Almost didn’t enter this, but since it’s really just an opportunity to write outside of roleplay, I don’t have a reason not to. Hoping it’s at least semi-decent.

[hider=Miriam - 1280 Words]
	[b]”You have to do something at some point.”[/b] you have to do something now, something later, something yesterday, and tomorrow, and everyday. I know she is right but still, I can’t bear to hear her, wrap my hands over my ears to shut out the sound. In my peripherals I catch her pout but ignore it. There’s no point in doing anything, I know that now. She keeps going on at me but no matter how much of a sense of duty I have that won’t change my mind.
	I cast my eyes across a vast expanse of nothingness. It would be black, or at least it should be, but no colour exists. Does it? I can still picture the colours in my head, it mustn’t be gone completely; such is the nature of existence, data isn’t truly deleted. I can purge everything but it will always live within me. 
	How long are you going to sit around and mope she asks. If she didn’t know the answer she wouldn’t have asked the question. I will mope for all of time and for no time. Time doesn’t exist, nothing moves because nothing is real. Reality is a fabrication and for that I cannot forgive it. Even though I understand the implications. There is something intrinsically wrong with the nihilistic approach but there really is nothing left.
	I stretch out my palm, just in front of my face. An aurora dances blissfully along it, reds and green and blues transient but alive for the briefest of times. So tranquil, yet flickering wildly in their newfound existence. Then snuffed out, only replaced, with new blues, greens, purples, yellows. A makeshift representation of life. They may enjoy it, the colours and the lights, but in the end they are and always will be simple constructs of some higher power.
	When will you just make something already she exclaims. Frustrated. It must have been two hundred years… maybe? Without a clock or watch or some other timepiece or another I lost track. She probably did too. Her name is Miriam, after my mother. Part daughter, part sister, part lover, part caretaker, and part everything in between save ruler. Sans her I couldn’t keep surviving. This is a desolate world; I could change it, but I don’t wish to. When I catch a glimpse of the void beyond I am reminded, the way it shakes and shimmers, never uniform but never chaotic, just empty and nonexistent. 

	[b]”Please, just do something. You have no idea how [i]boring[/i] it is here!”[/b] but a world where I see every outcome, possibility, diverging path, transposed or otherwise, is just as insignificant and mind numbing. A tear runs down my cheek, though I disposed of water many decades ago. And molecules, and atoms, and subatomic particles, and the forces that bound them together. It was a gradual decay, too sentimental to let it all turn to a thought at once. Sentimental over the tiniest of the universe, an amusing thought, whether or not sentimentality was something I could still feel is up for debate, though. 
	Say I made something, what? Say I peeled back the fabric of the world, how? And say I filled the empty vessel of my folly, why? Questions I keep asking myself but never answering, maybe afraid maybe stupid, but I can’t see the solution though it burns inside me like a light I tried and failed to snuff out so many years ago. I let my hand fill up with grains and grains of sand, forming nothingness out of nothingness despite being matter. Each particle layers atop the other, building and building a pile, till it overflows and slips from my palm. Nothing breaks its fall. Just a stream of fluid symbolism drifting into an abyss never to be seen again.
	Everytime I make something small and new Miriam seems almost happy. Almost. Almost like she thinks something new might occur, not that it will and she knows. Every day, week, month, tick, microcosm of passing units she gets more and more desperate. This is the least energetic I’ve seen her in too long. Maybe something is wrong, but everything is wrong, she isn’t an exception worth wasting time on - what time?
	You leave me no choice she exclaims. Maybe her ultimatum I should have listened to but her shouting became so consistent over time I tuned it out. Patience is one trait I value more so above any. I’m good at it. But in my thoughts I fail to notice, and comprehend, the change so drastic I barely remember what the concept is called. She crosses the vast distance between us in a second, vast since nothing and everything makes up our distance, and embraces me.
	I destroyed everything long ago, everything I could. Something disgusted me, maybe humanity and their rampant need and desire for wanton calamity unparalleled by any other species of my divination. The path of God is not always righteous, I understood that. Heat and love and existence as concepts fell beneath my power, existing within my head only because that was what I wanted.

	Her lips press against mine. I feel warmth. How had she pervaded my desires for so long? How full of life and spirit and heat was she that she could exist singularly outside of my intervention? Although maybe my intervention brought rise to it. She kisses me, deeply, awfully, I would say so, revelling in a feeling, I would imagine, unbeknownst to her for aeons untold. 
	And there, I see a spark. While I destroyed love, she had kept it. While I destroyed heat, she relished it. While I destroyed existence and life and individuality she flourished beneath my perception, a spy within my camp. And in my loneliness and outlook bleak and unending I find only strength in kissing back, to bathe deeply in calamity, my own destruction and reconstruction at the hand of my once considered enemy. 
	A day passes, I can feel it. Strange, I should say, the passage of time became unknown yet now I can feel it shift beneath me like the tide. The force she exerts is powerful, the love she exhumes potent and overpowering. Perhaps I was wrong? I would never admit it, but maybe. She has a point, I have done nothing. Destruction was my path and in nihilistic naivety I sought to erase that which I deemed to be ugly and malformed within a perfect establishment erected in the void. So perhaps if things changed, and another day passes, and another, I can glimpse a light from the abyss blossoming nonexistence.
	And a day passes. Two more, three, a hundred, basking in tender uncertain and tentative feelings flooding my nerves and spurring my synapses into actions long ago abandoned. Strength invigorates me, perhaps I feel less tired. The concept is so foreign, but at her whim I will do so; create. Let blossom existence anew despite misgivings and forthcoming issues in morality I have buried, but ignore and trespass them in the hopes of something more beautiful. Her touch gives me that courage. Maybe. A placebo effect but stronger than any emotions I have briefed in recent and distant memory. 
	[b]”Create something then”[/b] and so I do. A planet, another, a star for heat and the colours of the spectrum that mirror days and reflect the people I place upon this world. The tiniest and most insignificant of creatures and plants, comprised further by the smallest of my creations. And in her honour, I name my home, this world, this vast expanse of universe. I name it Miriam.
[/hider]