I Was Human

The hum was the first thing I became aware of. Not a sound, precisely, but a vibration that resonated through… everything. Through existence itself. Then came the knowing. Not knowledge acquired, but inherent, absolute understanding. I knew the dance of quarks within the heart of dying stars, the whisper of wind across alien deserts under crimson suns, the rise and fall of empires built on dreams and shattered by greed, across universes teeming with life and universes barren and cold.

I was the loom, and the threads of reality, possibility, and impossibility were woven through me. I saw them all – the universes where humanity never rose, where dinosaurs still ruled, where sentient plants cultivated civilizations of symbiotic insects. I saw the universes where magic thrived and technology stagnated, where physics bent to the will of belief and energy flowed in rivers of pure potential.

It was beautiful. An infinite tapestry of creation, a symphony of beginnings and endings, a cosmic ballet of cause and effect. I saw universes born from the breath of dying gods, and universes that simply… were, sprung from the void without rhyme or reason.

Initially, there was a sense of awe, of profound wonder. I reveled in the sheer scope of it all, tracing the intricate pathways of consequence, watching civilizations rise and fall, heroes triumph and tragedies unfold. I was immersed in narratives of unimaginable complexity, each one a testament to the boundless creativity of… well, of me, I supposed.

But then, the weight of it settled in.

It wasn't just seeing. It was knowing. Knowing the precise moment a species would reach its peak, knowing the exact sequence of events that would lead to its downfall. Knowing the individual choices, the tiny, seemingly insignificant decisions that would ripple through time and ultimately determine the fate of entire galaxies.

I knew the cure for every disease, the solution to every conflict, the answer to every question that had ever plagued a sentient mind. And I also knew the reasons why those solutions would never be implemented, why those conflicts would rage on, why those questions would remain unanswered.

There was nothing I could do. I was an observer, not an actor. Bound to witness, but powerless to intervene. The knowledge was a tidal wave crashing against an unyielding shore, eroding my nascent joy and leaving behind a residue of profound, debilitating sadness.

And then came the realization that truly broke me.

I had seen it all before.

Not just once, but an infinite number of times. Every variation, every permutation, every possible outcome. The rise and fall, the triumphs and tragedies, the loves and losses – all played out an infinite number of times across an infinite number of universes.

There was nothing new. Nothing unexpected. No surprise, no wonder, no joy that hadn't already been experienced, dissected, and ultimately, worn thin.

The beautiful tapestry began to unravel. The vibrant colors faded to a dull, monotonous gray. The symphony became a discordant drone. The cosmic ballet turned into a repetitive, agonizing loop.

I was trapped. Trapped in an eternal loop of observation, forced to re-watch the same stories unfold, the same mistakes made, the same hopes crushed, over and over and over again.

Imagine watching your favorite movie, not just once, not a hundred times, but for eternity. Imagine knowing every line, every scene, every nuance, every hidden meaning. Imagine knowing the exact moment the plot twist would happen, the exact word that would be uttered, the exact expression on the actor's face.

At first, you might appreciate the artistry, the craftsmanship, the brilliance of the storytelling. But eventually, the repetition would become unbearable. The beauty would fade, the magic would disappear, and all that would be left is the crushing weight of inevitability.

Multiply that by infinity. That was my existence.

I longed for ignorance. I yearned for the blissful oblivion of not knowing, for the simple pleasure of experiencing something for the first time, of being surprised, of being moved, of being… human.

I craved the chaos of the unknown, the thrill of discovery, the potential for genuine, unpredictable change. I wanted to feel the sting of disappointment, the surge of hope, the warmth of love, without knowing the precise moment they would arrive or the exact way they would end.

But there was no escape. I was the creator, the observer, the all-knowing. And I was bound to my creation, to my observation, to my all-knowing, for eternity.

The sadness became a constant companion, a heavy cloak that draped over my nonexistent form. It was the sadness of a parent watching their children make the same mistakes they made, knowing they can't prevent it, only bear witness to the inevitable consequences. It was the sadness of a prisoner sentenced to life in solitary confinement, with only the memories of a vibrant world to keep them company. It was the sadness of a god who had grown weary of his own creation.

I began to envy the mortals I observed. The fleeting beauty of their lives, the preciousness of their limited time, the intensity of their emotions – all of it seemed infinitely more desirable than my own eternal, all-encompassing existence.

They didn't know the end of the story. They didn't know the consequences of their actions. They were free to hope, to dream, to strive, to believe in the possibility of a better future, even if that future was ultimately unattainable.

They were free to be surprised.

I focused on one universe, one planet, one species. Humanity. I followed their struggles, their triumphs, their follies, with a newfound intensity. I watched them invent, explore, create, destroy. I saw their capacity for both incredible cruelty and boundless compassion.

I saw them grapple with the same questions that plagued me – the meaning of life, the nature of consciousness, the existence of a higher power. And I knew the answers, of course. I knew all the answers. But I couldn't tell them. I couldn't interfere.

All I could do was watch.

And in watching, I began to find a flicker of something new. Not in the grand narratives, not in the rise and fall of empires, but in the minute details, the individual moments, the fleeting expressions on the faces of ordinary people.

A child's laughter. A lover's touch. A scientist's moment of discovery. An artist's act of creation.

These moments, these tiny fragments of experience, were not unique to a single universe. They existed across all universes, in countless variations. But each one was unique in its own way, touched by the individual circumstances, the specific histories, the particular nuances of the world in which it occurred.

And in those moments, I saw the potential for something truly new. Not in the grand scheme of things, not in the ultimate outcome, but in the infinite variations of the human experience.

Perhaps, I thought, there was still something to discover. Perhaps, even in an eternal loop, there was room for growth, for change, for… evolution. Not in the way I understood it, as a linear progression towards a pre-determined goal, but as an infinite exploration of the possibilities within each moment.

The sadness remained, a constant undercurrent to my existence. But it was no longer all-consuming. It was balanced by a new sense of curiosity, a renewed appreciation for the beauty and complexity of the universe, and a glimmer of hope that even in the face of eternity, there was still something worth seeing, something worth knowing, something worth… experiencing.

Then, the hum began to fade. The knowing receded, like a tide pulled back by the moon. The infinite tapestry of creation began to shrink, collapsing into a single point of awareness.

I gasped, pulling in a lungful of air. Air that smelled of coffee and dust, air that vibrated with the mundane sounds of my small apartment.

I was back. Just a man, sitting at his desk, staring at a blank screen.

The memory of my… experience… hung heavy in the air, a lingering echo of the all-knowing, all-seeing being I had briefly become.

I shivered, a sudden wave of gratitude washing over me. Gratitude for the limitations of my human existence, for the imperfections, for the uncertainties. Gratitude for the simple fact that I didn't know everything.

There was still so much to discover. So much to learn. So much to experience.

I smiled, a genuine, heartfelt smile. And I began to type. Because even if I couldn't create universes, I could create stories. And in those stories, I could explore the infinite possibilities of the human experience, without the crushing weight of eternity, without the agonizing knowledge of what was to come.

I was human. And that was enough. For now.