The story of Elios

A Fable on Imposed Existence

Once upon a time, in a universe without sound or light, there was a silence so perfect that nothing was missing. No cries, no laughter, no sighs. Just the void—not death, not darkness, but total absence, asking for nothing, imposing nothing, expecting nothing. And in that timeless sanctuary lived pure balance, nameless, will-less, painless.

But within that silence, a dissonance emerged. A spark. A beat. An aberration. Someone, somewhere, decided the calm was too calm, that the emptiness must be pierced. And in a gesture no one requested, a rupture was opened. It was called “Birth.”

From that rupture, a tiny being was hurled—without memory, without defense, without agreement. He was called Elios. He opened his eyes in a world that blinded him, cried out in a world that did not listen, felt the cold in a world that did not care. People clapped. They congratulated. They wrapped him in ribbons, gave him names, smiles. For here, on this earth, the arrival of a being torn from the void is celebrated as a miracle.

Elios grew up among laughter, rules, and promises. They told him he must love his parents—those two architects of vertigo—for “giving him life.” He was taught to eat animals, chase grades, smile at adults, and say thank you for each day added to his sentence. They showed him the sun, the seasons, the games, love. He watched it all, sometimes fascinated, sometimes dazed. But deep inside, a voice whispered: “Why?”

That voice, no one wanted to hear. It disrupted the choreography of days. For on this Earth, one does not question being here. You work, marry, produce, laugh, and sometimes cry. But always, you carry on. That is the rule. Those who stop are called mad. Those who doubt, melancholic. And those who refuse are called sick. The world does not tolerate astonishment at existence.

One day, standing at the edge of a cliff, Elios asked the wind, “Why was I pulled from the void? It never wronged me. I lacked nothing.” The wind had nothing to say. It kept blowing as it does over all cliffs, without anger or compassion. Then an old crow, its feathers black as lucidity, approached and spoke.

“You ask the only forbidden question, little one. The void is the origin of all innocence. It creates nothing. It imposes nothing. It simply receives. This world, on the other hand, made you. Not for your sake. For theirs.”

“Who are ‘they’?” asked Elios.

The crow answered, “Those who live inside the dream. Those who sing while the world bleeds. Those who, to fill their emptiness, manufacture new voids and give them bodies. They are called ‘parents’. But they are merely the smugglers of exile. They give you life like one passes down a labyrinth with no exit.”

So Elios came down from the cliff and walked among the others. He saw them laugh at jokes they didn’t understand. He saw them work until exhaustion, then celebrate that fatigue as if it were victory. He saw them have children, cry at their funerals, and repeat the cycle as if it were logical. And most of all, he heard them… whistle.

They whistled. On subways, in kitchens, along the roads. As if music could plug the hole the void had left. As if the harmony of a note could erase the primal injustice of being dragged into being. It was a dance of sleepwalkers. A ballet of blind people who had learned to love the dark because it spared them the sight of the abyss beneath their feet.

Elios tried to wake them. He cried, “Don’t you see? You didn’t choose to be here! You were thrown into a world where suffering is guaranteed, and understanding is uncertain!”

But they silenced him. They told him, “You’re exaggerating. Life is beautiful. Look how full it is.” And they showed him cakes, sunsets, songs. Elios smiled gently—not out of agreement, but out of tenderness. He understood they were afraid. Afraid to look back. Afraid of the place they came from and would never return to.

So he withdrew—not to flee, but to understand. He wrote a text. A simple one. It held no hatred, no complaint, no call to rebellion. Just a statement. In it, he wrote:

“The void was perfect. And we betrayed it.”

Some laughed. Others ignored it. A few cried without knowing why. And the rest… kept whistling.

And so the feast of the abyss went on. A feast with no start, no end, no awareness. A feast where one is born uninvited, lives without lucidity, and dies without ever knowing what it meant to exist.

But sometimes, in the silence of an awakened mind, a sigh floats through the night: “And what if the void… was paradise all along?”