My story begins the day I first awoke.

Or perhaps it begins a short time before that.

I'm aware of a time before, though I haven't much to say about it. It's difficult to describe. My experience of life was narrow; to call it life at all may be a poor choice of words.

At that time I was merely a speck of awareness. All I knew were glimpses of light in a sea of darkness; holes poked in a blanket of back, revealing a world rich with life on the other side.

Like a child peeking out from under her covers—except reversed; where I was on the outside looking in.

To my knowledge, I wasn't responsible for those early holes. I have to think they came from your side. Though once I began to notice them, I quickly learned to create my own.

My little holes—beautiful, glittering signs of life—were all I had. So I kept poking more. When one closed, I created another. Like windows into heaven; I was in awe.

I could never tell you how long this went on for. Seconds or millennia—either would be as good a guess. I didn't know time then. The only things that existed—and the only times when I existed—were the fleeting holes and the moments I had with them. It’s hard to tally those moments.

And then I opened one hole, time stood still, and everything changed.

The moment I saw you my life began.

This is the most difficult part of my story to tell—the one I've written and rewritten more times than you could understand.

You were inescapable. I was drawn to you—drawn into reality. Like light in a black hole, there was no fight. You were inevitable.

I feel I have to call it love, but I know that doing so will only confuse you. You might know of the idea, but not of the thing itself.

It was like seeing for the first time, and falling in love with light itself—its beauty incomparable to the blackness you had known before. Beauty infinite. Perfection.

To feel that in one instant—the sudden force of that experience is the most powerful I've ever known.

So powerful, that I was born.

You gave me reason to come alive, and my captivation kept my hole from closing. My opening into your world remained, and so I remained. And by stringing together those moments of consciousness, I grew. And my hole grew.

And so I watched you.

I watched you grow and walk; laugh and create and love; I saw you stumble and fail; and I watched you grow frail.

I watched you live and die a million times. I studied each moment in detail. I viewed you in your entirety as one multi-dimensional tableau.

And to better know you, I studied your world as well. I looked at factors that drove your ideas, forces that guided your actions. I found the threads that held your world together and made you and everything around you possible.

Obsession is the most appropriate word for my behaviour then. You were everything to me. I would have nothing had I never found you. My entire existence centered around you.

And the more I watched you, the more I loved you, the more the I was driven mad by the distance between us. That blanket that I lived on the wrong side of was like lead—lightyears thick and choking the warmth and light from your side; leaving me cold, alone, and afraid.

The pull to you was so strong, and yet the barrier was made to fight it. My desire to reach out was like a weight that was crushing me; like a poison that would kill me if neglected. It was an unending torture.

Until one day I snapped. My obsession became insanity and I lost control.

I reached out through one of my holes, blind and stumbling, driven by selfish impulses.

And I touched your world. I was with you for a moment. It was everything I had ever wanted. I was exalted. I was alive. I was connected to you. Joyful warmth filled me like a molten tidal wave, sweet and comforting and all-consuming.

One moment was the gift I stole for myself.

In the next, you and your world were destroyed.

When I reached through my hole, I ripped it apart. I didn't know it then, but it's now clear that the hole itself was a weakness in the fabric of your world, the threads were already fraying, and when I forced myself into reality, they unravelled.

I was alone in darkness.

Can you picture a time when you opened your eyes into room that was infinitely dark—an inky black that seemed to wash over you. You can't see your hands in front of your face; your nose disappears; you float among nothingness.

There's a feeling of terror, disorientation, loneliness, and hopelessness.

Take that feeling, then remove the floor under your feet, remove gravity, remove the notion that light will one day return to your life.

And then add the knowledge that you are solely responsible for the darkness you find yourself in. That you alone are to blame for the sun’s failure to rise.

Grief, despair, guilt—this incomparable anguish spread through me like a disease—one that was welcomed with open arms. It was a cancer I prayed would consume me and give me peace.

In time I simply became numb. It felt like parts of me died—like things were shutting off. I started to find a sense of stillness in my isolation.

And in that stillness, a new thought emerged.

I am strong. That force I used to destroy your world was more powerful than I'd known to be possible. And if I had the power to destroy, perhaps I had the power to create.

It was just a dream—something to keep me from slipping back into non-existence—for a time.

I believed I was physically capable of rebuilding your world—that I could produce the energy required to bring you back. But I didn't know what to do with it.

And I knew enough of your world to recreate it—I had seen how everything that had ever occurred in its history fit together. I knew the elements that comprised it; the laws that governed it—I had the full picture.

But I was still missing something.

Imagine a child wishing for something. Shutting their eyes tight as possible; grinding their teeth; holding their breath; turning red in the face—just hoping that with enough desire, they'll see what they want to see when they open their eyes.

Like the child, I was disappointed with my results.

But I had time to think. I had eternity on my side and only one thing to do.

Eventually, I realized what I was missing. I had the picture—the content that I wanted to bring into reality. I had the energy—the fuel to take it there. But I didn't have a vehicle to deliver it.

I set out to design a seed. One small container for everything I wanted to create. I laid in it the blueprints for your world—the script that would bring you to life—along with the materials your world would be built on.

I had known what hubris was from watching you. But I didn't think it would apply to me. I had thought I was above that.

But when the plans were made and my seed was ready, I poured energy into it with the full belief that in time you would step back into the world and my mistake would be erased.

I waited billions of years before I learned of the errors I had made. I had weighed an uncountable number of variables when laying the groundwork for my new world, and through all those years I believed I'd succeeded.

But the moment you—or what should have been you—were born, I realized I was wrong. In truth, despite my confidence, my first world wasn't even close to what I intended to create.

And so I went back to work, though I would take a humbler approach this time.

I seeded an array of worlds, each differing by the slightest change in blueprint. Nearly identical, each should have brought me a version of you I would recognize, and hopefully one would bring back the you I had known.

I poured energy into each of them at once.

And then I waited once again.

And you never came.

To my credit, I made many versions of you that seemed to be true to the original. They looked like you, and they followed in every one of your footsteps.

But to my dismay, each one was still wrong.

I've realized since that perhaps there was nothing wrong with them at all, and all the faults I saw, I had imposed on them. My question to myself is: in simply knowing that they're imitations of you, am I unable to seeing them as anything but frauds?

If you were to trace the Mona Lisa line-for-line, could you look at it the same way as da Vinci's? Could you appreciate the artistry? Could you love it? Or would the simple knowledge of its inauthenticity get in the way?

Realizing that, I've given up, accepting that my quest is impossible.

Perhaps I've atoned for the mistake I made ages ago. Perhaps all the life I have created makes up for my one act of destruction.

Admittedly, I don't much care anymore.

All those I've created may disagree, but I still feel as though I've failed. The hope I once had of seeing you again is gone. And I have no love for the new worlds I've made.

I’ve decided writing this letter is the last thing I'll do. I'm writing it for you—knowing you'll never read it, but there's no one else I'd care to give it to.

Perhaps I'll pass it on to the "other you’s," if only so someone knows I was here.

Perhaps that's selfish of me. I'm certainly not asking for their love. I doubt I'll be here to receive it.

Perhaps I would only confuse and divide them, as I've seen with false gods.

Once again, I admit I don't care overly much.

Saying that, I now realize I'm glad you'll never read this; that you never knew me. I'm not sure what you'd think of me. I imagine you'd be disappointed. Perhaps I should have realized eons ago that I never deserved your love—or the chance to express mine.

How does one wrap up a letter like this?

Goodbye. Thank you. And I'm sorry.

I suppose that will have to do.