The Autobiography Of An Alien

Once There Was

Before Anything existed, there was something. Everything-that-was filled every nook, cranny, and corner. One could not go Somewhere without finding Everything-that-was.

Expansive, omniscient, incomprehensible. There was nothing around to comprehend It, but Everything-that-was was content with that.

Until It wasn't.

It wished for something. Anything. For what, It did not know. Did It wish for beauty, for something to gaze upon? Or perhaps something destructive to watch Its other Creations meet their end? It could not decide. So It started creating. Everything-that-was-who-became-Creation pressed together parts of Itself into everything. Orbs of light and gas and dust burst into being everywhere and all at once. There were hundreds, thousands, millions, billions, of small, large, colossal stars and rocks. Rips in the fabric stretched across the seams of Itself, cutting into each other and nothing.

There were bundles of what Everything-who-became-Creation made, swirling and snarling around each other. Some absorbed into the strongest one, which became larger and larger until it could do so no longer, exploding into fragmented dust and rocks and remains. Some circled each other in a dance, pulsing every rotation, light and awe radiating from them. Most existed solely, gathering small rocks and smashing them together.

Everything-who-became-Creation was content. Plenty of beautiful and awe-inspiring creations to gaze upon. If they were not meant to be, they would disassemble and recycle into something new. Content. Yes, very much so.

Then, and It did not know how long as Time had yet to be invented and perceived but it was certainly a very long time, Its creations started dying.

Death. A very new concept, but not one It had created. Everything-who-became-Creation would have certainly remembered creating that. It had yet to create Life, but It would, and Death was its opposite. But here, now, Death was alone.

Who created this? It asked, for It was all alone, and there was nothing except Everything-who-became-Creation.

It did, came a reply. Everything-who-became-Creation looked and saw.

It saw nothing and destruction and rage and annihilation. It saw every one of Its creations broken into small pieces, pieces too small to reinvent, reuse, and It saw everything It created gone.

It is called One-who-destroys, One-who-destroys says, crushing a small galaxy underneath Its gaze. Everything-who-became-Creation creates much and It must balance.

Everything-who-became-Creation understood this. It had definitely made too many stars and galaxies and nebulae and everything else. Everything-who-became-Creation offered a star to One-who-destroys. It smashed it into a black hole.

One-who-destroys has created something, Everything-who-became-Creation told Its companion.

Nonsense, It replied. One-who-destroys cannot create. It destroys.

Everything-who-became-Creation would not argue. It, like always, decided to shape things into existence instead. It created Time, as It always would, and soon galaxies grew, blossomed, and lived before One-who-destroys took them away with gaseous explosions, black holes, or fizzing ends, all without Everything-who-became-Creation's input. Their remains would lay untouched, so Everything-who-became-Creation painted the sky. Oranges, blues, reds, purples, infrareds and ultraviolets. A mess of colors that no one would see.

This bothered Everything-who-became-Creation. It made countless stars and galaxies, but for what? At first, it had been merely something to do. Everything was boring without Anything in it. And now that It had something, It longed for more.