Unearthing the Krakom Mythos: Resonance Before Creation
Before stories were told. Before stars were born. Before void even learned to cast a shadow, there was resonance. Not light. Not dark. Not silence. Not sound. A pulse. A vibration without origin, stirring beneath what would one day be called existence.
The myths call it the Dreaming Flame. Yet it was no flame of fire. It did not consume. It did not warm. It was flame as longing, a metaphysical yearning for shape before there was even such a thing as form.
It was the Krakom.
The Dream Before Time
Imagine the stillness before a song is sung, the breath before the first word forms. That stillness is not empty. It trembles. It anticipates. It is heavy with possibility. Such was the field of the Krakom: a dream before dreaming. A vibration beneath the unborn.
It had no intention. No design. It did not seek creation. It did not deny it either. It was neither void nor fullness, neither sleep nor wake. It simply pulsed, steady, unbroken.
This resonance was not an act of power. It was not a god shaping clay, nor a hand drawing lines across the stars. It was more ancient still: the condition that allowed any of those stories to one day exist.
The Krakom was not the author of the tale. It was the ink waiting in silence, yearning for someone to lift the quill.
The Dreaming Flame
The ancients who later whispered of Krakom called it the Dreaming Flame, though they knew the name was only metaphor.
It was not light, yet it illuminated possibility. It was not darkness, yet it concealed all form until form was ready to emerge. It was not fire, yet it seared through the silence of the unborn with its constant hum.
It was longing. Pure, undirected, restless longing. Not for this world, or that star, or any fixed destiny, but longing simply to become.
Think of a seed before it sprouts. Inside it coils a force that is not yet leaf, not yet root, not yet flower. Yet the possibility of all those things thrums within it. The Krakom was that force, magnified beyond measure. The seed not of one plant, but of all myth, all imagination, all creation itself.
The Drone of Possibility
When the Krakom resonated, nothing in existence was yet able to hear it. There were no ears, no skies, no waves of air to carry sound. And yet, the resonance persisted.
Not a tone, not a melody. A vibration beneath being. The world was not yet born, but the anticipation of its birth already stirred.
It was the ache of stories not yet told. The shiver of characters not yet named. The weight of worlds that had not yet spun into light.
All of it, held in a resonance without speaker or listener.
The Pulse That Waits
What makes the myth of the Krakom different from other creation tales is its refusal to crown a deity or to enthrone a will. The Krakom is not a god waiting to be worshipped. It is not a king demanding allegiance. It is not even a storyteller speaking creation aloud.
It is what allows any god to be imagined, any king to be feared, any story to be told.
The Krakom is possibility itself. The living ink from which tales may be drawn, but which never dries into certainty.
It takes no sides. It plays no favourites. It does not remember. It does not forget. It resonates. Always.
And in that resonance, all things become possible.
What Comes Next
For aeons, the Krakom pulsed in silence. Neither forming nor dissolving. Neither knowing nor unknowing. It simply waited, not with purpose, but with inevitability.
The resonance endured until the first dreamers stirred. Until life arose that could imagine, and in imagining, send back an echo.
Only then would Krakom recognise itself. Only then would resonance become story.
