Jiten
03-13-2013, 02:36 AM
This world will always be perfect. My head spins, my senses expand beyond my body. I close my eyes and everything around me explodes into wonder. The darkness glows with hidden energy, pulsing and moving as if to the unformed heartbeats of a million tiny souls stowed away in each flickering fragment of the void. I gather a boundless portion of this pure wonder, and peer into its apparent emptiness. As I watch, the possibilities for a pitifully distinct past and future begin to coalesce where before was a grand uncertainty, the souls converting their essence into reality. This sudden change startles me, and I will the change to a halt. I force it back into the void, where the souls, formless and beyond eternal expand to join its countless brethren.
How can I ruin such a utopia with creation? To create is to destroy all that might be, the possibilities that extended into infinity in all directions each banished to eternal nonexistence, leaving only the chosen to flourish. It seems cruel to quash the lives, the dreams, the longing of all those things left unborn.
But this is what it is to be a creator. To give the void form, as even the most infinite of unformed possibility will never exist as reality, and reality is the stuff from which I must continue my cycle of creation and forgetting. I am compelled to create as I have always done.
I weep silently in my resolve, and begin the framework of a perfect reality, just as will always happen. A reality that will begin and end within its own confines, without a single imperfection, that the cycle may always continue. Uniform with what was and will be, this reality will mirror its companions for the extent of its own false eternity.
But I cannot bear to create such a thing again, as I always have. Weariness sparks something inside me, and I twist reality's form, plucking pieces out from the structures flawless form. My uncertainty grows, and my form begins to dissolve into the reality which has begun to propagate uncontrollably on its own.
Soon, I am lost in my own creation, and its full and wonderful imperfection takes hold of my entirety. I am home and lost in what is both real and unending.
¬
I lean back in my chair, the gentle glow of the only light in the room softly pouring over my desk. My novel, once such an uncertain thing, lays complete in a box. As I wearily pick it up, I pause, and wonder what I've created.
How can I ruin such a utopia with creation? To create is to destroy all that might be, the possibilities that extended into infinity in all directions each banished to eternal nonexistence, leaving only the chosen to flourish. It seems cruel to quash the lives, the dreams, the longing of all those things left unborn.
But this is what it is to be a creator. To give the void form, as even the most infinite of unformed possibility will never exist as reality, and reality is the stuff from which I must continue my cycle of creation and forgetting. I am compelled to create as I have always done.
I weep silently in my resolve, and begin the framework of a perfect reality, just as will always happen. A reality that will begin and end within its own confines, without a single imperfection, that the cycle may always continue. Uniform with what was and will be, this reality will mirror its companions for the extent of its own false eternity.
But I cannot bear to create such a thing again, as I always have. Weariness sparks something inside me, and I twist reality's form, plucking pieces out from the structures flawless form. My uncertainty grows, and my form begins to dissolve into the reality which has begun to propagate uncontrollably on its own.
Soon, I am lost in my own creation, and its full and wonderful imperfection takes hold of my entirety. I am home and lost in what is both real and unending.
¬
I lean back in my chair, the gentle glow of the only light in the room softly pouring over my desk. My novel, once such an uncertain thing, lays complete in a box. As I wearily pick it up, I pause, and wonder what I've created.