One day time and space waltzed to a bohemian rhapsody, became drunk, and in their revelry laid waste and hay amongst the stars, shaking the third and the fourth heavens. Then he came up into her and she gave birth to a great light, and she was known as creation.
Surely just a supposition you say? A myth of the mind? Yet throughout her ages the wages of creation have been observed, revered, and devoted. For surely, we have tried her favours, and craved her passions; the titillations of her bedside manner and tender bosom.
The great sages and sycophants have revered the wisdom of Sophia, but even her machinations are but the musings of another.
But others debase her, saying she is the product of unholy matrimony. Envious of her majesty they label her an abhorration, a fluke of natural selection, a bastard of the cosmos. Yet these are merely the ramblings of fading constellations, and crumbling kingdoms.
But forgive them for their fallacies, for how do you comprehend that which may beggar description? Or bind that which is eternal?
I myself am at a loss, for such is the power and the glory of creation, that the high and mighty scoffer becomes the doting child.
Letting go of my apparitions, trading all my inhibitions for a taste of divinity.
The Philosopher's Poet 