The thing

The Thing

By: John Kazerooni

Once not upon a time—because there was no time—there was a thing. Not a thing as we know it: not matter, not energy, not form. It was a thing that simply was. Infinitely small, residing in absolute nothingness—not even darkness, for even darkness requires space to exist.

This thing, undefined and alone, became bigger. Not through motion, for there was no time to permit change. Not through intention, for there were no thoughts to think. It simply became bigger—not in size or volume, but in presence. It expanded through the void by creating the very concept of expansion. It made words so it could speak—and by speaking, it made things happen.

“Let there be a universe,” it said. And the words echoed into what would later be space, filling the silence with the beginning of beginnings.

But the universe, newly born, was hollow. There was no time, so nothing moved. There was no rhythm, no sound so there was no dance. The thing, desiring action and experience—not just existence—said, “Let there be time.” And so there was. With time came the possibility of change, and with change, the birth of stars and planets—sparkling fragments of excitement strewn across the once-blank canvas.

Still, the thing was not satisfied. The stars burned and the planets spun, but they were empty performances. So the thing asked for more: “Let there be things within the planets.” And from this wish, creation unfurled.

But these things were not foreign to the thing. They were it—fractals, echoes, splinters of the original essence. The thing multiplied itself, disguising its unity in diversity. Every object, every being, every vibration contained a spark of the thing.

Thus, the thing became the creator, and the created. The observer, and the observed. It was one, and it was many. The many were not apart from the one, and the one never lost itself in the many. A sacred paradox: the one in many, and the many in one.

And so, the story ends—or perhaps it continues endlessly—as all things in the universe, seen and unseen, remain echoes of that first, unknowable thing.

But one lingering question remains, haunting both philosopher and poet alike:

Where did the thing come from?

Perhaps it came from nothing. But then, what is nothing that it could birth something?

Perhaps it always was. But then, what does it mean to always be without time?

Or perhaps—and this is the most humbling possibility—it didn’t come from anywhere.

Perhaps the question is wrong.

Perhaps we are all part of that thing, still unfolding, still asking, still becoming—and perhaps the act of wondering is the thing continuing to create itself through us.

So maybe the thing did not come from anywhere, because it is everywhere.

Including you.

What if the thing dreams through us?

What if consciousness is the thing?

Is every act of creation—art, thought, birth—a whisper of the original voice?

Could the thing forget itself?

Could it choose to?

If the thing is within all, then is there truly anything outside it?

And if nothing is outside, is there truly such a thing as “other”?

Do we seek the origin, or are we simply destined to become it?

If the thing is not bound by space or time, could the thing and all things be one seamless whole?

Could the one, the thing, and the things all be the same—simultaneously separate and indivisible?

Is the thing still asking questions through us?

And in the end,

if the thing is still becoming—

what, then,

will we become?

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