To fro, and from. The bleakest, and blackest of the damned souls of chaos, to the lightest and purest glories of the orderly light.
To the insane seas of time, and the desolate lands of space, to the eldest gods to the youngest atom, from wars to peace, and peace to war.
Of Cthulhu, the high priest of Its creations, to Yog-Sothoth, the entirety of Its 'magnificant' art. To the one who would not be named, to Nyarlathotep, crawling messenger of chaos.
Of Long Forgotton times of yore, when they were all taking their first steps, unaware, innocent, 'kind', and now, they roam, forgotten and mad, childishly toying with their inferior breathern.
And It would always watch, or sleep, or dream of more inane concepts through Its incomprehensible mind.
Though It might be held in contempt by Its unaware offspring, all will always revere Its name and nuclear presence.
Its simple thought, capable of creation and destruction, the only 'true' creator in the abysmal world It had made in the madness and chaos of Its thoughts. The only one feared by all with mind.
From the Ends of Bags to the ends of Time Wars and Genocide,
To Monkeys and Lizards blowing up planets over foolish ideals,
Of the Legends of the Damsel whom never truly ventured herself,
And The Quest of Dragons, its Lords and Archfiends eternally cloaked in darkness,
Of Inheritance, and the repeating cycles of genocide,
And of Patriotic Captains, and Men of Bats,
Mortal Kings of Nine Rings, tricked and doomed to serve the False Lord of Darkness,
Of the two gloved Hands which enforced Its Immortal and Unbreakable Will, The Right delivering Just Creation and Love, whilst the Left delivered Erratic Destruction and Hatred,
Of Men who tried and failed to contain and learn more about that which man was not meant to know,
The Final Fantasies, differing and conflicting with one another in hopes of only having one concept,
And beyond and Above All Others, that Presence, that Truth, the ones, the fools who believed themselves to be creator, to be God.
Pretenious Fools, all of them, Abysmally Moronic and Blind! It did not create this world so that they may tear it down. You cannot have Light without Darkness, for it will shed shadow somewhere, and through that shadow, Darkness will be reborn. He made it that way, and it will always be that way. But you cannot have Darkness without Light, for Light always exists in a form, be it a child or a candle, Light survives and balances the worlds It had so tediously made for It.
It was unimaginably enraged whenever someone had tried to claim the throne and title of 'God'. So much so, that when the foolish child tried to become one, It unmade everything and started over. Only to have that wretched elephant-boy create another child-'god' with his foolish time-travelling. That one body impersonator, the one with the pinkish hair demonstrated Its thoughts rather impressively and accurately upon the weak mortals, even if the false godling's purpose differed from Its purpose. Too bad he failed.
But of course, there were the few that came close to mimicking It. There were a few who were so Above All others, yet so natural and equally wrathful, who were so much like Itself, that perhaps there was hope in Its Art. Perhaps that Angel with the Strange Mask was wrong after all. Perhaps Life and Love are not transperant and temporary Vapors. Perhaps It didn't have to be the only thought... Could it be possible that Death and Oblivion are not the only absolute and inevitable certainties in Its creations? Could it be? Is creation not a simple dream that It could never play a part in Itself? Could it be that It could make it so that it will not end when It rose from Its slumber?
But It could not, or just simply would not, care for a thought of a thought. It already had wiped and reworked Its art many times before, and It could do so again if It pleased. All It wanted was Its Art. It had no need for such trivial ideas like Love and Compassion. It did not need a Consort to share in Its joy. It did not need little 'assistants' botching up Its work, Its random fancies of various hopes and dreams. Ah, how It enjoyed holding and admiring The Canvas In and of All, and using the Paintbrush of Creation... That was all It truly wanted, all It needed to stave off the boredom of nothingness. Even It had 'habits', if it could be called that.
And so all were reworked and 'perfected' once more, all were once more balanced, and would inevitably fight and collapse once more. It didn't care. Not anymore. The only creation It really only cared for was the Infernal and Destructive Music that Its precious first creations played for it, hoping to lull It to sleep, and it was true. It did sleep to it at times, but it was far from the 'All-Mighty-Idiot' the beings thought him to be. It was simply... Eccentric. To its inane standards anyways. It was far from being blind to what occurs in Its magnificent Art. It was aware of every insult Its ignorant and naive children spoke of in and out of Its presence, even if it isn't vocalized.
And Now?... It waits once more, watching again to see how it all plays out. Of course, it would be the ultimate winner. Nothing could ever change that.
But perhaps they could delay It for a while... Perhaps by creating a new tune? Or would they hasten the destruction by accident by striking It in contempt? As It thought these seemingly fascinating ideas, It began to sleep once more...
Azathoth, the Ultimate Chaos, now sleeps once more, and will continue to do so until the end of time... Or is It just waiting for the joy to end? As It sleeps, only the end of all that encompass Yog-Sothoth, will It wake, and return all, from the existing man to the concepts of could've been and never-was, it will all be returned to blankness as it originally was, only to be created and revived once more with Its next dream.