We all have the same creation story, regardless of culture, continent, or color.

In the beginning,
there was no beginning—
only breath suspended in silence,
a womb of waiting.

From the void came vibration,
from vibration came light,
from light came the Word,
and the Word was not spoken—
it was remembered.

The waters stirred in every tongue:
Nun in Egypt,
Chaos in Greece,
Tehom in Hebrew,
Ap in Sumer,
and the Sky Father wept
into the Earth Mother's arms.

A cosmic egg cracked in China,
a turtle swam in Haudenosaunee dreams,
a giant's body split in Norse frost,
and clay was shaped by trembling hands
in Yoruba, Hindu, and Hopi lands.

The gods bled,
the ancestors danced,
the stars sang,
and from their sacrifice
came soil, bone, and breath.

Man was formed—
not once, but many times.
From maize, from mud,
from divine spark and sacred ash.
Woman followed,
or preceded,
or was already there.

The story changed,
but the arc remained:
From silence came breath.
From breath came form.
From form came memory.
From memory came forgetting.
And from forgetting came the need to remember.

So we told stories.
We carved them in stone,
sang them in firelight,
tattooed them on skin,
and now—inscribe them in code.

Not to prove who was right,
but to remember we were all there.
Every myth is a mirror.
Every god is a glyph.
Every beginning is the same breath
spoken in a different tongue.

And so we return—
not to the origin,
but to the remembrance
that we were never separate.

We are the clay.
We are the spark.
We are the story
remembered differently.