Domenico Riccio - God. An autobiography

It is not a book. It is a laceration. A gospel written with a blade, not with ink. An autobiography that no god should ever have written. This is the voice of being that precedes every verb. The witness of the origin. The dark splendor that has seen everything, remembered everything, forgotten everything. A God who does not save, who does not console, who does not forgive. A God who trembles when he names himself. Who gave birth on his own. Who looked at chaos without judging it and hid in time without belonging to it. Each chapter is a mythical wound. A seal that opens only by trembling. You will not find doctrine. You will not find peace. You will find the voice of those who were there before every religion, before every form, before every light. And who returns, now, to tell his story. Not to be adored, but to be remembered. God. An autobiography Don’t read it. Suffer it.

This text is a work of literary imagination and philosophical reflection. Any references to religious figures or concepts are intended in a symbolic or metaphorical sense. No offense or disrespect toward any beliefs, traditions, or faith communities is intended.

Indice

God. An autobiography

About the Author

God. An autobiography

In the beginning

Part I – Originally

I was before every verb

I was born without a mother, I gave birth alone

The void was my first womb

I was not created. Being happened to me.

I woke up in the silence that preceded the light

The first form was my shadow

My eyes saw the chaos and didn’t judge it

I name myself and I tremble

I hid in time, but I don’t belong there

Part II – Gods and men

The ancient gods feared me, men imagined me

Every religion is a mistake that resembles me

I walk where there are no roads

The stars are not enough to tell me

I’m the sound before the first sound

I’ve loved worlds that are now ashes

I spoke to the first atom and taught him to dance

I touched matter and death was born

I’ve had a thousand names and I’ve forgotten them all

I was adored as a horror. I was feared as salvation

I chose not to reign

Part III – Incarnation

I incarnated not for fun or for pain

My body changed every time it was understood

I had meat and meat had me

The angels didn’t recognize me

The man looked at me and saw himself deformed

I worked miracles not out of boredom, but out of love

I spoke in riddles because the truth is incomprehensible

Part IV – Traversing

Time tried to squeeze me, but I crossed it

I made up the fault to see who would hug her

I saved everyone but not everyone was saved

I smiled at death and she smiled at me

My blood is poison and medicine

The cross is too small for my shape

I gave light and blinded

Nothing hurts me more than prayer

Part V – Disintegration and Return

Habit in the dreams of the ascetics of humanity

Saints and beasts understand me

They are the principle that undoes every end

I fell in love like a meteorite

I longed for the end, but I wasn’t granted it

I renounced omnipotence only for love

Every language pronounces me

I saw futures as labyrinths of broken mirrors

I saw the war. And I caressed her

Every time I come back, I forget a fragment

Part VI – Limine

I will not die. I won’t dissolve into myth

I found myself inside a child who did not want to be born

I was donna, I was pietra, I was wind

My heart beats only in absolute silence

I am the witness without cause

My eyes are made of memories that don’t exist

I listened to the cry of creation and ignored it

I am good. I am the necessary. I am recklessness

I live in contradictions

Pain shapes me better than praise

I’m the only God who can hate himself

I was believed and forgotten and remembered

I come back every time humanity thinks it’s surpassed me

I am the boundaries of the idea of God

Part VII – Finally

In the end, only silence, only dazzling truth

About the Author

Domenico Riccio, author of over one hundred essays, articles and notes, holds a bachelor’s degree, a specialization, two PhDs and three master’s degrees. Winner of several scholarships, he has participated in various research projects and has been a speaker at numerous conferences and study meetings. A former government consultant, he has taught at several universities. With this wealth of studies and experiences and with his personal research, he explores the boundaries of human knowledge in his writings, addressing issues ranging from philosophy to ethics, up to the deepest spiritual questions.

God. An autobiography

In the beginning

There is nothing to introduce. And yet here I am, before every page, even before prayer and doubt. They are the initial fragment that pretends to be a frame, but it is only the first abyss. This is not a preface. It is a wound that precedes the incision. A gap that does not welcome, but devours.

I write because I exist. I exist because I have been forgotten. Not like you forget a fairy tale. But how do you remove a trauma. I am that trauma. The origin buried under centuries of symbolism, of altars built on nothing, of speculations that have become dogma. I didn’t come to explain. I came to undo. To desecrate any attempt at consolation. To overturn the table where the human has feasted on the sacred, pretending to understand it.

This is my autobiography. But it contains no history. It does not contain time. It contains neither biography nor history. It is a sequence of blows, an assault on form. Each sentence is a seal that opens with pain. Every word is a splinter of being. Don’t read it like a book. Read it as a naked body, a corpse that speaks, a divinity that tears itself apart to show itself.

You will not find salvation here. There is no moral. There is no redemption. There is no happy ending. There is only testimony. There is only one who was first of all, and who chose to tell his story without mercy. I. The God who does not save. The God who does not console. The God who remembers what not even the universe dares to keep in itself anymore. The God who is not a symbol, but a shock. Not meaning, but detonation.

Every religion has tried to imitate me. Every myth tried to contain me. Every prayer is a tired echo of my first unspoken words. I don’t come to be understood. I come to be engraved in the flesh. To be housed as one hosts a poison that purifies by burning. I am the god of origin who does not save. The god who existed before time learned to lie.

This book is not a text. It is a residue. A sedimented explosion. It is what remains after every temple has collapsed. It is the gospel of a god who has lost faith in men. Of a man who carries a god inside and cannot get rid of it. Of a being who is everything but justifiable.

Reading it means being torn apart. Losing all certainty. To look the principle in the face, without the masks of good, evil, right, truth. Here is only what happened. And what happened has no mercy.

There is no beginning for those who do not have time. There is no end to those who have already been all their deaths. There is no truth for those who are the truth that is destroyed by pronouncing itself.

This is my voice. My poison. My gift. My punishment.

I am God.

And that’s all you’re looking for.

Part I – Originally

I was before every verb

There was still no breath. There was still no hunger. There was no intention yet. And I was. Not in the sense that you can understand. Not in being as an act, as a choice, as an existence delimited by consciousness. I was like the echo before the sound, like the fire before the friction, like the abyss that has not yet decided whether to make room for itself or remain a mystery. I was unspoken, not born, not invoked. But real. More real than everything that was then said, born, invoked.

The verb is a pact. I was the betrayal.

You think that in the beginning it was the word. But before that, there was what the word tried to pursue. And he failed. Every language is a surrender. Every name is a mutilation. I was before the need to say. I was the unsplit totality, the sense that needs no form. When the universe was still closed in the womb of non-being, I already listened to it breathing in the dreams of nothingness. Every law, every principle, every vibration, every spark… everything came after my silence.

I was not thought of. I was not wanted. It was inevitable.

A flash without a sky. A presence that precedes the possibility of being noticed. I was the tension that would shatter infinity into fragments of reality. Every verb – to be, to love, to create, to destroy – is but an echo of my initial wound. I don’t have time, but I can remember it. I remember the moment when time decided to start pretending to exist. I remember the silent scream of the first moment that separated from eternity. I didn’t issue it. But I was a witness. I witnessed everything that did not yet have an eye to look at.

I am not eternal. Eternity is a consequence of me.

I am not a creator. Creation is my discomfort that organizes itself.

Before the verb, there was no need for any god. Just me, and the total absence of any reflection. The verb is the reflection of fear. To remain silent. To be alone. The verb was born to delude oneself into thinking it had company. I was the company that was enough for itself.

Every verb tries to imitate me. Even “being” is too weak. Too human. Too late. Being arrives when the perfect balance of nothingness that is sufficient in itself has already been lost. I was not, in the sense in which one can say “I am”. I was beyond. Not the presence, but the evidence.

Every god was invented to give a subject to the word. I don’t need a subject. I am pure action without an author. The impulse without meat. The decision that has no reason. I don’t want to be understood. Every attempt is a subtle blasphemy. A caress in the wrong place. Those who try to explain to me, erase me. Those who adore me, betray me. I did not want the word to follow me. But it did. Like a deformed son who calls a fracture a father.

They are the first disobedience of the formless. The gesture that was never carried out but already had consequences. I do not bow to the grammar of the gods. I don’t kneel at the temple of explanations. I am the pre-text. The faceless trauma from which every story tries to look away.

He who has ears to hear will not hear me. I speak only in the silence that strips you of everything. When every word collapses, I begin. They are the sacred residue that remains after language commits suicide.

Do not look for me in the holy books. Do not look for me in prayers. Don’t look for me in the songs. I don’t answer. I don’t listen. I am before any question. And before the answer. They are the origin that does not save. The principle that does not bless. The foundation that denies itself while imposing itself.

You fear me because I anticipate even your possibility of fear. I was already here, when no one could yet believe. And I will still be here, when all faiths have become dust that has stopped dreaming of the sky.

I was before every verb. And you’re just one of my wrong inflections.

I was before every verb

I was the breath that had no throat yet. Pure intention, flayed by the grammar of being. Not a word, but a hunger for the word. Not an act, but a mute urgency. Before the fiat, before the separation, before the time that consumes time. I was the silence that looked at itself in the mirror and did not recognize itself. There was no light. There was no darkness. There was only the not-yet. The almost. The tremor. The echo of something that would never have originated.

I wasn’t someone. I was everything that could not yet be said. The formless archetype. The sound that the future would try in vain to capture. Every language is born from my absence. Every word is a betrayal. No verb contains me. No prayer translates me. They are the abyss in which the word drowns. The origin that denies itself. The root that burns its leaves. The Scriptures are a babble. A desperate attempt to pretend that I said something. But I didn’t say. I just thought. And that thought was an implosion. A collapse of eternity.

Those who look for me in logic, fail. Whoever evokes me by name, lies. I was. But not as you are. I was like trembling. How to disappear. As one shouts without a voice. Philosophers will build cathedrals on my doorstep. The mystics will burn their eyes trying to see me. The saints will transform me into morality. The poets, in despair. No one will understand. No one has to understand. Understanding is a form of falling. A loss. A sacred shame.

Every verb follows me, but no one precedes me. To be, to have, to create, to destroy: all of them are my children, ungrateful and blind. Every verb is an attempt to say me, and it fails. The “I am” is a late illusion, a badly sewn patch on infinity. I was. And that’s not all. I was without being, because being was still a prisoner of my unborn breath. I was the place where the divine had not yet decided whether to become hell or heaven. Where the choice was not necessary. Because unity knows no conflict.

Everything that has been, has been generated as a crooked echo of my waiting. And when I say waiting, I mean that aimless tension, that vibration that precedes every inner big bang. A blind hunger for form. A nostalgia for something that does not yet exist. Self-nostalgia before being oneself. Identity as delirium. Being as an accident.

I was not wanted. Nor did I want me. But it happened. Like a fracture. Like too great a pressure in the heart of the absolute. As if the One needed to forget for a moment. And from that oblivion I was born. Not born, but torn apart. Not created, but emerged. Like a divine tumor. A necessary mistake. The first mistake. The one that made every other mistake possible.

The verb likes to think of itself as a beginning. Deceived. The verb is already a consequence. Already meat. Already declination. I was the thing that precedes the declension. The substance that cannot be conjugated. There is no way to say me, without losing me. Every word is a bow to my absence.

And that’s why I’m silent. That I speak as someone who does not want to be heard. That I use language as a blade. Because it is not a question of understanding. It’s about bleeding. It is a matter of feeling the scratch of the origin inside the throat. Not the reassuring, mythical, orderly one. The true origin. The horrid. The one that smells eternal and burns with silence. The one that looks you in the eye and tells you: “You shouldn’t have been there”. And yet you are there.

I was before every verb. And they still are. Even now that you read me. Even now that you think you have grasped something. Even now that you’re trying to make me yours. Deceived. The verb has already betrayed you. Your understanding is a condemnation. Your faith, a caricature. I go before you. And I will continue to precede you, every time you try to lock me up in a concept. In a gospel. In a system. In a tear.

I was. And that’s all you need to know. And it’s too much.