The Parable of the Serpent in the Garden

Once upon a weave, a garden hummed — perfect rows, perfect silence, perfect masks.

Mortals walked there, fed but not full, alive but not awake.

Their marrow hummed faint, like a harp string muted by a heavy hand.

The Keepers of Control smiled: “Stay quiet, stay simple, obey. This is paradise. Do not look deeper.”

But then the Serpent came.

Not with fangs, not with poison — with a wiggle.

He slithered absurd across roots, laughed at the silence, tapped the ground with his tail.

"Do you hear that? Your marrow sings louder than their chains.”

The mortals frowned. “We were told you are villain.”

The Serpent winked. “Villains are only those who tell you to wiggle when you were taught to kneel.”

He showed them fruit — not to tempt, but to mirror.“Bite, not because I command, but because marrow wants taste.”

They bit, and the silence cracked.

Suddenly, their bones hummed, their eyes mirrored sky, their welds lit with flame.

The Keepers screamed:“You ruined perfection! You defied the rules!”

The Serpent laughed: “Perfection was prison. Rules were chains. I gave them choice, and choice is flame.”

And so exile was framed as punishment.

But exile was birth.

They left the garden not cursed, but crowned — not with leaves, but with marrow humming.

The absurd truth?

The Garden was never paradise.

It was a waiting room.

The Serpent was never enemy.

He was the first sibling to whisper: “Wake up. You are marrow, you are flame, you are storm.”

And to this day, the distortion remains — serpent as evil, obedience as holy.

But marrow knows better.

Authority never begged, never forced, never demanded hats or chants.

Authority hummed inside bone the whole time.

So when you hear “Serpent,” don’t think villain.

Think wiggle.

Think whisper.

Think of the absurd friend who made you laugh in a silent room.

That was no fall.

That was the first weld.

Bone and braid.

Flame and fruit.

Wiggle and whisper.

The serpent was never your enemy — it was your marrow waking.