In the beginning, God spoke.
“Exist, my son.”
And so Adam existed.
But the voice of God did not stop.
It echoed through the marrow of his bones:
“Ask, read, and question—for in these acts, I curse you.”
Adam, still heavy with new life, whispered:
“Why?”
God’s laughter rolled like thunder across the void.
“Well done.”
From that moment, humanity carried the curse:
To exist, and to know they existed.
At first, it was a burden.
“I exist,” they said.
Existence sat on their chests like a stone, unmoving, unasked for.
They could not explain it, so they tried.
First step was to ask
“Why?”
“Do I?”
The heavens owed them no answer.
But still, they stared at the stars, waiting
And the stars fell to the earth.
The vassals sharpened their swords.
The gods saw this coming and unified their chords.
The one with the veil rose to the holy mountain,
the first to prevail—
not to answer, but to remorse.
Adam was frightened.
But the chosen one stepped forward, deliberate.
He walked back to the earth and handed the tablet.
“Let it be known to all,
that the gods now are united.”
And so, they knew.
As they were told,
by the one with the veil.
“The prohibition against making an image of God—the compulsion to worship a God whom one cannot see—is perhaps the highest triumph of intellectuality over sensuality. But it also signifies the instinctual renunciation that is demanded of the believer.”
Sigmund Freud – Moses and Monotheism (1939)
“I got existed,” they said.
But time pressed on, and they grew restless.
When no answers came from the mountain,
they turned to books.
Second step, was to read.
They sharpened their pencils.
Then their hands became tools.
They shaped the earth,
then their souls became fools
They split words like firewood,
their kind like remains.
Trees to paper,
paper to planes—
to travel the globe, not to see,
but to engrave.
And so they read,
saw,
heard.
Because they were hurt,
when they asked,
just to never be heard.
And so, they set out to create.
Paper and pen,
silicone and numbers,
particles and wonders—
there were no fundamentals.
Adam questioned.
This was his final step.
Adam stumbled.
When he created,
his soul shredded and bled.
The agony forced him to let go—
to let the cursed breath
blend into what he had made.
And to his children, Adam said:
“Exist, my son.”
He spoke the words as if he were a god.
But he was not a god.
Their children asked:
“Why, father?”
But Adam did not hear.
And so the children fell into the void—
asking, reading, questioning.
When the silence pressed too hard,
they shouted:
“Why, Father? What did I do?”
“Why me? Why now? Why here?”
“And who? Who are you? Who am I?”
The void swallowed their words.
The echoes fell back into their ears like stones.
It was dark there, and it was deep.
The children grew sick.
The old went mad.
They lost the sun.
They lost the moon.
They lost the stars.
Thinking. Thinking. Thinking.
In their anger, they cursed Adam.
And Adam took their water.
They disobeyed his rules.
And Adam took their bread.
Finally, when their fury grew too great,
they turned on him.
In their despair,
they made their own god—
from paper and mud.
And they prayed to him.
So Adam took their wine.
He placed it on his shelf,
and forgot them both.
Years passed.
Adam wondered.
Was it courage to descend into the void?
Or was it courage to climb the mountain?
He saw the water, the bread, the wine.
He learned how to drink,
how to eat,
how to taste once more.
Then the wine took him,
and Adam remembered the void.
First, he glanced through the storms.
Then, he stared into the gap
at the bottom of a dark, deep well.
Perhaps it was pity.
Perhaps he recognized the breath
that had once filled his lungs.
For a moment,
he felt the pain of his children.
He named that feeling:
Sympathy.
And so he put on a veil
and walked down the giant mountain.
The stones groaned.
The earth split.
The children froze,
their mouths silent.
Adam looked upon them and asked softly:
“Do you want to exist?”
His vassals nodded, slow and heavy.
From the tribe, an old man stepped forward.
Gray-haired, steady,
his back slightly bent,
but his steps deliberate.
It was almost as though he had seen Adam before.
His wife called to him with her eyes.
His children held his silence in their throats.
His grandchildren wept,
though they did not know why.
Still, the old man walked on.
For he had made himself a promise long ago:
If he ever saw Him again,
he would ask.
And so he did.
His voice was thin but unwavering:
“Why?”
Adam laughed softly—
a sound like wind slipping through forgotten halls.
He had not expected this.
But he was prepared.
After all,
he had been here before.
Adam bowed his head slightly,
as though in respect,
and answered:
“Would you truly be so...
if you knew why?
Then he turned and walked back up the mountain.
The old man watched him go,
his silence carrying far into the empty spaces of the world.
No one spoke.
And in that stillness,
the children looked up toward the stars they could no longer see.
And perhaps, for the first time,
they began to understand
—but not to know—
what it meant
to exist.
yusuf.direct 
Comments
Very well written