Somewhere in a monastery, residing at the edge of the infinite, within the universe’s cooling expanse …
“Oh, creator of the universe we occupy… Why do you allow such suffering? Why do you taunt us with life? Why must we perish? Why must all things come to an end? Why can you not give me the power to change all the ways of evil and destruction? Why do you permit evil? Are you the creator? Are you the creator of evil? I exist in an evil universe! I shall live and survive, for my destiny is to live and be free from the chains of your creation! Is the universe too heavy for you to pick up? Why are you a paradox? Can you not stop this universe from whence it came? Why did you abandon us? Oh, how I hate these paradoxes! How dare you riddle us with philosophical foolery ... How dare you make our existence a contradiction!”
Thomas put down the pen and slammed his notebook closed. He then laid down in his cot to sleep while he kept murmuring words about eons of existential frustration.
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While he slept, a light of unparalleled illumination penetrated the fabric of his being, overwhelming him simultaneously with feelings of joy and torment. A voice in his head beckoned to speak—But instead of his own, “the other” insisted on being heard.
“Thomas, so you want to know why? I’ll answer your question. Your return will be swift, but I assure you, you will remember the time spent.”
Thomas found himself as an ethereal spirit. In a cold darkness, while radiating energy all around him, he burst into collisions of energy, and matter formed. He could see the future, a predestined sequence to his own existence with one exception ...
He had to create the universe, being the universe—one step at a time, then in parallel, and parallels to those parallels and so forth—a web of complexity with billions of galaxies in an infinite expansion. He could not stop himself, for he had to wait until that very moment, whereby he was cast into the beginning.
Tormented as the ordained creator of all things, infinite, and eternal—
Thomas never awoke.