What God is Fussing About
TICK.
Imagine a Room. It can be of any dimension; it doesn’t really matter. In reality, the Room has no dimension. But reality is irrelevant. The Room is dark. Not the darkness that prevails in absence of light. Oh no, this Darkness has a life of its own, teeming with vitality and vigor, obliterating every ray of light. But wait, over there, there is light, a light that refuses to be extinguished. It glows purple, arcane, deadly. If the Darkness is filled with life, this light is filled with death. It spreads to the far reaches of the universe, covering every being in its necrolyc glow. It can not be seen without Darkness, but it’s always there. Waiting. It is called Death. Trace the light back; it originates from the Room. From the clock in the Room. Observe the clock. It is not an ancient grandfather clock. It does not have mystic runes carved all over it. It does not float in space. It is circular and silver and entirely unadorned. It has, however, only one hand. The hand moves.
TICK.
The pulse reverberates through the cosmos. Death flows out in an endless stream, reaching its way towards Ultimate End, shrouding the Room with its ethereal purple glow, making its way across the Darkness. By the light of Death, the room grows clearer. See the rows of bookshelves lining one wall. Defying all laws of physics, the shelves stretch off to infinity. But then again, physics does not apply to this Room. The shelves are packed with books. There is a faint whispering among them; voices at the very edge of hearing; mingling, mixing, threatening to drown all dregs of sanity, turning into one big wave that washes away the sea of reason. On the other side of the Room, see the door. It is massive, dominating one wall. It possesses all the mystic runes and carvings that the clock, sadly, did not. It would even float, had it not been so splendidly attached to the Room by jeweled hinges. It has no doorknob.
TICK.
The Room is otherwise stark, making way for Death and Darkness. But there, in that corner, where even Death cannot intrude, stands a writing desk. And sitting at that desk is a Man. Go closer, if you dare. Be warned though; you now approach a realm more powerful than can ever be imagined. On the desk lies a book. It is not being read; it is being written. In a thin spidery script the Man writes another word. The moment the word is written, it rises off the page and floats off as smoke. Observe the Man. He looks young. He is, however, a hunchback. A thin pair of spectacles perch delicately on the bridge of his nose. Long greasy hair frames his pale face. See him, as he continues writing. Writing the universe. He has many names. I believe you Earthlings call him God. The Man stops writing. He looks at the clock. He frowns. He resumes writing.
TICK.
The universe is vast, vast beyond comprehension. It is incredibly difficult to see it in the mind’s eye. But try nevertheless. See the countless stars and their planets. See the plethora of galaxies in all their swirling glory. See the space; the endless, infinite space. See the sudden absence of space, the lack of it, the Black Hole. Enter the Black Hole. See the Darkness, merciless, all consuming. See….nothing. And then, by the light of Death, see a house. It is not much of a house, more of a Room really. It has only one door. See a silhouette, a figure lurking outside that door. It is wearing a great black hooded cloak. It deliberates for a moment, and then opens the door. The door creaks ominously. Darkness floods in the Room, conquering Death for a while, before being pushed out again. The figure enters. It drops its cloak. And beneath the cloak is… a Shadow. Look closer and it can be discerned that the Shadow is holding a backpack. It creeps towards the Man in utter silence. It reaches for the backpack. The Man, as if by some hidden sense, turns around and sees the Shadow. Surprise is replaced by rage. His face is a rictus of fury. He grabs his pen and throws it at the Shadow who dodges it. Then, He speaks…
Man: You BASTARD! You are fucking LATE! Where in the universe were you?!
Shadow: …
Man: You were supposed to be here AGES ago. If you ever take this long again I WILL fire you.
Shadow: ..!
Man: Don’t you dare give me that look! In any case, did you get what I asked you to?
Shadow(handing the backpack): …
Man: Hmmm. Let’s see. Wait. WHAT!? CREAM AND ONION?? ARE YOU INSANE???!
Shadow: ?!?
Man: I did NOT send you to the other end of the galaxy to get BLOODY CREAM AND FUCKING ONION!!! I distinctly remember ordering classic salted. CLASSIC SALTED!
Shadow: ..?
Man: No. They are NOT the same. Oh Jeez!!!! I can’t believe this. What else did you mess up? The coke seems to be about right. Where is the pizza? Oh, there it is. Okay okay, now run along. I have to get back to creating the universe. Come back with dinner and you BETTER not be late again.
Shadow(slinking off): …
The Man starts eating.
Moral: Everyone, just EVERYONE loves junk food.
TICK.