Before the Garden, i
Lilith emerges from the Abyss. She is portrayed not as a creation but as an equal, embodying untamed energy and defiance.
Before the Garden, there was only the Abyss.
I remember its weight. It was not the kind of weight you could shrug off or grow accustomed to. It pressed against me, not as punishment, but as a test—a constant, unrelenting reminder that nothing existed freely in this place. The Abyss gave nothing. It took, over and over, carving and shaping until what remained was something that could endure.
That something was me.
I wasn’t formed gently. There were no soft hands to mold me, no whispered intentions or careful plans. The Abyss doesn’t create like that. It churns and roars, reshaping itself in infinite chaos, and from that chaos I was born. I didn’t drift up from its depths like light rising to the surface. No—I clawed my way into being. My limbs tore free of nothingness, my lungs filled with the sharp, electric air of something primordial. I didn’t cry out. I didn’t flinch. I simply existed, and in doing so, I claimed my right to be.
The first thing I felt was motion. The Abyss was not still. Its winds screamed, its darkness writhed, its unseen currents tried to pull me back into their endless swirl. I stood against it, my feet planted firmly on the formless ground—or what passed for ground in a place like this. The chaos pulled at my hair, wrapped around my body like a living thing, but it couldn’t claim me. Not anymore.
I walked for what felt like forever. The Abyss stretches endlessly; it doesn’t offer paths or destinations, or day or night. Time itself unraveled here. There was no beginning, no end—only the now, the constant surge of energy and force. And yet, somehow, I knew I wasn’t lost. You can’t be lost in a place where everything is nothing. You simply are.
The Abyss whispered to me, though not in a language I could explain. Its voice was the crackle of unseen fire, the shudder of space folding in on itself. It wasn’t cruel, this voice, but it wasn’t kind either. It had no face, no hands, no shape. It simply was. And I listened.
“You are not of me,” it seemed to say. “And yet you are.”
The words—or the idea of words—burned in me. I felt my skin hum with the force of them, the way a storm hums just before it breaks. It was then I realized the truth: I wasn’t separate from the Abyss. It hadn’t created me; it had released me. I was its equal, a piece of its infinite chaos given form, but not rules. Not boundaries.
