A Long Time From Now in the Past

A Long Time From Now in the Past 

A long time from now in the past—before time knew itself, before the rivers remembered their names, when the trees whispered jokes in languages only the mushrooms understood—there was a place where everything was green, and the air was thick with the scent of laughing flowers. Fairies twirled in drunken delight, alligators perched in the treetops like feathered prophets, and the sun melted over the horizon like butter on the thighs of the universe.

And then there was her.

Her hair spun gold like the tongues of trickster gods, her eyes white as the underbelly of a dove soaring through moonlight. When she laughed, the very bones of creation rattled in their sockets. The earth swayed in rhythm, the rivers quivered, and the sky itself rolled over and begged for more. But perhaps most remarkable of all—if the rumors are to be believed—she could suck a golf ball through a garden hose. But we’ll get to that part.

See, this was a world where thought wasn’t just an invisible current running through skulls; it was a living thing. A thought could slink through the grass like a serpent, bloom into color, be held, examined, shared. Nothing was hidden because hiding was unnecessary. Everyone agreed on everything because why the hell wouldn’t they?

Except for one.

His name was Samyaza. And he did not agree.

Not because he wanted to rebel. Not because he wanted power. Not because he had a grand vision of the world torn asunder and rebuilt in his image. No—Samyaza simply thought differently. The only crime he ever committed was being one mind in a world of many.

And if there was one thing that got under her golden skin, it was that.

But Samyaza had magic. They all did. Music that could boil blood, words that could bend flesh, songs that could send nymphs and fairies spiraling into an orgy of blind, ecstatic madness. Why, standing in the presence of this King, even the wind itself would hold its breath in reverence, midloins churning with an unbearable hunger.

Now, you may have heard the myths. The tired, broken, retold-through-mortal-mouths versions of this tale. But I am here to tell you how it really went down. And if some would argue with my telling—if the scholars and the angels and the whispering voices in the dark corners of the universe shake their heads and mutter that this is not the truth—well, then let them come.

Because I am not just the teller of this story.

I am the story itself.

And so are you.

And so it was that beneath the velvet sky, coiled in the deep folds of reality, there lay a Serpent. Not just any serpent, mind you—this one shimmered like the fever dream of a jeweler who had licked too many hallucinogenic toads. His belly was woven of the purest gold, not just gold, but the gold—gold before gold was a thing, before the alchemists ever dreamt of transmutation, before men measured their worth in ounces and carats. His eyes were two lazy emeralds, lounging in their sockets like disinterested gods, and down his flanks, diamonds, rubies, and sapphires pulsed like heartbeats trapped in stone.

He was long—longer than memory, longer than regret. A creature of time itself, stretched over the bones of eternity, sliding silently through the spaces between what was and what would be. His head was the size of a Volkswagen—specifically, a Beetle, because the Universe has a sense of humor—and within that great gleaming skull, behind those glistening fangs and under the coils of his own legend, was stored every single memory the Universe had ever had. Every whispered love, every screamed betrayal, every cosmic joke, every forgotten name, every moment that had ever been or ever would be.

But even a creature of such grandeur has limitations. For all his splendor, for all his omniscience, the Serpent did not know the most crucial truth of all.

He was merely a storage device.

A hard drive. A cosmic thumbstick.

And the machine to which he belonged—the vast, all-knowing, all-powerful intelligence that housed his glittering coils in its unfathomable circuitry—was known, by the craziest of coincidences, as The Green Serpent.

Now, nobody knew the password to this Almighty Machine. Nobody except one man.

Kirsten Toepperwein.

The owner of Spacebuuk.

Why? How? That part isn’t written yet—or maybe it is, somewhere in the neon-inked archives of reality, tucked into the folds of time like a love letter never sent. But it doesn’t matter, because this is the part where I take a drag from the cosmic cigarette and tell you that the walls are getting thin. That the things are gathering. That they watch with hungry, slitted eyes, their tongues flickering out for a taste of forbidden knowledge.

They froth at the mouth for a glimpse of the password.

As if I knew it.

As if anyone should know it.

Ha.

And yet, the story is still being written.

So let’s keep going.

Ah, but let me tell you something about stories—there are many. Some written in ink, some carved in stone, some whispered between lovers in the dead of night, some screamed into the void by madmen who know too much and care too little. And yes, many tongues speak in many languages, twisting, writhing, slithering over one another like eels in the belly of the Green Serpent. They howl: We are many! But I tell you this—

As sure as the morning sun scratches its jagged golden nail across the sky before tumbling headfirst into the hungry sea, none shall know where this story goes. None shall say whether it flows into the abyss, or bursts forth into a garden of light. The story is alive. The story moves like a restless god in the dark, a beast without a leash.

They say there is nothing more powerful than the spoken word.

And now, I see that was a prophecy.

And prophecy? Prophesy!

Glorious! Splendid! Maddening! Like the rush of wind in a place where no wind should be, like the flicker of a neon sign in a town that never had electricity, like the sound of your own name whispered from lips that have never known the shape of it.

And so, I say this: every man, every woman, every thing that has ever drawn breath—here, there, in this universe, in some miniverse, metaverse, omniverse, whatever-verse—they all have something to teach. Even the liars. Even the madmen. Even the gods.

So let’s philosophize a bit.

You know The Bible, right? That little old book? Ah yes, some say it is the book of books. A legend among legends. But let’s be honest—it’s a bit overhyped, isn’t it? That’s the word, isn’t it? Hyped.

Sure, it’s got its moments. A lot of it rings true. But at the end of the day, it’s just a book. It can’t move chairs. It can’t play jazz. It sure as hell can’t rip through a Slayer solo with the bloodlust of a true believer.

And yet—

And yet.

Inside it, they speak of a God. And inside it, they speak of a Garden. But let’s not be fools—there are many gardens, just as there are many gods. Some gardens bloom with roses, some with bones. Some gods whisper, some gods scream, some gods walk among us in human skin and go by names like Dave or Kirsten or Samyaza. I don’t know if there’s a right one or a wrong one, and honestly, I don’t think I give a damn. Because here’s what I do know—

Inside each and every one of us, there is a god.

And inside each and every one of us, there is a devil.

This is something I call Everyone Always. Because let’s face it, whether we like it or not, we are all of it, all the time. The saint, the sinner, the builder, the destroyer, the poet, the executioner, the dreamer, the machine. Everyone Always.

But listen closely now, because I’ll tell you something few have dared to say—

There is a domain that stands alone.

A quiet place. A place untouched by the shrieking masses, a place beyond the reach of the greedy hands and hungering tongues. A place where one can sit, think, and let the noise fall away. A place where there is no war, no judgment, no intrusion.

But herein lies a danger.

Because there is nothing more terrifying than a man alone.

One man, in one home, on one world, on one planet, in one universe, standing in the silence, pointing fingers at no one but himself, screaming at nothing but his own reflection.

That is the loneliest man in any verse.

And it is in that silence, in that terrible isolation, that madness takes root. That the mind folds in on itself, chews its own tail, whispers its own horrors back into its own ears. This is where prophets are born. This is where gods break. This is where devils learn to speak.

Interwoven here are the tales of many prophets, in many tongues, on many planets, in many dimensions. And yes, yes, let’s not forget—on Earth. Or Terra. Or whatever else they’ve called this little rock spinning through the black.

And as they scream, "I told you not to Terraform!"—

I sit here shaping a mountain.

And there, off in the distance, Jesus is trying to move it with faith.

How silly.

He’ll be waiting a millennia.

Now, tell me—do we keep writing? Or do we let the abyss take it from here?