Nothingness. The freezing blackness where I was born. It was silent. It sucked. Not that it started out sucking, at first it was... nothing. Though to be perfectly honest, it was also annoying as hell. So I made somethings. Why? Because I wanted to see if I could. I mean I was also bored, and angry, and boiling over with all the deity-teenager hormones the unmade universe had to offer, which helped.
The first somethings were amazing. I mean, I made them after all. I was great, so I just gave a bit of that greatness away. I coughed it up. Literally, I coughed up clouds of hydrogen, clouds that filled in the emptiness and held back the blackness. To be quite honest, I didn’t really know what I was doing. I was naive. I was a tool The Universe used to create itself. I was just a kid, playing with balls of hydrogen, which on their own burst into life: hundreds of stars burning brighter than the sun.
The flames danced with the blackness, and I fell in love. For the first time in forever I was sheltered from the endless cold. I was warm. It was the first feeling I’d ever had.
Then... a star popped. Then another. Before I knew it fields of stars went off like firecrackers, scattering their elemental insides across the cosmos, dying.
My only friends, and I was powerless to save them. I hardly understood them at all. I hardly understood anything at all. I turned away. I fled.
I dragged my feet through the blackness. I moved silently in the freezing void, I began to stop seeing again, I began to stop feeling. Until I witnessed a miracle. A beautiful newborn star, and around it tiny glowing rocks: the remains of long dead stars.
I went down to one, where a molten surface cooled and hardened, forming stone. Water rained down from the skies. Oceans swelled. I made my home on the shore, and with mud and sand I sculpted beasts. I shaped for them willowy limbs, elegant heads, smooth, metallic skin, and gemstone eyes. I breathed life into them, and they creaked into movement. They built me a palace, overlooking the sea. They obeyed without question. They tiled floors. They raised walls and a ceiling. Finally, they carved me a throne of perfect marble. The edges were straighter than a highway. It was flawless, and it was empty, devoid of creativity. It was a throne made of cubes and boxes and right angles. It had a coldness that seeped into my bones. I stared at the dozens of my creations, and I saw the clouds in their eyes. They were blind, and their hearts were cold and empty. They had no spark, no flame inside, no warmth. They would never understand the stars. They were crude, simple, they weren’t even alive.
I hated them. I hated myself for making them. They mocked the stars. I had spent countless hours shaping them from the earth, building them, tuning them, and they were empty. They were nothings. I had failed. I had failed the stars.
I crushed their bodies, I twisted and warped them. I buried it all beneath the earth. I was only good at destroying, it seemed. They didn’t even fight back.
I returned to the shore, to scream at the sun.
“WHY?” I shrieked, falling to my knees. “Why have I failed? Why am I useless? I AM GOD!” I screamed. “I am miserable.” I whispered “I am cold.” I sank to the ground, the freezing water washed over me.
The waves pulled me off the beach and out to sea. I floated for days, unmoving, hardly alive. Wave after wave of salt water washed into my mouth, until finally I coughed it up. I coughed up the seawater, aching as I rolled. I kept coughing, ridding myself of the toxins. My greatness abandoned me with every cough. I let it. Every last bit of it, I didn’t want it anymore. I coughed until I was empty.  I laid in the sea, the air burning my lungs, time leaching my bones. I was falling apart, my body failing me. I was dying. I remember, just before the end, a tiny green speck in the water. Algae. and then There were fins brushing against my back. There were fish. They hid beneath me. I lay there, sheltering life with my simple, broken body. Absorbing the light of my star. I was warm.
With my final breaths, I wished Life good luck. I hoped Life would do well, as any parent would hope for their Child. Yet, more so, I hoped that Life would not be so hard on itself. I hoped Life would know that it was never as cold as it felt: I hoped they wouldn’t lose faith.  I hoped that the apple would fall very, very far from the tree.