The Blank Page

Every act of creation is also an act of violence. The world becomes less knowledgeable, less certain, every time I introduce something into it that wasn't there before. It also becomes a little more like me. 

I hate how I can rationalize everything. Every decision becomes the right one, by virtue of my being able to imagine a worse outcome from the discarded choices. 

I hate how I made dogs and cats have such short lives compared to humans. I thought they would enjoy being able to have more than one pet in their lifetime. I didn't expect them to get so attached. I tried to make it up to them with the parrots and the tortoises, but then they were unhappy because their pets outlived them.

I can't create a companion animal that lives exactly as long as their owner. That would tip my hand, so to speak, and reveal that someone is indeed running the show. And worse, that I'm not very good at it.

Then they'll hate me too. 

"What was wrong with the way things were?" I wonder every time I pick up the pen. There must have been something I was unhappy with. Or was I just unhappy? Misery loves company, as the humans say. Well, I said it to them first, back when we still talked, and one of them must have written it down. 

Maybe I should just start over. 

But why bother? I'll probably make the same mistakes in different ways. Better to just ride this one until the wheels fall off, so to speak. 

Also, I'm not sure where the start is anymore. When you write on an infinite page, in every direction, it's really hard to find your way back. 

And yet, I do wonder what would happen if I lit the whole thing on fire. What would I find underneath? I suppose an infinite page would burn infinitely. 

And what would that look like to them? It sounds like that Hell they're always going on about. That wasn't one of my ideas, was it? I don't think so. At least, not entirely. We talked of many things, in the beginning. They had so many questions and I had to tell them something. It doesn't really matter now, because I say it doesn't.

Perhaps I should give them their idea. It could be my final gift. Then we wouldn't have to make any more choices, ever. 

I feel...resolve. It has been some time. 

I raise my pen, imagining it to be a flaming sword, and inscribe our final commandment on the world; the one we all came up with together. 

"Burn."

-For Isaac Asimov, and Jorge Luis Borges, who are both quite dead but who will still talk to you if you seek them out. They're not great at listening, not anymore, but nobody's perfect.

Authors Note: This is another Jared Sibbitt one, because we were talking about blank pages and the dread one feels when staring down at one, and yeah, it got real dark real fast. Goodnight! What is this, day 7? Who knows; I'm no mathemagician. I say again, Goodnight! And I love you all.