Loneliness .
Loneliness was not merely gnawing at him it was consuming him, a silent predator without form or face, devouring him from within.
It had no teeth, no claws. It was not something that struck in violence. It was patient, confident, inevitable. It did not rush, for it knew there was nowhere for him to run. It did not roar, for it needed no intimidation. It simply was like gravity, like the dark between the stars pulling him inward, closer and closer to nothing.
This hunger was unlike any mortal deprivation. Hunger of the body can be sated. Thirst of the flesh can be quenched. But this was the hunger for the "self", for the flickering flame of identity that defined him. And once that flame was gone, there would be no rekindling.
Each heartbeat stretched into an eternity, and each eternity collapsed into the span of a single breath. There was no rhythm left, no sense of before or after. Time itself betrayed him, becoming both infinite and fleeting, twisting and collapsing into itself.
At first, he thought this was madness. But madness requires a mind still tethered to rules, still struggling against its own illusions. This was not madness. This was dissolution.
His thoughts were no longer thoughts but ripples in an endless, still ocean ripples that faded almost before they began. He felt his edges blurring, his once perfect awareness dulling like a blade sinking into rust.
It was then that he realized: if he waited too long, there would be nothing left to save.
He did not know what to do. yet paradoxically, he knew exactly what must be done.
It was not a decision. It was the same kind of knowing that accompanies breathing automatic, wordless, as if the truth had always been there, waiting for him to notice.
Ignorance, in this moment, was not weakness but mercy. For to act without knowledge is to act without the weight of inevitability. And inevitability he knew its cruelty well, was a prison made not of bars, but of certainty.
If he allowed his infinite vision to work here, the world would be doomed before it even began.
If he did nothing, the devouring would continue until there was nothing left, until he was reduced to perfect stillness, a hollow silence where even the echo of thought would die.
So there was only one path forward.
He would forge a world, a flawed world.
Not a paradise of balance and law. Not a clockwork universe where every cog turned in harmony. The laws of reality, science, and logic would be fragile, brittle things. They would break like glass before the breath of chaos.
Unpredictability would reign supreme storms without pattern, stars that sang to themselves alone, creatures whose existence could not be reconciled with any known truth. Only true Randomness.
And yet… even as he shaped this vision, he knew it would not work as long as he remained whole.
For his infinite sight could see patterns in the formless, order in the wild. He could trace the path of a storm not yet born and know where it would die. He could count the heartbeats of stars before they even ignited.
That would not do.
The instant the thought formed, he saw it the inevitable conclusion of every action he could take, every life his creation would hold. It was the curse of what he was: there were no questions, only answers. And answers were chains.
So that part of himself must be cut away.
He descended into himself.
There was no space here, no light, no shadow. Only the deep architecture of thought, stretching on without horizon. He walked through corridors made of memory, where the walls whispered his own voice back at him, repeating every truth he had ever known. He passed rivers of perception, their currents carrying the entire histories of worlds long dead. He followed them to the lattice the infinite net that bound all endings together.
It was vast, shining, terrible in its perfection.
He placed his hand upon it.
It hummed. Not with sound, but with certainty. The hum told him the shape of the last star, the taste of the final breath of the final being, the exact instant when the last shadow would fall.
And then without hesitation he severed it.
The threads of inevitability snapped, and something vast and heavy fell away from him.
The moment it was gone, he felt lighter. Smaller. Free. The final page of the book had been torn out, and for the first time in forever, he did not know the ending.
He bound the wound with false memory one thought, repeated endlessly: "You may never look down that path again." The seal was made not of creation, but of unmaking.
Only then did he begin the work.
From the void, his hands emerged limbs of pure concept, unbound by matter or light. With one, he took hold of everything. Universes, histories, unrealized possibilities they all folded inward, collapsing into him like water drawn into a single drop. Colors dimmed. Sounds unraveled. Thought itself stilled.
When the last vibration faded, all that remained was the whiteness of nothing the silence before the first word.
With his other hand, he cast the seed of creation.
It was not light. Not flame. It was potential, compressed until it trembled with the urge to fracture.
And so it began.
Horizontal Infinity stretched outward land without end, seas as vast as the sum of all possible skies. Continents sprawled in shapes no geometry could explain. Deserts of whispering thought shifted when unobserved. Rivers ran uphill, their waters singing in languages no throat could form. Glaciers drifted across the skies like wandering nations.
Vertical Infinity plunged and rose without limit. Beneath the surface lay molten underworlds where oceans of liquid metal pulsed like blood. The roots of titanic trees pierced reality itself, connecting realms like threads through cloth. In caverns carved into the fossilized organisms , the air smelled of secrets. Above, floating continents drifted among star winds, mountains hanging upside down like jagged teeth. Astral seas shimmered with waves born of thought, and thrones of pure concept floated in the void, awaiting rulers yet unborn.
Conceptual Infinity bloomed between. Dreamscapes without horizon. Oceans where every drop remembered its origin. Timelines braided into impossible geometries, folding back upon themselves like flowers made of time.
But for this world to live, it could not be ruled by him. Omnipotence, omnipresence, omniscience these were too heavy for a living world to bear.
So he broke himself.
There was no beauty in the act. It was brutal. He took the totality of what he was and shattered it as one might smash glass against stone. Each shard sang with a fragment of him.
Some burned with pure power. Others whispered truths sharp enough to cut almost anything. Others simply… 'waited.
He scattered them without pattern. Some sank into the abyss of seas too deep for light. Some fused into mountains, turning stone into living sentinels. Some dissolved into wind, carried into places no map would ever hold.
None of this was guided by him. Not anymore.
The work was done.
Now came the last act.
If he remained, the world would warp under his shadow. Even without intent, it would bend to resemble him. That could not be allowed.
So he began to unmake himself.
Memory by memory, he sealed them away. The thousand names he had worn fell silent. The wars he had fought dissolved into formless mist. The worlds he had held in his hands scattered like dust in the wind.
Only faint, fragile recollections of his human self remained.
His essence, hollowed, stood like a shell where the Infinite had once been. He was no longer god.
His soul has become small, stripped of destiny. It slowly began to drift.
Through voids without shape.
Through realms without time.
Through dreams that no dreamer had dreamed.
He drifted past suns that burned with thought instead of fire. Past shadows that whispered in languages older than darkness. Past doorways that led to places that could not exist, and yet were more real than anything he had ever known.
No will guided him. No law compelled him.
Only true randomness knew his path.
And randomness does not speak.
---