The God of Light moved on the face of the water. The Demiurge waited in the darkness. Between them they formed the world.
A Recording Angel was created, who drew spirit from matter, or made matter from spirit. Whose idea this was is not certain.
Image, idea, thought, language all abounded, solidified from the senses' apprehension of the delicious, terrible, ever-changing world of matter, but trapped in the dark cave of skull, mired in the grey matter of brain. Already the Recording Angel was overwhelmed.
'You're going to have to delegate;' the Angel was told 'they'll have to be told how to record for themselves.'
The sharp hard stone bit into the softer one, the finger was drawn through the clay. The reflecting, refracting particles of pigment glimmered from the walls of the cave. In the dark hollows of the incisions, in the hidden facets of the crystalline minerals, the Demiurge, the God of Darkness and Matter, waited.
The hands were placed on the cave walls, dark earth taken in, expressed, spattered around them, the hands lifted away, shown forever shining from out of the darkness. The marks were grouped, angled, accrued weights of meaning; the forms of things, their lights and shadows, were caught, held sacred. They mattered. They mattered so much people killed and died for them. The Demiurge licked his lips, for he was also the God of Dead Matter, of corruption, of the earthen solid reality of death, of mortal clay.
Things recorded became knowledge, solid matters, transcending death, passed on. By this knowledge more and more could live, could hold on to the dear, sweet world of matter they inhabited, could amass what they gained. The Demiurge smiled and grew fat.
The God of Light said to the the recording angel, 'Make it lighter, smaller, less substantial, reduce the dimensions, two is better than three! Give them a flat white surface, dark liquid, so more spirit can be held in less matter!' Calves and sheep were slaughtered and made into parchment, trees were turned to pulp. The Demiurge lurked in the black ink and licked at the paper skin.
'Let them capture their moments of illumination, their visions in patterns of darkness and light, in translucent glowing shapes and patterns on surfaces light passes through, make them move and change and sound and sing...'
But the images could not hang in pure light, they needed support, a surface to rest on, frames to hold them, the books could not all be contained and cherished. And they became too many; the upper storeys and forgotten corners became clogged with dust covered, mould-speckled, musty-smelling boxes and haphazard piles, corners curling, spines wrinkled and torn, white paper jaundice yellow, gloss crackled, colours grotesquely faded. The Demiurge, who is also the God of Clutter, feasted.
The God of Light said to the poor, overworked, self-questioning Recording Angel ' Give them boxes of pure light, as fine and flat as can be made, in the corners of their lives and homes,
so their visions, their thoughts, their creations, their loves and hopes and dreams and memories, their laughter and their curiosity, their desires and secrets and fears and sorrows and joys can all be contained and made to fly between them, without ever needing to be made into gross matter.'
The lights burn and burn. The minerals, the very matter of the world, are sucked and incised from beneath the earth to form and feed the votives of the God of Light. The Demiurge slavers.
'They are mine' says the Demiurge.
'They are mine' says the God of Light.