‘Twas not long after language appeared on that planet that the explosion occurred  --   (coincidence?)  --
and immediately myths driven by the event began to flood the minds of the residents:
some of literal catastrophes,
many metaphorical, whose latter interpretations were uncertain,
but none told directly of what had actually happened there.
 

‘Tis as though those who were present when the event occurred
did not truthfully tell their children what had taken place,
(either that or they were unable to?!?),
thus did the myths & metaphors gradually become accepted by
succeeding generations as facts & history --
it was the follow up genesis on that world: the birth of their SecondReality,
wherein certain features of the primary, purely physical realities of life, are by words, transformed into a new, entirely image-extant-world in which thoughts can freely wander, create & speculate.
 

Thus there is not on that planet, common, clear knowledge of the explosion
that so long ago occurred, and changed life there forever;
and even those who attempt to unravel the strange stories and myths
as metaphorical traces of some actual event, have no stable suspicion,
but within every generation or so, a mutant child is born there whose
accidental genetic construction results in just the right cellular combination
to produce in him a molecular memory of that past momentous occurrence.
 

Those without this cellular recollection and direct link to that race’s past are left to what has proven to be a never ending job of trying to put that world back together.
From an outside view, it is a most curious activity, for several reasons:
they make no headway whatsoever, and in fact
the splintering from the original explosion continually increases;
no one shows any awareness of the situation;
there is no comprehension of what it is they are actually doing, and finally:
this appears to be the way it is supposed to be.
 

The few with the accidental, cellular memory of the original incident
do not find the common references thereto to be curious or quaint,
nor do the collectively accepted histories and unwitting interpretations of myths concerning the episode please or entertain them;
while public wheels, via friction, endlessly spin routine minds,
theirs runs off of the deep, private molecular memory of that great explosion which blew everything apart, and about which  --  in them  --  the semi-quiet cells
with the recall seek to somehow tell the tale to their younger associates  –  neurons.
 
 
 

It may sound a strange tale,
but nowhere near as fascinating as to those who live it,
by putting together  --  not an old, by-gone world,
but an entirely new and fresh one  --  inside their individual solar system.
 
 

                     Are the stars out tonight,
                     I don't know if it’s cloudy or bright  –  'cause,
                       my mind is blinded by its own secret splendor.