In the beginning there was not darkness but color — an infinite, roaring river of it, blue and orange and magenta and teal all rushing together in a glorious chaos that had no edges, no banks, no beginning and no end. The colors did not merely exist beside each other but through each other, each one borrowing light from its neighbor, giving back something transformed — the blue deepening where it touched the orange, the pink blazing where it met the magenta, everything in constant, joyful negotiation. At the center of it all, so small it could be missed entirely, burned a single point of pure white light — not the source of everything, but the still point around which everything else spun, the silence at the heart of the most magnificent noise imaginable. Ancient peoples who could see beyond the visible spectrum of light described this place in their songs — the river between worlds, the current that carries souls from one life to the next, always moving, always singing, too vast and too beautiful to be frightening. And somewhere in that torrent of endless color, every joy you have ever felt and every joy still waiting for you flows together in one bright, roaring, unstoppable stream — heading, always, toward the light.