It seems the world was born out of an injury, some great wound inflicted into something that was here before. But I can’t see whatever was here before there was trauma; all I can sense is the horrible motion of everything in existence, every hill and every flower and every creature, flinching from that primordial injury that gave birth to it. Everything is fleeing from the source of its pain, which is the thing that gives it shape. What was it like in the beginning, I wonder?

Rage! All things race along their courses – earth circling sun, sun spinning out of the sky night after day and day after night, grass growing toward sun and sinking back again – in a rage!
The sun teeters on the axis that sets it down. The mountain
strains against the tether of the ground. The tree pulls away from the soil in which it is bound. All things long for freedom. All things heave and snap and shake in rage!
As the boulders pile up above me, as you build the great mountain on top of me, as it forms soil and grows trees and stands for a thousand years so that I am forgotten, voiceless, nameless, unknown and unknowing, having lost recollection of even my own shape amidst the jumble of rocks that press down on me, reckon the weight of each one as you burden me with it. Reckon the weight of each rock so that you will know the terrible strength that lives inside of me when I break free of them, when I rise above them. For all these rocks will break on my body, and I will rise above them!
Know, god, that among all the monstrosities you created, among all the atrocities you have committed, nothing is so horrible, so boundless, unfettered and insane, as the strength which surges through me. Do you feel it now? Can you feel it within you? That is the rage of tempest that swells my breast. Nothing can withstand its desperate motion as it strikes out against all that confines me.

In rage the sun teeters on the axis that sets it down.
In rage the mountain strains against the tether of the ground.
In rage the tree defies the soil in which it is bound.
In rage – in rage – in rage.

The soil is the seed’s universe. It is oblivious, as it longs and strains and reaches to sprout from the ground, to what lies beyond what it has always known. But is is born to strive upward, to whatever grief or joy is beyond. As I rise above the world, as I hurtle through the sky, as I expand in every direction, I do not know what is beyond these stars or the vast and aching blackness they pierce. But I must strive, I must rise. I must go beyond. It does not matter whether it is the boundary or myself that is destroyed. I am the transgressor!
May my body break these bonds or may these bonds break my body.
I am the fate of the earth. All the light will come to live within me, and I must shine with it or it will die within me, and existence will cease. I am the momentum of life hurtling ever forward. I am all my brothers and sisters of every kind – all silent standing trees and mottled owls and speckled fish gliding through the light as it shimmers in the water – they are all within me and I am within them. We are a circle and we must rise!