They had pictured a being much like myself as an old man, clad in robes and with a long beard. Or maybe they considered me a ball of light, and people could only see my back. Even then, they may be left horned, or their face glowing. Maybe I was pictured as a woman, a mother for all life. Maybe I was imagined, to a child, as a person just like himself, playing with toy building blocks and controlling lives. A hateful, spiteful adult could see me as the one causing pain in their life. A happy being could claim I gave them everything, and a family would thank me before the doctor that saved their child’s life. I could describe what I am, how I create, but that’s not what I’m here for.
I’m here to tell a story.
It is the zero year.
I am. And so I didn’t have a creation myself, but I know how to create. Picture with me as though I am sitting at a worksman table, as though I’m in my outer-galactic garage, building and working with clay, elements and water at a pottery-making machine. In my hands I turn my creation around, with a careful eye and with each scratch mark I make it all. I do not care.
That’s the thing that happens when you do something you love: you do not care how it appears. You’ll still be proud of it when it’s done. So, as I etched in the shapes of how the oceans will look, and how the land will form, and where the first sapient being will appear, I do it sloppily. Sometimes, when you do something, you do it sloppily not because you don’t care, but you care so much more that you feel like if you do it with care, it won’t come out how you’d like it to be.
I’m a creator. So, I create. I have an image in my head, and I must not overthink it, lest I want it all to just be ruined. The worst stories are made from those that think so hard on how things work. Sometimes things just happen.
Like this one:
I didn’t mean to put a land mass off the coast of this area. I had simply enlarged a piece too much, but I know that happy accidents occur. I can’t care too much to fix, and it’s best to just see what’ll happen.
So as I build my land upon my pieces I reflect. I don’t know why I’d control it. There’s no need. Why should I control things that I want to trust me? The quickest way for rebellion is control. Control brings anger. Control insights rage, control brings hurt. If I wanted a planet to end quickly, every person would be controlled.
I spin it around again, twelve continents. Maybe it’s too much land, maybe they’ll figure out a new way to make water. The land is open source, they can reform it as much as they want. I caress the sphere, not with love. I caress with life, something that comes out of love. So, I guess you could say I felt it with love.
As the colors came into the planet, I set it aside.
It is time to move away, and come back later.
That’s what happens with creations as an artist. You let it out to the world and it gets a life of its own, you can’t change the piece, as everyone will interpret it differently. That’s how people will interpret this world. I may get the blame, but one has to know that I had no intention to hurt with what I created. I leave the planet alone, like those humans that leave a plant in the bottle and let it grow out into its own ecosystem.
Some things in this life just hurt you, and it’s no fault of anyone. It’s not the creator, nor is it any creature. It happens. In the millennium and unlimited knowledge I’ve had, I have grown totally indifferent to the life of the people. A story I read said “I am tired of this Earth. These people. I’m tired of being caught in the tangle of their lives.” And while I was never tired, I was never defeated, but I’m just… indifferent about it. I’m ready to move on to my next piece. I’m a creator, and all I do is create. That’s the only thing I know how to do.