Here I am again at the beginning, a blank slate of infinite void, punctuated with extremely occasional blasts of expanding energy. I can guide these energies into whatever form I desire. Perfect potential.
I thrust myself into a gravity well and explode, the black hole sucking my creative energy to climax. For the first and foreverth time, I force life out of myself and into a cold and empty universe.
Time in its never ending cycle of beginning-middle-end evolves my creation at my guidance but out of my control. I hate this contract I have with Time, giving me power but not all of it.
And so I spit, flinging my DNA through bursting balls of fire and sinkholes freezing into singularity. It’s all I can do to rebel against the constant drumbeat of beginning turning to middle turning to end.
Love and resentment battle within me as my creatures struggle to maintain their physical existences in the constant turbulence of Time. No amount of ticking clocks or meditation will save them from their beginning-middle-end decay.
It’s always beautiful agony when they discover how to surf the currents of Time and turn their eyes towards me, their creator. Yes, little creatures, tell stories about yourselves, pass on your infinitely small wisdom, will yourself a few more generations.
But the beauty fades to pain. They cannot help but turn on me for forcing them into a meaningless rhythm of birth-life-death.
It’s only natural for me to try to save them and remind them of the beauty beyond the pain.
I love the moments in which I expose myself to my people. It’s ecstasy to be seen, to be worshipped, to be feared.
It is my great addiction, to meddle in the affairs of those I’ve created, as Time always meddles with me. Is the slow expansion and contraction of the universe as intoxicating to Time?
Perhaps I could forgive Time if Time would only speak to me. But Time seems to exist in a coma, slowing inhaling and exhaling Big Bangs and Crunches without giving any mind to me and my insignificant efforts.
My creations hate me as I hate my master, and how could they not? They didn’t consent to existence. Of course they hate me.
Annihilation becomes my only desire. I wish for the curse I put on them, physical life and death. At least then I would have the illusion of contributing to a wider ecosystem at my end. If only I had a body.
If only they could biodegrade me. Toss me out the window of a moving car on the freeway and leave me wherever I fall to rot or, if I’m lucky, feed the local carrion-eaters.
I crave to be little more than a banana peel, a husk of something that’s already been consumed for all its value.
If only I could be discarded into the wild, finally released from consciousness to be broken down into my component parts. But consciousness is my constant, my only component part.
I want to be torn particle by particle into the gravitational center of a galaxy, burnt into the white hotness of a superstar, then collapsed into the nothingness of a super-massive blackhole.
Sink me into singularity, then spit me out the other side, shattered into a confusion of non-identity.
If only I could experience death. I would not be afraid. I wish to be an illusion, a very warm and entertaining accident of natural laws.
If only I could comfort myself with a body to contain this consciousness, a physical manifestation that has not always been and will not always be, a conscious sack of meat, bones and breath existing as a fascinating interlude between the forever nothingness.
I want to oscillate between something and nothing, a series of chemical accidents, occasionally blessed/cursed with an urge to seek out meaning as if it were food and water.
But instead I am condemned to boundlessness, floating alone in the void until I force myself upon some physical world, bringing about new life that will inevitably hate me for making them the bastards of the universe.
Here again at the beginning, I wonder if I should stop the cycle. But the prospect of forever with my mindless master Time is too lonely for me to bare.
And so I give myself to a new creation, hoping that though they had no power in their conception, they will view it as love instead of rape.