Hoo boy, you humans would probably envy my job. If you knew it existed, or if I could even explain to you what it was. I am like unto a metaphor contractor, a literal creator-from-nothing, crafting from the whole cloth that which was not but now… IS.
It sounds cool when I frame it like that, like I might be able to step into some glowing robes and really God the hell out of it. But I spent this entire last year specifying the finer details of a micro-ecology that lives inside what you might call the colon of an alien pig, a species that lives in the stretches of dense storms in the thicker regions on a gaseous planet so far outside your light cone you’d be baffled if I tried to explain the distance.
An entire year’s worth of my work, and for what? I mean, it’s an impressively creative apparently-evolved set of intertangled sub-biomes within the gut of the pig. My team made quite the hog. But now, what? We’ve got another new complicated component to add on to the universe. I’m some sort of downloadable content slave. Pay me, oh powers that be, and I’ll make sure that there are new cosmetics for your galactic-scale games. Somebody might study it later, after my work’s been fully disguised by millions of years of evolution.
I’ve seen your movies, you know. I wish I was a cool and mysterious god-like being, seeding the universe with life for my own majestic, unknown, unknowable purposes. Instead I’m just a wage slave like you. At a different plane, but nonetheless. Know that you are not alone, mortals, and tremble.
Good grief. I just found out that gas planet got wiped by another scheduled supernova event. That floating omnivorous gas hog my team and I carefully built over the last year is gone, already. Why do I even bother? We could argue for reinstantiation elsewhere outside of that loop, but…
I’m starting to think about downgrading and coming to join you. The price is so expensive, though. Memories are hard to let go of; so many millions of years. And I’d be mortal. Not even knowing when a supernova is coming to strip my civilization’s skin from the bones of its planet. Doesn’t seem worth it.
So, instead, dreaming in my off time, I specify new stories of my own devising. I spin new species to rise through the emergent planes and spread through the stars. Role playing as one of your gods. Instead of saying “Entertain me, mortals,” I am inspired by the way you entertain each other in the face of inevitable entropy and death.
Keep going, puny humans. Keep us all afloat out here with your impossible hopes and dreams. We’re not laughing. I swear it.