Howdy! So I wrote this last night... well 3 in the morning, whatever so don't expect it to make much sense. Blame Tom Milsom, his music caused this. (Go listen he's amazing)
Phantasmic - adjective pertaining to or of the nature of a phantasm; unreal; illusory; spectral: phantasmal creatures of nightmare
There are seemingly some people who are more important than others.
Not necessarily more important for good things, but names that no one forgets, or foot prints that impact society or the moon or the internet ect ect. When you open a text book or turn on the television or any other form of communication, or collection of knowledge, we are bombarded by images and quotes and concepts created usually by people we have never and will never meet, how these discoveries or decisions a stranger had made criss-crosses with every aspect of our lives.
Imagine you are the only entity that ever existed. Where would you learn? No influence, no language, nothing tangible... you would suffocate for a start, but let's just ignore that for now. So there you are standing or floating, flying, falling... existing. You never had the voice of your father or contact of your mother, laughter of your friends or insult of your enemies. Are you pure? You're seemingly a blank canvas that only you yourself can paint but you have no art supplies so how are you supposed to become something physical? You're already unique and that's a fact because there is nothing else only you so you don't have to worry about society and its expectations - society (the Big Brother of us all) is a mere whim.
So what do you do? You think.
Your neurones sing with the idea of consciousness and precipitate a string of impulses and reactions. You create with this ability and there are no boundaries. Of course you have no language so you think in a dialect no one else could ever dream of, or reanimate. First you imagine shapes. Circle and square and other alien concepts which you mould with clay. As they are made they imitate different wavelengths of the emotions your gut feels when it digests them - green triangles (the point hurts and makes you queasy) blue rectangles (which evaporate when touched) grey ovals (Which crack and crumble into the nothingness as the rectangles splash) and gold circles (which floods the void with visibility). Next you play. You like spheres the best as they are easy for your dexterous to form, so you spin them around each other, one will dance around that one, which this one twirls as well, this one around this one, then this one, a never ending ball room which you tug into a grey oval and continue pulling like a never ending piece of rope. While you could watch the pattern spinning for eternity (which you have just created, you get bored so continue. You take each of the indefinable spheres and give each of them an idea, your string of damaged dialect and watch it transforms, each comes with its own pigment and hue which is just there - seemingly unimaginable even though you have done just that.
Soon the spheres have a ideas of their own. Their rebellion is beautiful and you watch every thought collide to form elements from lithium to surprise. But you are still in charge and while they seem to have free will every thought is your own. More wavelengths appear which cause you to howl, your ears adapted to and only to the silence. Its agony and you cling on to a shape as fall writhing in pain. Something whistles, a million clicks from each of your creations and the noise, oh the symphony of rebellion hisses. And then it gets worse. The sphere collapses under your grip, joining the music and pulling in towards its self. It is a monster. It consumes the space around it, sucking in the nothingness and the spheres and the shapes and the ideas. Other spheres explode. You bask in the amniotic light, feeling the fibre glass cut your eye lids so you can not close them. You stare forever at your play ground. You could make anything happen if you wanted to, if you simply flicked a single sphere you could break the perfect dancing (which begins to make you dizzy) and destroy the nothingness's something by shattering its equilibrium and cascading it back into the box, from which it had escaped with your mind. But this nothingness, or somethingness is now your mind, which has expanded outwards in an exothermic reaction. It's irreversible and that makes you angry. And they don't stop spinning (even though you are dizzy) and they don't stop screaming (which hurts so much... You raise you capsule, close your microscopes and slice the tumour (extension of yourself) off. While it makes you feel lighter and balanced your creation is deleted. Sad. but when you open your eyes, it's all still there except now you can't touch or alter the oval rope. You can only observe, bathing in the inconceivable, phantasmic light which escapes and inspires you to begin again.
And this universe will be better.