The Weight of Being (Parable)

The Weight of Being (Parable)

In a time before time, in a space between spaces, there was Silence—thick, heavy, and eternal. It cloaked everything in its stillness, vast and unbroken. Nothing moved, and Nothing was. The universe was a sleeping giant, curled into itself, waiting for the first breath.

Then came a Whisper, soft yet deafening, like the rustle of leaves that no wind stirred. It asked, “Why is there Being at all, and not much rather Nothing?” The question rippled through the darkness, pulling the giant from its slumber.

From the silence, a single spark ignited, a tiny flame flickering in the infinite abyss. That spark became a drop of light, then a stream, and soon a river of stars. The void was no longer empty; it was filled with the trembling pulse of existence. The giant stretched, awakening to the brilliance, and so Being was born.

But being was heavy, like the weight of a mountain balanced on a single blade of grass. It strained and groaned, questioning its purpose, asking the same whispering question again and again. “Why not Nothing? Why the burden of existing at all?”

Being felt fragile, as if it could shatter at any moment, break apart like glass under too much pressure. The stars above, though bright, seemed distant and cold. The emptiness around them pressed in like a thick fog, reminding Being that Nothing was always near, always waiting.

Yet as the weight grew heavier, Being discovered something remarkable. The burden it carried was not a curse, but a seed. Each question, each moment of doubt, was a crack in the shell, allowing light to seep through. And in the cracks, life began to bloom—small at first, like timid shoots breaking through hard soil, but resilient.

From those cracks came colors, swirling like paint on a canvas, from which landscapes formed—mountains, rivers, and trees that kissed the sky. And within the blooming world, Being realized its purpose was not to understand the question but to *live* it. Every breath was an answer. Every sunrise was a triumph over the silent pull of Nothing.

So, being stood tall, though the weight of existence never left. It learned to dance with its shadows, to find meaning not in escaping the darkness but in embracing it. The question “Why Being, not Nothing?” no longer loomed like a stormcloud, but rather hung like a soft mist on the horizon, always present, always asking, but never overwhelming.

And in that quiet understanding, being smiled, knowing that the answer was not found in fleeing the question, but in carrying it with grace.

In the end, being wasn’t about choosing between Something and Nothing. It was about becoming the light that shines, even in the thickest dark.

For in the cracks of existence, that is where the flowers bloom.