All stories have to have a beginning. At the source of the source, in the beginning of the beginning, there was nothing. I cannot even say at that time, because there was no time. I cannot even say in that space, because there was no space, only a dark nothing. Darker than the night without moon, more silent than the grave and emptier than the ground of the coast. And suddenly, this nothingness gives birth to an egg of energy and matter, the birth of time and space. Why?
The beginning of my story vanishes from my view into the fog. Like you and we all, I have lost the remembrance of my birth. Is it the day my mother brought me into the world? Or is it the night my parents made love? What was before? What was united to bring me into existence one day? Where was this galaxy of tens of billions and billions and billions of atoms scattered from which I was made? Through which plant, through which stone, through which animal, through which face have they wandered before they have found themselves in me. And before then, before the life appeared, and even before the earth was formed from the dust of the stars. Where have they been, where were they, the pieces of this puzzle. And was there anything of what I am today in the beginning, of the beginning, when the world came out of the nothing? My history merges with the history of the universe.
