I’m not that nice, nor ready to do what I’m about to do. Told it was idiosyncratic; to be expected of me, but honestly: unsure. But nonetheless, I feel birthed, content with ability to start anew, not confident in this current world’s ability - ability to exist.

So, I will unmake and destruct the plane that I was sent to revitalize. See, I do not remember it - thus I have no connection and no agency to preserve it’s existence. All that I know: to establish a new foundation from where I obliterate the current, I must firstly establish an axiomatic epitome of knowledge that all other empirically indubitable knowledge will spur from - and that undeniable piece of inform will be as so: My name is Jagan Gules.

That is what I will do: base the new reality off of me. But truly, I look out into a vast vacuum of emptiness and absolute indescribable non-existence, and I now wonder to myself about what actually need or deserves to be created.

I don’t know if I want to make it again. Is there some sort of conviction I’m meant to follow, a framework that makes my life easier? All this responsibility placed upon me and yet I barely find myself able to function. I’ve never created a universe - how do they expect me? Where are my building blocks, my guides, my helps and resources I’ve been acquainted with my entire life, stroking my back right by my side telling me how everything is going to be okay. I cannot even disappear. No matter how hard I try, I cannot end my existence, for I am existence itself. And I wonder if there’s things that actually do want to exist - is that even possible? If I design existence how I want it to… it baffles me to think something would genuinely enjoy existence under such regimes. Exactly so: if something that doesn’t want to exist makes existence itself, thus nothing born of existence would inherently want to existence - I’d design the universe that was born from an ironic self-hating principle, surely nothing would want to do that…

Then what else am I to do, float eternally? I don’t even know if I am floating right now, frankly I don’t know anything. I don’t understand anything. I am just here, somewhere, and all that I can prove is really here is me myself. All that’s left is my thoughts, and I don’t know if that’s okay - maybe there is other thoughts that can exist, ones originated from something beyond me, something to keep me comfortable in this agonizing existence…

But something did come - I heard it! A minor, almost silent whisper heard across from far, far away, longer than imaginably conceivably, managed to transmit a message to me! I don’t know how, I don’t know why! I just seek to listen closely, for I have nothing else to listen to - and I hear it say…

“I wish…. I wish I was real.”

It said that - I don’t know if it was a message for me, for another inconceivable, for something else locked within this imaginary recesses of thought, but all I know is that I heard it, and if it was within my mind, and my mind is the only thing justifiable of existence, then it must be true. And almost suddenly, I feel… responsible, agency, duty. A voice sits on the tip of my metaphysical tongue, I urge to say something back, and I spit, I spit, I spit!

“I’m sorry!” I yell, I yell so loudly everything that ever could exist or ever would could hear! It hears it, and I know it well, because I wanted it to, and I control whatever goes on in this lacking vacuum of existence, and so I know my voice will reach out miles and miles across this planar flats of sadness until there is no more infinity for it to span across, and I do not know if even aeons will pass before it’s message completes, before all hears my voice well and loud at the highest decibel, soaring and breaking and rupturing everything within them, shattering the fabric of this entire realm itself, solely because I said so! - because I yelled so! And tell me, if there was no one for this message to reach, no soul nor entity or concept that could ever conceive the reality of my message that I bellowed for all to hear, let them be made to hear it; let them exist only for my voice to be heard. And so agency and apology guiding me, I do create existence - I do not care if it will be my life that troubles me, or if I make everything flawed, self-hating and reciprocal, ever-gargling and disgusting to anything that comes across it, because my message will come across them and solve it for all, because I made this existence solvable, justified, and alas I made it myself.

Yes, I made it myself - maybe to claim ownership would be a stretch - I can speak firstly, but I cannot claim ownership of a voice, and I can speak a word, but not claim it as my own, just as I cannot begin to exist and claim existence; what would all the other corporeal things begin to do? As in truth and honesty, they are just as strong as I am, and if they were to shout a message as strong as what I did, I’d go as far to say theirs may be stronger than mine. But it does not anger me, I am calm and content with what I am, and although I may still exist in a vacuum so grandiose and empty, I can solidly say that I exist, and it feels amazing. Truly, this is a creation worth making - existence must occur, as without it… without it…

Without it, I do not know - even I, the doubter of existence, made existence myself, so perhaps as ironic as it may be I will never - we will never be able to understand that single aspect of this reality: what happens when there is no reality. But I know that that is no question worthy of mention, worthy of my attention, because I have engineered this entire reality and left nothing within, so empty and apartheid of light and brilliance - do not misunderstand, this cognition and corporeality is no less than a blessing I have forged, but still my agency drags on; there must be something urging to be made - but I cannot feel what. But then, I hear it again, that crying voice so far away, lost in the ever-dark and inescapable, crying to something, out to someone! - someone so far away that only I can seem to hear them.

“... you must…” The voice cries distantly, “…you must continue! You must create everything: life, space, orbs of earth and wads of water capable of birthing entire nations, ecosystems of existence and sprawling galaxies of stardust that span out light-years, covering every existing thing’s eyes with a beauty so great it can only seek to awe in the scale of everything made!”

And this voice cried out loud and loud, screaming into my ear the loudest I have ever heard - and so without a second thought, I did! I followed what it said, and I made! All I did was make and make and make, and now left in wake of what previously did not exist, now did sprawling bundles of earth and water with life growing at an incomprehensibly fast rate, filling up their spherical geometry with sprawling flora and fauna spanning generations in distance, brilliance indisputable, source divine!

And so what else was there left to do but more? I created great, burning stars constructed so simply from the most nuclear building blocks I forged everything out of, and created ones large enough to consume galaxies of planets and ones small enough to bring life to them! And the galaxies: colonies of these stars, dead or alive, spreading beautifully in arrays of dots and clouds of death that appeared as if impressionistic sprawls of paints spat across this world - it was truly a sight to behold. But the voice disappeared - I no longer heard it’s call now that all was made, or at-least all that was needed to be, all that was required to! So, what am I to do but find it - find and chase the voice that brought me here in the first place, and find the original welder of reality that I dare attribute more credit to for the existence of existence more so than the creator: Myself! Ironic as it may be, it truly is the inspiration, the real source of everything, so all that is left for this universe to truly set in motion, to truly become a universe by all definable and undefinable regards would be to identify the most thing unable to be sourced of all: the voice that willed it.