You were born with the union of hydrogen and helium, a violent conception of cosmic dust. You are alpha and omega, and life begins around you. Life begins because of you.
Heat forms your fingertips and you reach out as far as you can. Your touch nurtures, and your scorn kills. Your worshipers surround you and sing your praises. They think they’re running, exhibiting their skill and speed. They think they’re impressing you, but you see them only as crawling. They are not like you.
You can see ones like you. The light they give off dwindles and grows. Sometimes you see them disappear. You are never close enough to see their faces, to touch them, to experience them.
When you die, you feel as though you cannot contain yourself. You shrink into yourself. You hide. You think that perhaps you can escape the torment of solitude you have faced all these years by embracing it. It doesn’t work. Before you can stop it, your anguish boils out of your mouth. You lash out at your oblivious benefactors, destroying their life as easily as you created it. You turn them to dust, and you become cold. You devour everything that brushes you, remorseless and unfeeling.
The ones who worshiped you have been turned back to their elements. They are nothing more than clumps of molecules, attempting to escape your magnetic pull. You are dead to the ones who loved you and to yourself, but somewhere out there, there is a union of hydrogen and helium.