But I digress. So you are God.

Before you is the void, the long pre-creation hesitation, pregnant with possibilities, waiting to be born. Waiting to be. But most of all... silent. The most profound silence imagninable. Not just without sound. Before sound.

And you ... you are alone. And really, who wants to be alone all the time? Especially since time hasn't even been invented yet. So even though you are ... you cannot be ... because there is no place for you to be in. So you create one. Because you're alone. Because you can. Because it kills the time you just got around to inventing.

Let there be light.

You slammed molecules together and blew them into the void. Protons danced and wave-forms flickered. You ignited suns, nutured nucleotides and exhaled protiens that would in time birth a Mozart and put the knees of Flamingos on backward just for the variety and humour of it.

As time passed - and what a handy little creation that was - you got better at it. You abandon single-celled creatures and work your way up from protozoa to saurians like a artist working his way up from stick figures to the Mona Lisa.

Too bad you have to hone your skills by killing all your failures, even though they were innocent, even though the fault was not theirs, but in your design. Because everything you create, dies. Because press releases and pamphlets notwithstanding, you're not perfect. If you were, you wouldn't have done all this ... all this, because you were alone.

Because you feared the void. Because you had nothing better to do. Because you were bored.

You even create others like yourself, but not quite as powerful, because that would be too great a threat. At least you think you created them because one day they were just there, and since you created "there" in the first place, then you must have created them, but you've been so busy working out this whole light-to-nutrient chlorophyll thing that you can't really remember doing it.

You tell them all you're trying to create a better world. But if you're as perfect as your biographers maintain, then why didn't you get it right the first time? Why'd you screw up?

Some of those around you ask just that question. You don't like questions. Just obedience. And then it's war. A war of misery, a war about misery.

Understand: anyone would get bored doing nothing but designing worlds for eternity. You want to be entertained, and every author needs conflict. So you introduce misery into an equation predicated on what was supposed to be one simple proposition: the hope that tomorrow will be better than today.

Have things gotten better? Are they continuing to get better? Is the promise valid? Or is the promise a lie?

Money is not the root of all evil. Misery is. Misery starts wars, kills children, destroys souls. Misery proves that the universe is uncaring and random and cruel. Misery proves that creation is a lie. Misery did not exist naturally. Nothing does. It had to be created.

And misery has to be removed from the equation.

Labels: Disintegration, Misery