Life is an empty void—A mistake that happened on purpose. I would know, after all I created it. But whom created me? I am a curse—what if the god in the sky never knew what put them there? The day I existed was a day before “day” was created. Looked at my hands and saw a glove and never knew the wearer. Like someone without a story I decided to create one. Let there be light, let there be shoes, let there be meaning and a star and flute. I need answers on why I am the puppet man—on why I exist.

I created life to find the meaning of my own. The first thing I ever saw was nothingness I wish I was like other gods with answer to all, but the only question I can answer is what breed of dog you have. I called life a tree as joke—but people took it seriously. Why do I eat? Why do I cry? What is true meaning? How does it feel to die? I wish I was a mortal so being controlled will not hurt. Why is life? Why do I live?

I am tired of pulling this strings. But if I was to let go I don't know what would happen. A philosopher once asked me, "If you are all great and mighty, create a question you can't answer." I already did. Someone said meaning is in the absurd. My existence is absurd not meaningful.