Razhi - 1.1 - Expense
Pry open the doors of this beggar-man’s body, wanderer, and feast upon the sight.
Oh! Cry, frantic, the swirling bodies of those united as One, those the organics of blood and bone, those the mice-people that scurry the Planet created of star-dust and miniatures. It is impossible for those to Unite and be not of this Planet, not walk upon the soil crafted by their forebearers to be remolded when such a time comes once again. And such a time will come again as it is written in the blue of the sky as the dance swells on.
Oh! Cry, raucous, the mouse-heads stitched upon the necks of the nude, gripping tightly the hands of one another to stamp, ravaging, into the soft of the Planet and destroy in the meanwhile. This is a virtuous flailing of limbs and spinning of bodies. This is a blinding dance.
The stitching begins to fray, releasing the tie from the skin of water and heated blood, the skin of the neck from which cries now spew, louder and more vigorous, more vibrant than before, and, trailing sanguine, down to the grounds the mice tumble. And, after leaving their bodies, they, full of the sweet nectar that is ignorance, scamper upwards on the carpet that leads to Las, the forbidden world, the Outside-Planet, that which is not the Planet. They scamper, blissful and free, bodies light to floating into warm skies. And, free from their tethers, they complete their journey in the white pool that is Las, where they melt into each other both silently and terribly loudly, a cacophony of silence bursting forth from the roots of their white fur that now drips off their bodies like tears from an ox.
This is the Expense.
This is the Expense, cry the fallen bodies the mice left behind, the mortal shells of those that were More. Now, the Planet is sorely bare. The Planet is Devoid of What is More, and the Consumer Las has dissolved it into his Pot where stars bathe and golden sap congeals. Now, the hands of the Lesser-than yet again squirm towards the Lesser, Devoid Planet. It is Time for Reform.
As red clay, sticky and soft blood from the body if its maker, pulsates in the hands of its reformer, Planet-stuff writhes in the hands of its reformer now. Made into liquid powder with the grindstone of the Maker and kneaded into dough with the hands of the Maker the Planet is used. It was Nothing, and now it is becoming Something yet again until the Consumer Las consumes those that are, further still, More, and makes the Planet of the People Devoid. The Planet is crushed into the reformer’s palms, formed against its fingers and pressed softly into a ball before deformed and made ugly again. The reformer does its work, its twisting hands wringing through Planet-stuff, the notes of a song yet to be written.
The reformer cuts into the form with its nails, separates the land into nine, and coughs thick, red saliva into the wide grooves and divots. It calls them the Oceans. And with the tips of its fingers it pokes holes in the surface and closes its eyes to let fall thin carmine tears to fill the marks with liquid. It calls these the Seas. Then, it calls these separations of earth between the Oceans the Lands. Here, it declares, the people will fashion their lives, and one day discover more Lands.
It fashions trees and plants, small and large creatures of every kind to populate the face of the new Planet. Vines crawl up the trunks of trees and grasses spread across the dirt to make the Planet a watery red and grassy green.
Then the reformer fashions People for its Planet, and puts them on six Lands. Heads of horned horses adorn Their necks, and Their naked bodies are of graceful material. They are formed of the same Planet-stuff that makes up the ground upon which Their soft feet step, and Their hearts beat with the air in the sky, made up of purely by a bubble of the reformer’s breath. The People move quickly, Creating with the Thoughts the reformer imbued Them with, an algorithm beginning with Birth, a tree of understanding blossoming forth with each step.
Then the reformer says, “Here! I have made you a Planet, and its People are joyous.” and the Universe puts it in its rightful place between a star and a hurtling stone.
This is the Creation of the Planet, as it was done, as it has been done and as it will be done by many servants of the Universe.
This is the Creation, cry the algorithmics and the reformer together before its limbs writhe off into the Universe’s arms to mold another planet, star, sky-stone.