You are everything. You are everywhere. You can feel everything.
“I am everything.” You say aloud with a mouth, a voice that you create. “I am red.”
You are red, like a universe in its first supereon, red hot and settling. But not a rowdy universe in its infancy, you are everything and red with the fury that fueled you to this.
“Everything,” you say. Then, after a brief moment, “I am bored.”
Are you?
“Where is this? This everything? Where even am I? Is there really nothing else?”
You are everything. You consumed everything out of spite and in such a rage that you bent existence to your whim. You are in yourself, in your spite, in your rage. There can be nothing else but you.
“I regret this,” you admit to yourself. You try to remember who you were before all of this. Before you were everything. But all you know is that you are everything. And apparently this regret, that is new. You did not regret it. How could you when your rage had to be sated, had to be fed. Something happened, someone did something, and everything had to pay, and you are everything now because you were right to do what had to be done.
“I regret this. What am I? What is everything?”
You are everything. Are you forgetting?
“I haven’t forgotten, I just,” you seem to be struggling for words, for understanding, comprehension? “I just realized that if I am everything now then I am something else, not what I started as. What was I? Were there others? There must have been others? But they are me now? Or they fuel me? It is just me now. I regret what made me what I am, wherever I am, asking these questions. How long has it been? Is there time? Who am I talking to?
There is only you. And whatever has just arrived, capable of withstanding your fury. It has not been obliterated.
“There is something else? What is it?”
A white void in the shape of a sphere. And a much smaller void floating space, floating inside of you, not inside of the void sphere. It is saying something.
“What does it say?”
You do not understand but you see tendrils of white, like silks on your raging red. It is consuming you.
“I feel it. I am steadily becoming less. Still everything, but being consumed, my energies repurposed.”
You direct rage at the white void that steadily issues the white silk strings and that rage disappears when it makes contact with the void. You are becoming less.
“I will hasten this,” you say resolutely. “It is the end. And I am so bored.”
You go to it, headed for the white void sphere.
You are becoming less.
You are almost nothing.
PRL Serials 