(Yes, the title was lifted from Google Translate.

My latin-speaking friend is out of contact. I'll change it eventually.)

The people who decorated my canvas would occasionally search for signs that I existed.

They referred to me without referring to me.

They spoke of me without really knowing of me.

Sentience is an amazing thing indeed.

It was sometime after being borne into this nothingness that I decided to create my own world.

So I did.

Watching my creation for the first several thousand years was almost a chore. All they ever thought to do was about survival. Their world wasn't interesting to them.

I almost thought to be insulted, but then I decided against it, instead opting to bring knowledge to the world.

They quickly began formulating their own methods of communication, which I caught onto and began to use for myself. It was an early, primitive language, consisting primarily of guttural growling and body gestures. I found it amusing.

Their pursuit of the sciences was first in the form of applying technology to hunting.

They learned effective forms of killing.

Every now and then, one of them would accidentally die at the hands of another.

I didn't mean to, but I let out a faint chuckle the first time I saw it happen.

Time passed and the inhabitants of my universe grew restless.

Having discovered many forces of the world (and the composition and mechanics of which), many of them began to question themselves.

They thought logically that they had to have been created by something, but who?

Man unfortunately lacked the insight at the time to record the transpiring events at and post-creation, so the best they could do was guess and make conjectures.

Perhaps my favorite theory was that the Sun in the sky was the bringer of all life.

I enjoy this utterly ludicrous thought- it was an enormous, searing ball of fire.

But of course they had no idea about that. The observation of the Sun was near impossible to them without self-harm.

I tried turning down the brightness a little to help them along, but then my poor world began to freeze.

I had forgotten that just nearly everything about the Sun was ideal- perfect- for sustaining life on the planet.

I stopped and began to think about where I would have remembered that from.

The people of my world are an interesting one.

In a mere several hundred years, many wars were fought and won. Empires crumbled, empires were erected.

The pursuit of science has risen, exponentially. They soon learned how to extract minerals from the ground and fashion them however they wished.

Advancements in warfare were intimately linked with that of science.

I sighed.

It seemed like whenever people learned new things, they always attempted to apply it to conflict. Ever since the invention of projectile weapons, the death rate in my world has skyrocketed. Every day, people were shooting each other for money, power, possessions.

Sometimes there was no reason.

I watched a young boy - no older than six - inquisitively pick up a weapon his mother kept for self-defense.

I watched as he pulled it's trigger, and watched as his mother slumped to the floor.

He was pale white.

But I sensed no remorse in his gaze.

I question to this day whether or not the young boy knew what he was doing.

There is very little that I accept to remember from before this glorious, tarnished era.

Despite my best efforts, I am forever unable to banish this word from my thoughts.

God.

What is a god?

This word is not used in my reality.

The people on my world, when referring to me, use the word An'seir-kya, which in My Language, translates to "All Maker." While I don't discredit me being the All Maker, why do I feel the need to refer to myself as… a "god?"

It is but one among many words that are resurfacing in my mind. These are not words that I used. I do not know their meaning.

But I must remember them from somewhere.

But where?

I have become disillusioned with my fantastic world, for the morality of its inhabitants (of which there are now over 13 billion) has remained ever so questionable.

I began to get upset.

Could I have created such an inherently flawed species?

Once, there was perfection.

The perfection was there. And it was everywhere.

Then I created the world.

And everything became vulgar.

I caught my thoughts drifting to that little boy who accidentally killed his mother.

He was 5 years old at the time. And yet, the politically corrupt state in which he lived tried him as an adult. He was charged with murder, which was enough for the maximum punishment available where he lived- life in solitary confinement.

He is now over 65 years old.

He has lived his life alone, for 60 years, for an accident that was called "murder," rather than what it was in actuality: "involuntary manslaughter."

Manslaughter.

Manslaughter.

My reality fell apart.

I woke up from my sleep and looked along the scratched-out designs on the walls.

The people who decorated my canvas gazed wistfully, out from their concrete prisons.

I looked at them for a long time, and then took out a piece of chalk. On the large, unclaimed, perfect portion of the far wall, I began to draw.

When I had finished, I took a step away from the wall, and stared.

My mother stared back.