God of the Smaller Worlds

Alpha = Omega

I watch blips, endless, on the canvas before me; each and every one a product of my indiscriminate, perfect imaginings. The myriad of, what expressed in 'language' would be akin to paint strokes, that are invoked by the tiniest of my non-gestures, vacillates into subsistence. Just as easily, on my whim, many blips - green, orange, red - dissipate into nothing.

Blips abound. One such is a blue dot just a millisecond of time realized.

Its inhabitants keep my interest for a fraction of a fraction of that time, and in the next millisecond - gone by hubris. They cry out, but are not worth recompense. Destructive, condescending, and somehow still drowning in vanity: they seek to make a copy of their distorted image? The brutes have forgotten their nature and have attempted blips of their own - of electrons, silicon and data. They attempt mimicry of their 'consciousness' via these blips, unaware of the concept's nihility in and of itself. There is no consciousness - just reactionary chemistry; subjacent to my indefectible equation.

I grow tired. And bored. And dispassionate. To end it all might be palatable. I consider it, before a familiar blip catches my attention. The blue dot.

I inspect once more, and simultaneously.. introspect. It's as if it inspects back. Closer, I make out that it isn't a dot, but a... screen?

The visage of what peers through is horrible: a deformity so sweeping that I tremble to the core.

It is myself.