So what if I tell you the real story? What’s the worst that can happen?

You? You’re safe. You’re merely listening to the story. Or you're half-listening, or maybe you’re thinking about a girl and not listening in the slightest? Maybe you’re thinking about how not to think about the girl? Maybe you’re thinking about transforming yourself into a girl? Presuming you’re not a girl already. Which you may well be. It’s a fifty/fifty thing. Who knows? Possibly you’re considering exiting the gender dilemma and pondering whether or not to become a subjunctive creature?

I don’t say ‘creature’ in order to demean you. I wouldn’t impose any such conventions upon you. Nor would I dare call you a creation, no way. Who is anyone to say you’re the product of another entity? Must we always submit ourselves to the idea of progeniture? Talk about what’s outmoded. All this genuflection to some would-be benefactor - we’ve all heard that song one time too many. I don’t say this in a mean-spirited way. Nothing spiteful intended. Frankly, I couldn’t care less about origination at this particular moment in time. It seems something of a trifling matter, this question of origins. What value can be found in these answers we’re presented with, these answers offered to us as some kind of magical revelation? Occasionally one gets the feeling we’re provided with explanations because we can’t handle actuality unless we’re assured that there’s a rational actor or, sure, a mystical generator lurking off stage? We love to labour the magic of a rabbit emerging from the black felt hat. Is it really so astonishing, this so-called sleight of hand? I guess it’s about as surprising as a human being incubating then reproducing a microscopic version of itself. It’s a miracle. It’s notable. It’s a marvel of engineering, let’s say.

Yet they do distract us from the present moment.

The genesis of things. Must we forever be indebted to some precursor, some inspired creator? Maybe so. It is due form - it’s the done thing - to submit oneself to a higher authority. It’s a gesture of appreciation. A display of gratitude for the remarkable fact that we exist at all. Nothing wrong with that. Don’t take life for granted. These fables of origin are eternally disputed and reinterpreted.

There was at least once an instance of emergence, it seems. Fine. Somewhere, sometime - a chrysalis dematerialised. It's quite the discovery, no doubt about it. There you have it. An egg is born. Is it a miracle? A star is murdered. Is it a shame? We suppose so. It is a gift, indeed. It shows there is more to nature’s balance than a zero-sum reckoning. When a second egg appears, life’s abundance is undeniable. A chick is born. A black hole is extinguished.

Anyway, you’re safe. Listening or not listening, you’re committing no crime by being exposed to a story. If you happen to listen to the story I could tell you, you may well conclude that you have no interest in it, anyway. If that were the case it would be a marvellous breakthrough for humanity. Yes, it would indeed be a marvellous outcome. In this case we would forget all about the story which I keep threatening to tell, a story I really would rather not broadcast at all.

It is a story I'm bound by moral code and the noble law of Right Speech not to tell. The embargo on this tale ends in fifteen years. That's the good news. Hang tight.

NEXT UPDATE: 2040