My time has no beginning, and it has never ended.
I dreamt of the future in the past, and I dreamt of the past in the future; such dreams have always persisted.
I know the beginning and end of [myself/the world], I know the beginning of the end and the end of the [end], but even such [starting points] and [ending points] are merely ordinary elements that constitute me, nothing special, having no [beginning] or [end] that could be regarded as memory, dream, or knowledge.
I quietly knelt upon the woven fabric of countless things once called [worlds], continuously beginning my own beginning, ending my own end, beginning the beginning, ending the end—
Nothing is the same in any repeated process; even a slight fluctuation in the process can lead the dream toward an entirely unexpected direction.
Reality is memory, and memory is no different from reality.
Pages are not turned, because the book has never been closed.
Those words called [Cause] and [Effect]—you can memorize their sequence, but you will never know if there truly is a path after opening the door.
I saw him, a long, long time ago.
At that time, he was just an ordinary youth who would rejoice or grieve over the fate of characters in a book, an ordinary youth who would try to redraw the wing of a butterfly whose wing was broken.
Then, I witnessed [that].
Even [Eternity] had vanished, and even [Failure] had vanished.
[That] annihilated the entirety of the failed worlds and overwhelmed all [Past and Future], but that [Past and Future] was solid yet simultaneously illusory. What should have been the [Future] instantly became the [Past], and what should have been the [Past] unknowingly appeared ahead of the [Future].
Since then, I have been watching him.
Watching that solitary madman, the way he mended the world was as clumsy as that ordinary youth who tried to redraw the wing of a broken butterfly many years ago.
Truly... he hasn't changed at all.
I saw the first world he lit up, the hundredth, the thousandth... To me, it was merely the same instant.
To him, however, it was a journey long enough to wear down the soul.
To me, he is the past that ended, the past unknown, the past forgotten, the past impossible, and also the past about to happen.
I watched him succeed.
Time and again.
In those worlds, life welcomed the sunrise anew, life sang once more, and lovers kissed under the setting sun. None of them knew that they had once [not existed], nor did they know that a traveler who never looked back, after mending the sky for them, would turn and walk toward the next ruin.
His journey was endless in its length.
Without hope, without reward, without stars.
I watched him pass through countless [Perfect Endings].
I watched him save countless [Past Worlds].
Only this single canvas stubbornly refused color.
It was repaired, but not healed; it was alive, yet permeated with the scent of death.
One place, where he uniquely failed.
One place, where he uniquely succeeded.
One place, where he was first born.
One place, where he finally fell.
The first and also the last place.
He arrived there, carrying his exhaustion, ready to begin yet another futile journey.
I watched him.
Perhaps, I grew tired of observing.
After all, to me he is the past that ended, the past unknown, the past forgotten, the past impossible, and also the past about to happen—he is the future that ended, the future unknown, the future forgotten, the future impossible, and also the future about to happen.
It is time.
It is time to go and meet him.
Then, let me go to his side.
Then, let me draw closer, closer, to watch over him from a more intimate distance, to watch over the first and also the final journey.
myself once more that "all is complete."
I take a deep breath.
I spread my arms, just as I did at the very beginning, preparing to start another futile journey.
Come.
This time, let it also be I who declares the beginning.
I once said, let there be light.
And so there was light. But that light was wrong; it tore the darkness into fragments, yet failed to bring even a shred of warmth.
I once said, let there be an expanse between the waters, to separate the waters from the waters.
And so the firmament formed, separating the waters above from the waters below. But there were no birds above the firmament, nor fish in the waters.
I once said, let the land produce vegetation and fruit-bearing trees.
And the earth complied. But that budding greenery was false; they grew with all their might, only to wither the moment they touched that cold light, turning back into a despairing gray.
The first day, the second day, the third day... I looked upon all that I had created; they were formless and void, and darkness was over the surface of the deep. I—on the seventh day, could not rest. I looked at the sins I had committed with my own hands, sins so profound that even the word "failure" lost its proper weight.
The world shattered at that moment.
No, perhaps even earlier. Even as early as when I added non-existent wings to a butterfly with broken wings, when I painted a happy ending for a story destined for tragedy, when I first believed I could define "perfection"—the crack already existed.
And so, only I remained, along with this massive tomb I had built and then destroyed with my own hands.
I stepped over the wreckage of countless worlds, walking among shattered stars, beneath my feet the long-cold embers of life.
Time and again, I reached out my hand and said to that void: let there be light.
And so, in the first world, the sun rose again. Golden radiance bathed the earth, and children chased each other playfully in the streets; their laughter was a language I had long forgotten.
Time and again, I reached out my hand and said to that dead silence: let there be sound.
And so, in the five-thousandth world, lovers kissed beneath the ringing of church bells.
The city regained its bustle, and the wind carried the whispers of lovers.
Time and again, I reached out my hand and said to that desolation: let there be life.
And so, in the nine-thousand-nine-hundred-and-ninety-ninth world, withered trees sprouted new buds, extinct flowers bloomed once more amidst the ruins, and birds sang upon the branches—singing of a destruction and rebirth they had never experienced.
I mended one broken dream after another, forcibly placing a period named "happiness" at the end of tragedies that were meant to play out.
They believed.
They cheered, they embraced, they praised this hard-won miracle; they offered prayers for the new day, yet no one knew the traveler who brought them the dawn.
I never look back.
I am but a madman, picking up the pigments I smashed bit by bit, then carefully applying them to those blank canvases.
I repaired everything.
Except for this first one.
I have returned, back to where it all began and where it all ends—the site of my only failure, the place of my eternal evidence of sin.
I am somewhat weary; that vast expanse of time, enough to wear down a mountain of diamonds, has finally brought a touch of fatigue to my soul.
But, I cannot stop yet.
At least, not before painting an "ending" that does not belong to this world.
At least, not before deceiving myself once more that "all is complete."
I take a deep breath.
I spread my arms, just as I did at the very beginning, preparing to start another futile journey.
Come.
This time, let it also be I who declares the beginni