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INK OF ETERNITY

Once upon a time—or perhaps just yesterday—God dropped His pen. The ink spilled across the canvas of eternity, and from it, this world was born.
In the beginning was the Word, but the Word proved too heavy for fragile reality, and so God replaced it with a Number. Thus began the quiet history of a world where angels create in silence, and priests forget why they came. This is not the end. Just the sigh of a weary God.
Sometimes the fabric of reality grows thin.

You will see:
— Wings that have never touched the earth.
— Sins like children playing at executioners.
— Light that burns but does not warm.

Without them, the mind would unravel at the seams—from light too bright, from silence too loud.
Their temples are not buildings, but shadows of buildings. Arches reach skyward but lead nowhere. On the walls—no frescoes, only fingerprints, dents left by someone who's already forgotten why they came.
New souls are born from lifeless matter, like crystals forming in solution. They emerge from temple walls, from cracks in the floor, from drops of incense frozen midair. God does not create them—He only sets the parameters, while angels usher them into being.
The most terrible thing is when the equation doesn't balance. When a crack appears in the mother-of-pearl light. Then the angels freeze, their bandaged hands trembling, while something warm and alive stirs within their opened ribs.

Every painting is:
— A wound (for without pain, there is no light).
— A cradle (for in every line sleeps a new soul).
— A letter (to one who no longer replies).

They continue. Because there is no one else. Because the black clay in their hands is all that remains of a promise God made long ago. A promise that pain has meaning. That light is not just an accident in the dark cosmos.
And on the floor, between the cracks, new souls are already growing. So small. So defenseless.
Somewhere beyond, light flickers like a lamp before an icon. But past its edges lies the silent horror of the cosmos—cold, indifferent, infinite.
This world is like an apocrypha from some distant future where science became religion and religion became science. Smooth as incense smoke, yet carrying within it both mathematical precision and the melancholy of eternal light.
And if you listen very carefully, you might hear a pen dropping in the darkness once again.