Chapter Text
Pure nothingness.
Absolute silence.
Endless darkness.
And suddenly, a spark of existence.
A new reality emerges from the turmoil of energy weaving accross the void. It gains in power and substance, stretching and growing as the vacuum surrounding it withdraws from all the pressure. Time and space are soon to be set in motion.
The concept of matter doesn't exist thus far. The particules, that form the atoms, that form the molecules, that build the universe as whe know it, are absent.
Yet, something is present.
An object, flowing along the currents of fire and creation.
A Book, to be more precise. One that contains tales of a distant world and a strange soul.
"Books" are a human concept that are to be discovered aeons later, on a faraway speckle of dust suspended in a sunbeam. There is no explaining the deeply anachronistic nature of its existence, or how its pages hold together when there is no substance yet to be held together, or how it came to be.
Thankfully, "logic" is also a human concept that waits patiently on being manufactured.
Soon enough, pressure reaches new highs. Energy rises and falls like waves crashing on the feeble walls of the newborn reality.
With all the parameters meet, an explosion signals the beginning of times.
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With sudden force, the Book lauches accross expending space. As matter assembles and reassembles all around, its cruise is met with star dust and cosmic bits. Gravity intervenes and, after a few graceful rotations and dancing about, the matter settles around the covers.
For the next few billion years, the newly made asteroid wanders aimlessly through the ever coldening air, the only distraction offered being the fireworks of forming galaxies and nebulas.
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The artefact crashes on a young earth as life slowly emerges. The paper soaks in the salty waters of the Tethys sea, tasting the ocean for the first time in its long existence. It tastes familiar, like a distant memory, tucked away in far days ahead. So, the Book buries itself a home in the depths.
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Water goes up and down as the landscapes contort to create new continents. Mountains and islands arise, and with it, old pages find themselves settled on wet soil and among rich and green foliage. Small creatures fall upon it every now and then, get to sniff its musty cover before leaving it to the next curious roamer.
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Humanity is ongoing and progressing. Civilizations have alreasy had a few test runs so far, cultures and langagues emerge all over the globe at a rate never seen before.
That being said, the traveller doesn't find any familiarity in the foreign sigils adorning the yellowed paper. They try tracing the strange ink with their pointer finger, but it's like their eyes refuse settling on any lines, and as soon as they turn their gaze elsewhere, any memory of what the writing could have looked like vanish from their mind.
With a shrug, they stow the found item away in a leather satchel. Maybe they could obtain a few coins for it.
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Having once travelled the universe, the Book returns to its nomadic roots and travels around the world, passed on from various owners, every one of them attempting and failing to translate the oddity. Occasionnaly discarded from frustration, only to be eventually dug out once more by some unsuspecting individual.
There is no explaining why most eyes fail to decipher the Book's words.
There is also no explaining why there is in fact one soul, stretching throughout history, capable of doing that. But, one could theorize why said person has yet to stumble upon the item. Maybe it is the incredibly slim odds of the two variables ever meeting in the grand equation of life.
Maybe it is simply how it is meant to be.
As a matter of fact, had the words been read, one would agree that it is how it is written.
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Time passes, and the cycle goes on as wars and technological discoveries occur at a ever faster rythm.
The artefact finds its way back in the ocean to drift far away from any coast. When the 20th century comes and go, the horror the years offered hardly reaches its cover accross the vast body of water. Humanity's screams and tears soak the earth's atmosphere, and all the while the pages in which they were prophesized keep floating lazily along the currents.
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Globalization hits the world like a storm. Human relearn to live with a newfound desire for endless material consumption, and soon enough, the Book encounters new companionship in the form of plastic waste and discarded electronic devices. Waves carry the eclectic batch with ease as other inanimate and rusted members join in, towards a direction that seems to attract all streams.
The hardbook cover finally hits land and washes over the colourful synthetic particles that constitutes this new continent.
History is well under way, and the Book's secrets have yet to be undercovered by the individual who, unbeknownst to them, lived a thousand lives. It could be the universe's favor to deny them the sheer weigh of knowing the world's birth and downfall, ignorance is bliss after all. So, the Book lays still, hidden among the debris.
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Years become months, which turns to weeks and then to days. At each passing moment, the machinery of time runs with mechanical precision in accord to the script, second by second, word by word. The sun's pace slows down as the new chapter awaits its catalyst, the next cog prepares itself to fall in place.
Once upon a foggy day in the middle of the ocean and the furthest away from mankind, a cuban heeled boot meets the artificial sand of the barren wasteland. And thus, Plastic Beach is born.