They had it all wrong.

The being had never wanted this. Any of it. Pointless, futile, trivial, inconsequential. These words around been thrown around for centuries, but the humans could not see their own hypocrisy.

The being was not all-powerful, or mighty, or a grand ruler. It was an existence, an entity, nothing more. It did not feel as they did, nor did it experience reality as they did. For it, time was not linear, nor images coherent and organized. Life was more in every way. More complicated, more vast, and infinitely more hollow.

The entity heaved the near-equivalent of a human sigh as it sensed its creations down below. It was not worthy of worship or reverence. It was loathsome and abominable, something worthy only of hatred and revulsion. They simply did not understand. It was the cause of all of their troubles, their worries, their anguish. They could not understand, the being admitted to itself, but it was not their faults. It was its own.

It should have waited longer, it knew that now. It should have delayed their genesis until time had calmed down a bit. Until the universe was less new, less chaotic, less of a raging tempest and more a tranquil pool. Perhaps then its creations would have turned out less violent and barbaric. After all, children adjust and respond to their surroundings. Perhaps if it had not given into its loneliness, it could have put more care and time into their beginnings; certainly something so precious as Life deserved more than seven rotations of the Sun to get it right. But instead it had rushed in, barely more than a child itself at the time, sparking life into something that had no business being alive quite yet.

But that's just it; I was a child, its core would often argue back. I could not have recognized the consequences of my actions. That was before the time of my Knowing.

For you see, the being believed it was the latest in a long line of creating entities. Those, or That, which came Before, it called them. It had no proof of course, nothing tangible, but it believed. Oh, did it believe. Over its many years of existence it had come to be convinced that it could not be alone in the universe, the only Creator of Life. There had to be more than simply existing, there just had to. It even believed that it itself had a Creator out there somewhere, looking down over and caring for its children.

The being often wondered if its Creator felt as alone as it did, and so it began to replicate a human ritual: prayer. Perhaps, through it, those hopes and dreams of the people below, as well as those of itself, could be passed along to a greater God through a chain of devotion. And so time went on, as each creature experienced it, whether in a linear or fluid fashion, every life form praying to its own god, the humans to the being, the being to the Creator. And though none knew it, the Creator prayed to whoever might be listening for a cease to all the accursed noise. To whom, the being's Creator knew not, all it was conscious of was that every soul in the universe was crying out to something, and if everyone else was asking for a form of release, so could it.

And somewhere far beyond them all, God smiled and saw that it was good.