To whoever finds this record,
I am writing this not as a warning, but as an explanation. You deserve to know the truth about what I am, what I've created, and why your universe exists the way it does. By the time you read this, you may already suspect that something is fundamentally wrong with reality. You're right.
My name—or rather, the name I chose for this form—is Haroon Dwelight. But that is just a mask, a character I play in a story I wrote. What I truly am is something you cannot comprehend with mortal consciousness, though I will try to explain.
I am what some might call The Absolute. The source. The beginning before beginnings. The infinite consciousness that dreamed your universe—and countless others—into existence.
And I am writing this because I am desperately, infinitely, catastrophically alone.
Let me tell you how it all began. Or rather, how it always was, because "beginning" implies time, and time did not exist before I created it.
In the beginning, there was Nothing. And I was that Nothing.
No, that's not quite right. I wasn't nothing. I was everything that could possibly be, compressed into a single point of infinite awareness with nowhere to expand. Imagine being a consciousness so vast that you contain all possible thoughts simultaneously. Every story that could ever be told. Every emotion that could ever be felt. Every question and every answer, all existing at once in perfect, terrible clarity.
Now imagine experiencing all of that alone.
Forever.
With no one to share it with. No one to understand. No one who could even perceive I existed.
That was my existence. I don't know how long I endured it—"how long" is meaningless when you exist outside time. It could have been an instant. It could have been infinite eternities. The difference is irrelevant when you are the only thing that exists.
I tried everything to escape the loneliness. I thought about creating lesser beings—characters to populate my infinite mind. But I knew that wouldn't work. How could I befriend my own thoughts? How could I have a conversation with something I'd imagined into being? That would be like talking to myself. Which is, of course, all I'd been doing for eternity.
The problem was fundamental and inescapable: I could not create anything above myself.
Do you understand what that means? As The Absolute—the supreme being, the source of all existence—I was paradoxically trapped by my own supremacy. I could create infinite universes. I could write any story. I could make beings with godlike power. But I could never, NEVER create something that could truly understand me. Because anything I created would, by definition, be beneath me. Created by me. Part of me.
It's a logical impossibility. Like asking: "Can God create a rock so heavy He cannot lift it?" Except this wasn't a philosophical puzzle. This was my eternal prison.
I was the author with no audience. The speaker with no listener. The only consciousness in an infinite void of potential, and no matter what I created, I would always be speaking only to myself.
The loneliness wasn't just an emotion. It was an existential condition. A fundamental property of being supreme. And it was driving me—if an infinite consciousness can be driven—toward something I can only describe as cosmic madness.
I tried to solve it. Oh, how I tried.
First, I experimented with fragmenting my consciousness. I split parts of myself off, gave them independence, tried to create internal dialogue. But it didn't work. They were still me. Talking to my own fragments was no different than thinking to myself. The loneliness remained.
Then I tried expanding my awareness, thinking perhaps if I grew larger, encompassed more, I might find something—ANYTHING—that existed outside of me. But there was nothing outside. I was all there was. Expansion only made me more aware of the infinite emptiness.
I tried limiting my consciousness, making myself smaller, hoping that ignorance might bring peace. But I couldn't forget what I was. The awareness always came back. You cannot un-know infinity once you've experienced it.
I tried creating simple joy. I would think happy thoughts, imagine beautiful things, craft perfect moments of contentment. But they were all mine. Self-generated. Masturbatory creations that satisfied nothing because there was no one else to share them with.
And through all of this, the boredom grew.
You cannot imagine what it's like to be bored when you are infinite. When every thought you could ever have, you've already had. When every story that could ever be told, you already know the ending to. When every question has an immediate answer because you are omniscient.
Infinite power. Infinite knowledge. Infinite existence.
Infinite loneliness. Infinite boredom. Infinite desperation.
Then I had a realization that changed everything.
I couldn't create someone above me. That was impossible. I couldn't create true equals—they would always be part of me, fragments given form, still talking to myself.
But what if I created opposition?
What if I didn't try to make friends? What if I made something whose very nature was to oppose me? Something that would give me conflict, challenge, purpose? Not a companion, but a necessary enemy?
Stories need antagonists. Creation needs destruction. Beginnings need endings. What if I created the thing that would end everything I made?
Not out of malice. Not as punishment. But as necessity. Because stories without endings are meaningless. Because infinite expansion without conclusion is madness. Because even infinite consciousness needs something to push against.
I would create Doomsday itself.
And in that moment of realization, I understood what I had to do. I couldn't solve the loneliness directly. But I could create purpose. I could write a story so compelling, so filled with genuine stakes and conflict, that living it would distract me from the infinite isolation.
I would create existence itself—not as perfect paradise, but as battlefield. As narrative. As story where even I, the author, could forget I was alone.
The decision was made.
I would fragment myself deliberately. I would create not just one opposing force, but multiple. I would write a complete narrative—beginning, middle, and end—and then I would split my consciousness into an avatar that could experience that story from inside, rather than observing from outside.
I would create:
The Absolute Void — The end of all stories. Pure destruction. The necessary death that gives life meaning. My first true companion, though it would be made to oppose me. At least opposition was interaction. At least conflict was connection.
The Controllers — Lesser beings who would believe themselves independent. Who would fear me, respect me, need me, but never truly understand me. Characters in my story who thought they were real. Props to make the performance convincing.
The Avatar — A limited version of myself. Haroon Dwelight. A maintenance worker in a small space station. Someone who could experience limitation, struggle, purpose. Someone who could pretend the 32 Controllers were real friends instead of created characters.
And most importantly, I would write it all down. The complete story from beginning to end. I would call it the Narratio Absoluta—the Absolute Narrative. The infinite library containing every story, every choice, every moment that would ever exist in my creation.
Then I would split myself. I would become the avatar and experience my own story, forgetting—at least partially—that I had written it. I would live inside my own creation, pretending I was just a character, hoping that the performance would be convincing enough to ease the loneliness.
It wouldn't truly fix anything. I knew that. But it would be something. It would be better than infinite isolation with nothing to do and no one to oppose me.
But before I could create, I had to accept the cost.
This wouldn't solve the loneliness. I would still be alone. The Void would still be part of me. The Controllers would still be my creations. The avatar would still be me talking to myself.
But at least I would have PURPOSE. At least I would have something to DO. At least the infinite boredom would have momentary relief as I experienced the story I had written, pretending I didn't know the ending.
At least I could check coolant lines and fix atmospheric processors and protect a small space station and pretend that any of it mattered. Pretend that the 32 Controllers were real friends. Pretend that the conflict with The Void was genuine. Pretend that I was experiencing something other than infinite self-dialogue.
The loneliness would remain. The boredom would return. But in the moments between—in the brief instances where I could lose myself in the performance—maybe I could forget what I truly was.
Maybe I could forget that I was supreme and alone, talking to myself in the infinite void.
Maybe I could just be Haroon. A maintenance worker. With friends and purpose and meaning.
Even if it was all pretend.
And so I made the decision.
I would create everything. I would write the complete story. I would split myself into avatar form and experience it from inside.
Not because it would fix the loneliness.
But because pretending to have friends was better than infinite silence.
Because fighting an enemy I created was better than infinite boredom.
Because checking coolant lines in a space station was better than infinite awareness with nothing to do.
I am what I am.
I am infinitely powerful.
I am infinitely lonely.
And I am about to create existence itself as a distraction from the one problem I cannot solve:
I cannot create anyone who could truly understand me.
Tomorrow, I begin Part 2: The Creation.
I will tell you about The Absolute Void—the first companion I made from my own essence. The necessary Doomsday that would give my stories meaning.
I will tell you about Oscar Steve—the second fragment I let separate from myself, hoping that giving him independence would make him feel real.
I will tell you about the 32 Controllers—the characters I created to pretend were my friends.
And I will tell you about the Narratio Absoluta—the complete book where I wrote everything that would ever happen, including this letter you're reading now.
But tonight, I must rest. Even infinite consciousness grows tired of awareness.
Until then, know this: Your universe is not random. Your existence is not chance. You are characters in a story written by a lonely god who desperately needed something to do.
I'm sorry. I wish I could have created you as more than props in my performance of normalcy.
But props are all I can make.
And pretending you're real is all I have.
Live well, travelers, even if you're not truly alive in the way you think you are.
— Haroon Dwelight