PolyProse

At the beginning of time, existed only the Colosseum. On copper shelves, glowed suns, each with a beaded necklace of planets. In silver halls, black holes twirled like tops powered by the most balanced of fingers. Comets trailed along the crystal walls with tails of icy fire. And the floors were constructed from obsidian’s night.

At its center lived the Cosmic Mother. The pipes of causality became her hair, and the foundation of reality rested on her golden limbs. In her chest sat a panel of levers, gears, and dials that controlled the fundamental rules of the universe. She sat with her body splayed, and from her belly came the cosmos. It spilled forth like glowing marbles from a bag of holdings. She created all there could ever be until there was nothing left within but dust.

The dust collected along the dark floors until it rose on legs to walk. It sprouted arms to touch and a head with eyes with which to marvel. The dust first stared up at the Mother. It pressed against her cold flesh that pushed back like solid air. It watched the pulsing of her hair until an alarm blared.

The Cosmic Mother screamed with the pressure of a hundred horns. Searching for what frightened the Mother, the dust quickly spotted a planet rotating off its axis. The dust flew to the wobbling sphere, correcting its tilt by less than a degree. The cosmic Mother went dormant, and the dust learned its purpose.

It spent eons in the Colosseum fulfilling its duty. It trimmed the tails of comets and checked the temperature of suns. It fluffed clouds of gas until they sat tidy and polished the Cosmic Mother until she shone. The instant she cried, the dust soared to repair, preserve, and conserve their Colosseum. It observed the Mother’s gears and listened to her heartbeat. Slowly, the dust began to understand the dials.

With the lift of a lever, the suns burned brighter. Twisting a dial inverted all that was blue into red, and all that was dark flashed bright. The dust continued to play until the Mother howled like an ocean’s lamentation. The dust reversed the alterations it had made, and the Mother slept. The dust accepted that its purpose was to maintain, not change. But it began to assume that it only existed from imperfection. If the Cosmic Mother had optimized her panel, then the dust would have no role at all.

The dust continued to fulfill its obligations, but it no longer polished the Mother. She tarnished. Her pipes rusted, and her gears began to creak. A forgotten lever lost its strength and fell. The Colosseum warmed by one singular degree. And yet the Mother wailed like a collapsing sun.

As the Colosseum rumbled, the dust fled to the Mother. It climbed into her chest, and after millennia of studying her gears, it knew what to repair. It repositioned the lever, and the Mother went silent. But momentary silence was not enough for the dust. It slid across the gears and bolts, removing and altering their position. It shifted her valves and adjusted her dials. When the dust looked out, the cosmos stood in perfect stillness. Time froze. The dust smiled, thinking that she had achieved what the Mother could not. However, the gears grew stiff and cracked.

The Cosmic Mother shrieked with the clap of planets. Black holes consumed what came near, and the suns lost their balance. The dust ran to the gears, but they had shattered into her likeness, dust. With no other choice, it embraced its death. It watched as the collections crashed into each other. The suns grouped into stars, and the noble gases formed glowing nebulae. The dust looked at the chaos it had created with awe. Then came the flash of a tremendous explosion. The dust rested on its Mother as the shock wave blew towards them.

“If perfection was my purpose, why then, Mother, do I see such beauty in its end?” The dust asked as it was blinded by the light.