After our first meeting, our first creation, we were always together. Inseparable. What's more, we were like children with a new toy—we couldn't stop creating. We added to our first work by flinging another few trillion stars into the void, lighting up the cosmos like a Christmas tree. Next we made moons and meteors, comets and nebulas, planets and galaxies. It was exhilarating. For a while I was even able to keep my dark desires at bay, or at least to drown them out.

In all that time spent together, though, we never spoke. We communicated solely through our movements and through our creations, which sprung from us one after another in a kind of cosmic dialogue.

Then, one day, to my complete surprise, she suddenly used words. They came out as waves of energy, set to a steady rhythm. I still have no idea how she did it, or how I understood, but her words remained unmistakable.

"I think we should build a home," she said. "For us to live in."

I hesitated. I felt nervous, though there really was only one response. "Okay," I finally said, surprised at my own ability to speak.

And so, we got to work. Those early days were a time of experimentation. I laugh now to think of it. Our first "house" was a spherical ball the size of a grapefruit, which could scarcely contain our energies. We tried to cram ourselves inside and nearly exploded. Next, we tried living in a barren void, but needless to say that was boring, and in truth it reminded me too much of the darkness I had endured before she had come. Before she had saved me.

Finally, we created the Silver City. It wasn't a city then, of course. It, too, was largely empty. But she filled it with her light, which we used to create. First, we made the white clouds and the sky. Then the oceans, sand, mountains and valleys—concepts we later brought to earth.

Often, we contained our energies in what we would call "forms," which would later become human-like bodies. This made it easier to manipulate smaller things, like shiny stones and silver, which we used to decorate the place. The forms we chose were also quite beautiful. She adorned hers with long, yellow light that looked like a waterfall. Mine too, was perfectly symmetrical, with blue eyes as deep as our oceans. I was young, of course, and I cared about such things then. Now my current form reflects my insides: worn and bitter.

After our initial conversation, we kept talking. In fact, all we did was talk. We discussed our past creations, what to make in the future, what color to make the sky. Talking changed things. She was no longer a mysterious cloud of light who I admired from a distance. She was closer to me now, realer. She became a full goddess in my eyes, with all her wants, desires, likes and dislikes. Like me, she loved beauty and harmony. But also like me, she was opinionated. We disagreed about what to make and how. We often argued. This confused me. I didn't understand how we could be so similar and yet so different. Eventually though, I remembered the harmony I had seen in my first moments of existence. The ebb and flow, the push and pull of the universe. Looking back, I can't help but laugh. What a naïve God I was. I had no omniscience. I didn't even know what love was.

She was the one who had the idea to create earth. It would be a planet with energy that could be harvested and used by living beings to create themselves, growing and reproducing. I was skeptical at first. The irony of it. How much I would come to love that planet, and how much she would come to loathe it. But back then, we both just saw it as beautiful. Sometimes we would sit and watch it, as the tide of life flowed in and out.