We Came from Chaos

By Peter Bowden

They came from a place where stars were born in fire and dust, where the sky cracked open with soundless thunder. Before names, before maps, before even time itself had learned to walk in a straight line, there was only the churning. Oceans of heat, rivers of shadow, and the slow, aching crawl toward shape. From that chaos, a breath. From that breath, a spark. And from that spark—us.

We carry the echo in our blood. Even now, under skies stitched with satellites and silence, something ancient stirs behind our ribs. A memory not quite our own—a flicker of heat, a pulse of wild, impossible light. We speak in sentences, walk in lines, draw boxes around our days, but in the quiet moments, when the world forgets to hum, we feel the pull. A reminder that order is a thin frost on the deep, molten core of being.

Still, we build. We love, we weep, we hope. We press handprints into soft concrete and call it permanence, though the stars laugh. And yet—perhaps that is the grace of it. Not that we escaped the chaos, but that we rose from it, flung upward like seeds, and dared to bloom.

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