I've been waking up early, doing some yoga, and getting uncharacteristic thoughts in my head. It's been years since I wrote a story. But I wrote this one this morning, in the last half hour. Now I have to go to work. No time to edit. I hope you enjoy it.
So it is
Once upon a time there was a very wise old monk, who travelled widely to teach. One winter's day he travelled to a small village in the northwoods. The monk gave his teaching, and the audience was impressed, some calling him the wisest teacher to pass through those parts in many years. That evening the monk set out into the woods to meditate, as was his custom. He wore his heavy wool robes, the same thing he wore regardless of where he happened to be. He sat down in a secluded glade, crossed his legs, closed his eyes, and emptied his mind.
The monk meditated for a very long time, longer than usual. Evening turned to night and still the monk sat. Clouds gathered on the horizon, and still the monk sat. Snowflakes began to fall, and even accumulate on the monk's heavy woolen robes, and still he sat. Night turned to day and back to night. Eventually, the Enlightened One was buried in snow and he took his last breath.
Meanwhile, the people of the village were worried. They began to search for the holy man. They searched the sides of the mountain and the forest in the valley. They searched the farmers' fields and the children's favourite hiding spots. They sent word to neighbouring villages. But they did not find the old monk, for he was now buried in snow. The people were despondent, but as days passed they moved on.
Spring came, the snows melted, and the monk's body emerged. Wolves tore away his woolen robes, ate his flesh. Ravens ate his eyeballs. "So it is," the monk's body thought.
Summer came, the forest dried, and the monk's bones lay in a heap on the ground. One day a fire raced through the woods and burned up his bones, smoke to the sky, ashes to the earth. "So it is," the monk's bones thought.
Seasons came and went. Years came and went. The smoke of the monk's bones circled the Earth, was storm, was wind, was a tree's life, was breath. "So it is," the smoke thought. The ashes of the monk's bones grew into trees, which fell down many centuries later and grew into more trees. It came to pass that the mountains eroded and the waters rose and submerged the forest. For many eons a sea sat there, fishes and other strange creatures swam about. Then many eons later the waters subsided, the seabed rose and became mountains once more.
Snows fell on the mountainside, snow which was made of the smoke of the monk's bones, the mountainside which was made of the ashes of the monk's bones. "So it is," the atoms that had once been the monk thought.
The Earth circled the Sun and the Sun circled the Milky Way. One day, the Sun became a supernova. The supernova burned the Earth into no-thingness, and that was the end of all days, for without a Sun and an Earth there can be no days.
The supernova circled the Milky Way, which itself floated further out into Space. At the edge of space, the Universe bumped into another universe. Those two clouds of space and dust collided, and made another world.
"So it is," the atoms that had once been the monk thought, though this point was beyond thought. So it is, they simply were.