The moment of creation was and is perfect. The first light kindled in darkness was light, not some sort of bastardised version of it.
Everything that is emerges, in all its complexity, from that perfection. The perfection, that correctness, is at the heart of all things; there is always a way to reach it.
Even under whatever filth may be in the way.
Even behind whatever damage may be in the way.
It is possible to be clean.
It is possible to be aligned.
It is possible to celebrate that original wholeness that is the essential nature of the universe. It has to be there, under everything else, because that is the point from which everything emerged.
That reaching for putting things right lurks in the heart, trying to find a way back towards the original purity of the first moment, the first occasion, the place where time came into being. Time spirals out from there; differentiation and the development of diversity spiral out from there; the universe is fractally complicated, but that first moment was the correct moment, and that which came into being is, in its deepest recesses, pure.
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