Bringing Forth

Formless. Void. Nothingness.

This is what surrounds me. The sheer amount of nothing is mind-numbing, even for me.

I float in this vast dark emptiness. Alone.

I am so lonely. I don’t know why, really, but I must create something. Something to ease this isolation that grips me with a physical agony. Like birth pains. 

I need a prop to occupy my time, perhaps. (Ooh, that’s a good turn of phrase. Remind me to tell one of my eventual creation to use it later when they create something for themselves.)

Out of the nothing, I bring forth a dancing pinpoint of light. I touch it, so very very gently, and it ripples outward in a protracted explosion of bright something.

I watch as some of the smaller pieces of light solidify into rock. I encourage it, mold it further. Working the soft clay of planets under my great hands.

Seized by the desire to create, I am no longer alone in the darkness.

I am the Beginning of All Things. The first Artist. The Author of the first story. And I will see this through to its end.