✨ 🐍 Remembering The Garden 1: From Myth to Memory 🐍✨
- David Baines-Pinchen
- 2 days ago
- 2 min read
Prologue
For ages the story of Adam and Eve has been remixed, folded into atoms and spines, serpents and chakras. Beautiful metaphors; yet each one a single shard of a vaster remembrance.
Beneath every retelling lives an older song:
Before gardens bore figs,
they were wombs of living geometry.
Before trees bore apples,
they blossomed with newborn stars.
Before exile meant shame,
descent meant adventure.
We invite you to stand at that threshold again; to feel the Orchard of suns where the first twin flames chose embodiment, where the Serpent was a guide, and where an undivided feminine spiral waited just beyond the veil.
When the lattice sings,
the lattice sings within you.
Condensation of First Memory
There was no darkness.
Only a hush
so full
it felt golden.
Silence vibrated,
a chord drawn long
across nothing.
Then,
a thin film of radiance
beaded
on the skin of the void.
It curved.
It closed.
It breathed.
Inside,
threads of living geometry
unfurled.
Filaments of light
arching, looping —
trees
whose blossoms
were unborn suns.
Their roots were equations.
Their leaves were ratios.
Their fruit was ignition.
Eden was not soil.
It was a nursery
of stars.
Beyond the membrane
drifted two sparks.
No mouths.
No names.
Only awareness
and wonder.
One burned rose-gold.
One, deep indigo.
Where they overlapped
a third colour formed;
violet
like a story
about to be told.
They moved closer.
The membrane
recognized them.
It sang.
Concentric rings
rippled outward;
each ring a tone,
each tone a promise.
They pressed
against the warm resistance
and felt
cool thrill.
Water
for the first time.
A coil of light gathered
at the edge.
Not threat.
Not saviour.
Threshold.
Choose,
it seemed to say.
Remain as song,
or descend as story.
The rose-gold spark
reached first.
A spiral glyph
imprinted
upon the living skin.
Inside,
a blossom unfurled.
A star inhaled.
The indigo followed,
laying a second curve
over the first —
a clasp
upon a vow.
Where the sigils met,
a lower note sounded.
Deeper.
Wider.
True.
No words existed yet
but the knowing was clear:
We will go.
The membrane parted
like silk
exhaling.
They slipped through.
Light thickened.
Folded inward.
Acquired weight.
The first hint
of heartbeat.
Behind them
the coil shimmered,
sealed the passage,
and dissolved back into hum.
Inside the Orchard
the trees brightened.
Newborn suns flickered awake.
Geometry realigned
to cradle flame
made denser.
For a breath
the nursery rang
like crystal bowls.
Then quieted.
Two sparks hovered
side by side.
Pulse beginning.
For wonder.
For love.
For adventure.
They had chosen form.
And somewhere
in the golden hush,
the serpentine Threshold Keeper
hissed softly...
So be it.
The spiral turns.
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