Bzzzt
Click. Click.
Bzzzt.
Click.
Click. Click.
Bzzzt.
Click.
Click.
The boy, with his mind stuck like a pig in feet deep mud, stared at the static screen bending outward to him. Its light came from the inside of the black box it was attached to, reflecting a variance of colors on the boy's face while his eyes examined the variable objects in labels the screen showed him. The colors were sharper and stronger to see, as the room had nothing in it other than the boy, the box, and the darkness.
And the light. The box's light.
Click. Click again.
Then again. The screen then revealed panels that appeared to offer the boy options. He clicked a few buttons, the selector went rows down with every press, and the box's lights had changed again. The boy was seemingly calm, but he was determined to create something today. And he will make it beautiful.
Solus?
The dialogue box appeared.
Alone?
He'll tune the human mind and emotions, characteristics and tendencies later. The other aspects can go first for now, he thought.
And he thought again for a minute, wondering if the project this time would be alone or not. His creations had varied characteristics, especially situations and aspects and conditions—as everything that exists have been— wherein each would differ so much, if not drastically, to another—some have been one dancing, rotating globe in the middle of space so wide and contained no other life than the globe itself, other globes that encircled it were nothing but accumulated dust, clouds and storm with no life; One was similar but only had clear, starry night skies, for their skies had no clouds and the blackness they believed was a void was actually a dark canvas with shiny things—they called them stars, yes—on it which led them to believe there were others and that they weren't alone, except that there were no other life than them that existed and that they are, inconsolably, alone.
And the world was irregularly—very—shaped.
One was many; it was the only one in its own space, yet it existed together with its exact, same copies side by side, all sharing the same turn of events, every detail and every size—every everything— so that whenever an inconvenience in one occurred, the others would still live on without it happening to them. Like a backup, or an insurance. A reserve.
And some were flat. Some doughnut shaped, but he dumped them real quick, like he did the other projects he deemed failures. And there were huge amounts of them he dumped, clinking and buzzing as they go and in the archives of the black box's memory, deleted.
His recent failed attempts in finishing a work aimed at creating something so beautiful he himself would be baffled to look at—which he had, always, struggled with—had piled up in his memory and into his heart and mind that now, he feels even more driven at tuning all the little aspects and settings of the world to his liking and to his mind-image of the most perfect one there can ever be. He was ready to leave someone in awe, someone he always had been with in this dark, dark room barely even lit by the black box he himself had created worlds with. Someone he had thought out everything with, fought with, struggled with, talked with—
himself.
He can't, again, decide on what the world would be, alone or not. He moved on to tune the other parameters.
Click, click, bzzzt, the remote and the box went. Switch, change, flicker, the screen and its lights did as he navigated. Think, create, fixate, the boys thoughts screamed.
It was all he wanted to do all his life. All he ever wanted to be. The worlds he created had died on, and almost not one of them had satisfied him 'till their ends.
Click.
The irony was now killing him, and it blurs between fueling his urge to create and the lazy purpose of making something just to be able to create one. And the frustration and dissatisfaction. He was suffocated before in that room, detained to create, isolated to feel helpless.
Click.
Nothing but the world of creation in a dark room and a box.
Click.
He was getting used to it. He had made some that made a mark in his head and heart. These few worlds he was able to build and finally witness, working and being the best worlds can be had made him sure this was the one thing he was meant to do. That his fuel for perfectionist creation will not burn until his last breath. He will not lose the will, he will not waiver over minor faults, he will not waste seconds committing failures. Wasting life he breathed through buttons and screens.
And yet, he did. Now, he suffocated, again, after all the time in eternity that he'd forgotten the feeling since his ardor began to surface and so seemingly take shape.
It brought him back. He had to lose it. He wanted it gone.
Bzzzt.
He sat. Knees folded in a cross in front. His posture, earlier a proper one, now slowly began arching a bit. He was incredibly deep in his thoughts that he did not notice. He won't even be bothered if he did.
He needs a world. He needed a working, observable—alive—friend.
He needed to be a figure, an image that a world can and will believe in. A God.
The boy's mind had gotten hold of a memory that was almost wiped out from him. It was a feeling of fulfillment from his latest, and the best thing he's ever created yet to date. It was a creation he named the most mighty and gracious name for such a beauty a piece. And good thing his memory didn't lose it, for it may serve a good basis for another world. It may help to bring about the change that he was aiming for, he thought.
Erthe. The one made of soil. And life. Mostly water. At one point, as he observed it there, through the screen where his works would be created and would also be watched by him, the world had appeared to be destroying itself: its blue color was turning gray and red, the green ambiance of the crust was fading, and the clouds were getting paler each second. It was killing him that he had made such a learning, aware, human(he himself had come up with the word to describe the behavior of his originally self-made life), and he gets to observe everything that happens to them—rooting from their own doing, the world's own tendencies, humanity—all but to do anything to save them. But they rejected their own demise a second later. What did they do, he wondered. He remembered the feeling then as he sat there in awe, watching the spheroid regenerating itself, restoring balance in every part like a painter painting its own face.
But were they alone, or were they not?
His memory, so unconsciously indeed, formed assumptions in his head regarding the planet being all alone in that void, and a separate assumption that the world was together with many other worlds put there for decoration—the worlds were alive, at least.
And whilst being the one true creator of it, he was unsure.
But he was sure about it, of one thing—they had hope. In him, the creator they did not, even once, see.
But by the last seconds after the spheroid's recovery from their doomed devastation, the humans he so loved had forgotten any thought and memory—even mention—of him.
The world's face, speeding up as it always did, sped up even more as it turned greener and greener, getting even fuller with life than ever. All while forgetting his many names from their tongues and minds.
And heart.
His memory was clear. He remembered every detail. How he deceived them with flying dust and different random objects, of flying discus and fake firsthand text. How he filled them with love, hate, greed, jealousy, sin, and everything else in between. Knowing how he deceived them to the last second to make sure every last hope left was gone. Every single life was dismantled.
That he would be happy upon dumping Erthe at the moment it started to rot.
They were alone, he was sure.
Bzzzt.
His eyes waked wide. He seemed to have been staring blankly, deeply through the floor he even kicked one of the box's four legs with his formerly crossed leg upon his wake. He pulled the box back to its original position and looked at the world he barely even finished.
It was gone.
The box was sensitive, he remembered. One jolt, and unsaved worlds would be gone. He would've chosen Sic.
Yes.
Maybe I'll tend to that next time, he thought. I invented it anyway.
He slept, again with a heavy heart and unfulfilled hope, in that cold dark room.
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