Wednesday, December 21, 2016

The portrait

It’s the portrait of a beautiful young woman holding a rose in her hand and smiling. Long black hair is spread over her shoulders, framing a beautifully oval face with pale skin, arched eyebrows, big dark eyes, full lips, and a delicate nose. I have the feeling I have seen her somewhere before, but I cannot recall where exactly. 

(excerpt from "Butterfly's Dream" by Marian C. Ghilea)

Tuesday, September 15, 2015

In the beginning...

In the beginning was the sound, and the sound was without form, and the sound was reigning supreme over the endless water. The sound became stronger, vibrated and expanded until it reached the water’s surface. Its touch changed the water, bringing into existence tiny ripples of resonance that spread in all directions. Soon, the ripples grew and multiplied until they became permanent, stable shapes. With them came structure, complexity, and thought.
In the beginning was the space. The unbounded space. The space stretched, bent, and twisted until it closed onto itself, until it generated discontinuities that brought matter into existence as mass and energy, its two complementary sides. Then, from the random vibrations of the mass manifested as energy, the sound came into being.
In the beginning there was no beginning, because there was no time and space. From it, the singularity that did not exist and cannot be described, time and space appeared. Then, from time and space, everything else came forth. Everything is one, and one is everything.
In the beginning that did not exist, beyond anything that the human thought can conceive, beyond any beyond, in that beginning with no beginning, He was. Hence, everything started from Him. Yet “He” is only a name, but not the real “Him”. The finger that points to the Moon is not the Moon. It’s just a finger.
And so the flow of a story commences, entangled between pasts and futures, twisted by ripples of reality and illusion, washed by the incessantly changing waves of space and time. This flow starts shyly, more like a whisper, like a tiny mountain stream hidden under deep layers of ice and snow, but soon it begins to grow, becoming a wide river with deep waters that pour unstoppable into the sea after a long and precipitous journey. Yet, the sea is alive as well. Its restless waters are periodically pulled towards the sky by the heat from the Sun’s rays, becoming clouds and returning, as rain, to the source. The cycle is complete. The story folds over itself, returning to the origin.
In the beginning was the end…

(excerpt from "Butterfly's Dream" by Marian C. Ghilea)