The Universe: Naked No More

A vignette by Fred Leeds

In the old days (before there were clocks and calendars and such), the universe was thought of as a person. Here is a fable, culled successfully from the few records of that time.

The universe woke up one morning and yawned. Glancing about him, he noticed he hadn’t a stitch on. He had grown so weary of having to deal with mechanisms, he could no longer remember things clearly. “Animals and rocks. animals and rocks,” he kept muttering to himself, incoherently. The old fellow had broken off ties with the things that populated him. Every night he pulled down the sun like some casual window-shade, and put it up in the morning only wearily. There was something he had forgotten, something vital to all his plans.

“I can’t keep up with the days anymore and be myself,” the sun moaned to the moon and stars. Having to chase the wearisome, scattered days, our poor shining orb had lost all hope.

Surfacing from its evolution, humanity arrived carrying a treasure called consciousness, which was both old and new. It was a seed the universe had planted in ages past, the promising brainchild he had forgotten.

Clapping his hands, the universe now recalled his own connection to things and people. He returned the sun to its original place of honor in the sky. Seeing the sun restored, the moon and stars danced together as in days past.

Once more the universe looked with favor upon the animals, and he looked indulgently even on the rocks. He smiled for the first time in a very long while: a beam curiously like a human smile, shining everywhere at once.

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