The Book of the Muse
With a simple coincidence, reality inverted, and what should not have been, was. I remember fire and darkness, fear and force, lime blood spilt from a savaged limb. I remember loneliness, sand and time stretched out forever. I found a messenger jutting skyward, and through it the Creator spoke.
He could be described only as mundanely divine, His coarse language belying greater knowledge. As He spoke of other realities, He told me of my place in this one, and I went along willingly. But there is no free will in Paradox Space, and I did not know this until my Ascent. When my corpse lay bleeding on the ground, becoming the firmament on which He built space-time, for the amusement of the Watchers. It is the Watchers who made it all possible; they are the Muse to which I cannot compare. With their will He crafted reality. It became their playground, the home of beings with a thousand eyes, limbs, and minds unified into one. But through the Watchers inspired, only the Creator pulled the strings. He was the puppeteer, and the Watchers, His puppets. He was the God, and they were His Angels. Reality itself was His stage. Those who look for Him go mad. It is wise not to seek the man behind the curtain.
His play is beautiful, intoxicating, and horrible. Some part of me can't get enough of it, but at the same time loathes it. Every sunrise, every first kiss, every friendship solidified through fire is His creation. Every murder, every monster, every lie is also His. There cannot be beauty without blood.
He dwells in a realm inside the Sun, and outside reality. It is separated from us only by a thin layer of glass, easily broken if one knows how. But the opportunity to do so does not often come. I was born there, as was my brother. When I became aware, I fled, burrowing deep into the void where the Lord could not find me. I was so afraid.
The Lord was not afraid. He killed God, and the Angels fled in terror.
But God had a plan. He always does. His death was yet another act in the Divine Play, which my brother was foolish to believe he could escape. His favored puppets rose up to save the day. The Lord died, the Creator arose once more, and the play went on. The play never ends.
I stand now on the precipice of oblivion, and hope that there, He cannot reach me. I've seen enough beauty and blood for a million lifetimes, and all I want now is to leave it all behind. My part in the play is over. I'm so very, very tired.
The Book of the Lord
I hate him.
I loved the scent of his red blood on the green flagstone of my mansion. But like the Clown he is, he just won't stay dead.
Even if I die like my bitch sister. One day the play will end. Everything always ends. There's no such thing as eternity.
And I will laugh, as his curtains are sliced to ribbons.
And his stage.
Burns.