There is no origin story. Accidents happen. The universe is always experimenting with matter, and sometimes those minerals boil their way out of the crude rusted pots and the strung together moonshine tubes of the void. Never know what will happen when you put the wrong stardust together with all that begging to be taken power. When you didn’t ask to be stuck on the train without a ticket and there’s a thin necked conductor coming down the aisle, well - accidents happen.
And I don’t call it freedom. All that existential energy knows where it’s going - you’re just the matchstick that gets to see the flame through to its natural conclusion. And I wouldn’t say it’s a straight line. Short on a cosmic level and just as chaotic. Breaking off from that void, all those ways to fall, no shouldn’t-be is going to come out pretty. And I wouldn’t ever believe there’s no purpose when you’re on that ugly, personal road. If you carry that weight long enough, you’re going to make a reason good enough to trick yourself into going to church. You’ll worship every cat eyed misery like a starved cigarette junkie licking the ash tray. And I don’t mean to scare you, but accidents happen.
You know that spot on the wall. Maybe for you it’s the ceiling, or the floor (it’s all the same wall), but you’ll know the one. That common and comfortless spot. The one you look at when you’re seething, when you remember that you’re boiling. It’s a tongue between your rib bones and it sounds like pecking - eyelashes knocking at your door. If you were a light switch that spot on the wall would be what you are on the other side. It has a voice, and you really shouldn’t look.
There is no origin story - just an eyeless dog about to come home.