Manu felt like his choked whisper. In an age of pleasurable loneliness, he had torn apart an epic of unwritten rules. He ran, tumbling in an unknown exhaustion and joy. Unspent unto the day. The green wetness of the grass cut his sore feet; they had but tickled his soles before; and he smiled in pain. He ran to the mountains and screamed to his echoes; he told them of his fortune. They blew back at him in gales of redundancies, in gusts of humble acceptance. And they traveled the still empty worlds in a thousand voices that were his. He looked to see if there were splinters or rubble; to see if he had shattered the world around him like a rock on a palace of mirrors. Mirrors they were; a thousand and more, scattered around the world beyond his sight and more. And a thousand faces smiled back at him from the mirrors beneath. Like flowers in bloom, they giggled in one benign smile, that hugged him in a thousand handed newness that was newer than infantile. And Manu blushed a creator’s redness; he felt four-headed, on a lotus, flying the skies on a shining swan; a giver of boons, loveably strumming the strings of his consort, churning the music of learning and murmurs of knowledge.
In a warm clasp, he stroked a thousand toothless grins.
He had created the world.
And the mountains of being human rose in wrinkled rock. To rip the sky.
The ironically endless sky.