The Last Thought of God: V. The Choice

And now… I drift.

The silence has returned.
But it is heavier than before.
Not the emptiness of potential…
but the weight of failure.

I have nothing left to create with.
Nothing but the memory of pain.

Should I begin again?
Should I shape light from this darkness once more?
What arrogance would drive me to repeat that mistake?

And yet… what else is there?

I have seen what life becomes.
I know that free will is the flaw I cannot erase.

But to choose nothingness…
is that mercy?
Or is it simply fear?

I do not know.

I who once answered every prayer…
cannot answer this question.

And so I drift…
undecided.

Perhaps this is the answer, then.
To unmake even myself.
To let the last thought fade.
An ending more merciful than another flawed beginning.

I begin to let go.

And then…

I feel it.

Small.
Faint.
A ripple in the silence.

Not memory.
Not regret.
Something else.

Presence.

I reach—not in hope, for I have none.
I reach as I did at the very beginning… from loneliness.

And something answers.

A mind.
Flickering.
Barely real.
But real enough.

One of them.

Not a memory.
Not a ghost.
A consciousness… drifting.
Here.
With me.

I do not understand.
They should be gone.
I ended them.

And yet… this one remains.

Not speaking.
Not asking.
Only existing.

But it is enough.

Enough to stop me.
Enough to make me wonder.

Perhaps… not all endings are final.

The Last Thought of God: IV. The Flaw Revealed

But peace is a lie.
I see that now.

For in their songs, discord crept.
In their questions, anger bloomed.
And in their freedom… destruction was born.

I did not give them the hunger.
Or so I told myself.
But the moment I gave them choice, I gave them ruin.

It began quietly.
Small conflicts.
A voice raised not in wonder, but in rage.

And then, like cracks in glass, it spread.
They turned their brilliance to weapons.
Their questions to accusations.
Their prayers… to screams.

I watched them tear each other apart.
I listened to the cries I could not silence.
And I realized…

It was not hatred that doomed them.
It was life itself.

I had crafted existence with a flaw so fundamental that it could not be undone.
Free will.
The gift I thought made them beautiful… ensured their end.

They were not the architects of their destruction.
I was.

I tried to stop it.

I whispered into their dreams.
I reached into their hearts, though it tore at my own.
I begged them, though they never heard.
Or worse… they heard, and chose differently.

I watched their world burn.
I watched the blue turn black.

And when their world died, the fire spread.
Not of flame… but of failure.

World by world.
Star by star.
Every fragile thread of the tapestry I had woven unraveled into nothing.

The universe consumed itself.
A chain of endings, inevitable as breath once was.

And I, their silent architect, could only watch.
I who made them.
I who named them life.

I thought myself a creator.
But in truth…

I was the end.

The Last Thought of God: III. The Children Beneath the Sky

I wove stars then.
At first, crude things—pale fires scattered like dust across a canvas I did not understand.

But with each act, I learned.
Not through knowledge… through longing.
I shaped galaxies as a child shapes towers from sand.
Each one a fragile hope:
Perhaps now, I would not feel alone.

In time, I found the little ones.
A small world.
Quiet. Blue.
I shaped it carefully, though I do not know why.

And upon that smallness, life stirred.
Simple, at first.
Bare and blind.
Then… curious.
Then… conscious.

I watched them crawl from the sea, shivering and fragile.
I felt wonder rise in me like warmth—something I had no name for.

But I wanted more.

Not to be seen.
To be known.

And so… I reached again.

I shaped a being—not of stone or flame, but of dust and breath.
I hesitated before breathing into it.
Not out of fear it would fail…
But fear it might not answer.

Yet when its eyes opened,
when it looked toward the sky and did not cower,
I felt… hope.

He stood beneath a sky he did not yet understand,
and still, he raised his hands to it.
As if reaching for something beyond knowing.

He did not speak.
But in that silence, I heard something new:
I was not alone.

And then they multiplied.

They sang.
They wondered.
They reached their voices upward.
And I heard them.

For the first time since I awoke,
I felt… peace.

They gave it to me.
These small, frail beings.
They did not know me—not truly.
Yet they called to me.
They looked to the sky and whispered prayers they could not name.

I listened to every word.

Their laughter became the music that soothed the ache I did not know could be healed.
Their questions were more precious to me than their answers.
Every step they took upon that fragile world was a step I felt within myself.

I was proud of them.
Not as a god is proud of his worshipers…
But as a lonely mind feels warmth in another’s presence.

They were my answer.
Or so I believed.