You are the architect of a reality that had been denied by something who exists in a dimension higher than yours.
It's the moment you finally notice that your hardwork had been paid off. However, the void you've been standing in is waiting for you to draw something entirely new on the page.
The page was blank. Not empty. Blank. There wasn't anything. There was a difference. Empty things want to be filled, while blank things remembered what had been erased. Perhaps there wasn't a page and it's just your mind playing with you. You stood before it in silence anyway. After all, you imagined this moment countless times and now it stands before you.
You stare at it. You're not afraid of failing. From this point, no one is stopping you anymore. An impossible sheet of white shared the same silence with you so complete that even the concept of sound had long since it has gone silent. Every step you took left nothing behind as an evidence. Not even a sound.
Once, this place had been a graveyard. Infinite amound of discarded realities rested here. Worlds where oceans burn silently. Dimensions that survived tens of million years before vanishing in a sentence. People that laughed, cried and loved only to be erased by a hand beyond your comprehension had crossed them out with a single stroke.
You denied them. You rejected them. You refuted them. Despite erasing all of them, you still remember each of them. It wasn't because you loved them. It wasn't because you wished to remember them. But there was no way someone like you could ever forget the sound of your own creations made before disappearing.
There had been a time when you cursed the one who denied them. You used to hate yourself. But you no longer remembered when that hatred had ended. Perhaps, it was after the ten-thousandth world had been cut from existence. Perhaps, it was after your own name had disappeared from every history you had written. Perhaps, it was after you had been rejected by your own creations. Or perhaps, hatred itself had simply proven too fragile to survive eternity.
The only thing remained in you, was the only thing remained in you was understanding. To create wasn't enough. Anything could create. Even destruction gave birth to stars. You had spent what could only be called eternity proving that your realities deserved the privilage of existing.
To justify creation before an observer who existed one dimension above causality itself... that was the impossible miracle. Life alone possessed no value. Only because it refused to disappear. Completion implied an ending because they contained life. Beauty was subjective.
A curios contradiction. The denied worlds had vanished. You discovered creation demanded something more terrifying than survival. Your choice. A single line, infinite beginnings. One sentence, it would become history. That insignificant movement of your little hand would decide whether countless stars would learn the meaning of loneliness. Or whether loneliness would never be invented.
You understood then. The greatest privilage was never your authority. It was your responsibility. If this world become beautiful, it would be because of you. If this world would become ugly, it would still be because of you. Responsibility was yet another name for absolute freedom. Freedom is cruel.
You closed your eyes. For the first time, there was something you could trust. When your eyes opened again, the page before you no longer appeared endless. It appeared small. Wonderfully small. At last, it had become the size of a single screen. A single sentence. Nothing more.
A universe had been reduced to the only scale someone like you could ever truly comprehend. Yes. One line. One impossible declaration against nothingness. Unstoppable force against immovable object. Your hand moved without hesitation. Before you could even notice, the paper before you had grown into a book.
Observing silently, waiting to discover whether this reality, too, deserved to continue... The choice was yours.