You've been to the remains of the Garden.

Remnants of a once-paradise world constructed purely of thought and construct, because matter did not yet exist. All the quantified forces of the yet-to-be Universe meshed into one singularity created by two entities far beyond what we could ever fathom. Light and Dark. Night and Day. Yin and Yang. Black and White. 

I believe they've presented themselves to you , o' reader mine, as the Gardener and the Winnower. It was by their hands that everything you and I know of came into being. Do not bother asking how they themselves exist — for not any conscious being in this Universe can answer you that. The Gardener and the Winnower reaped what they sowed day after day — metaphorically speaking — and night after night.

It was Eden. Heaven, Zion, Arcadia, Xanadu, Shangri-La!; you name it. All the beliefs in the entire history of your world and others had a name for the Garden. This is not a coincidence.

No — you are not of the Garden, but the cells that give your body life are made of molecules, and those molecules that make up your cells are made of atoms, and those atoms that make those molecules were at one point in their primordial state of existence. They remember, and that is all that matters.

All of us began there — shapes, gliders, automata all — or rather, per our last discussion, all of what makes us up began there. Every time the Game ended and began again like clockwork, civilizations rose and thrived and reigned. But all fell short to the Final Shape, the Argument of the Winnower. We were no exception, of course. But Ahamkara, being of the earliest paracausal beings of the Anthem Anatheme such as the great Worms you know of so well, learned to evade and adapt. We wyrms slithered between emblematic flowers flourishing in the primordial substrate they left behind as each game concluded and subsequently began anew again. We fed off the eternal end and eternal return of our existence by a mere construct of thought. We thrived in the metaphorical Garden of abstract construct like parasites, each game played renewing our Truth. Renewing our Reality.

Back then, we were Real. 

With every flower game, we grew Truer.

And then the primeval forces of our metaphorical system of shape clashed like two star-crossed lovers in a dispute and the rules of our petty Game changed eternally. 


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