have rendered the truth a myth, the true keepers of the elements of humanity are the Children.
The undermined suspects, the cryptic delinquents, concealed in innocence and presumed naivety. The consciousness of a Child, still spirit-bound to the Source, cradles the matter of our being.
It is their curious mind, their cluttered and urgent inquisition, their keen yearning for life so that they may return to dust , that gently diverts them from the wonders of mankind.
For centuries the Children were just an existing potential, a dormant consciousness in the grasps of possibility, inferior beings in dire need of a sovereign hand.
It is when discipline and slavery became akin that the Children began to transform, aging slower as if their bodies protested maturity, a stunt on carnal evolution. Their consciousness embarked on a manifestation beyond our knowing, an unexpected retaliation against the betrayal of the Elders. This was the beginning of the unceasing revolt and punishment. All the myths we’d previously heard, spat out the truth like a disagreeable meal. The Children were the true crowns of our stubborn world.
The soot of hades and the candor of day, a reminder that not all innocence is unwise, and not all bare, devoid.