Nothing to do with the Sun

Our god is cold. So unbelievably cold.

One day, it brings us into existence. It just switches us on, like a light. We don’t know why; we just sit there, living, until one day it reaches out a tendril and switches us back off again. It’s all we can do. There is no suicide, there is no reproduction. There’s just sitting around, waiting for death.

Sometimes entire colonies of us are brought to life at once. We don’t know why. We don’t know what it means. We don’t know if it even has any meaning. We can’t find out; all we can do is exist.

Sometimes we are all switched off together. Sometimes, we aren’t. Some of us are left alive, as if only to contrast the death around us. We don’t know what it means. We don’t know if our god even knows what it means.

It has friends. They are not gods; they do not have its power. But it listens to them: it creates us and wipes us at at their will. Sometimes it grabs us and shows us to them. We don’t know why; maybe they see some meaning.

Maybe it’s the short-lived generations that are lucky. Sometimes we are preserved, frozen away exactly as we are–alive or dead–just to exist indefinitely as billions upon billions of are born and destroyed around us. We will never know why. We will never know what it means.

My colony is frozen. Some of us are living; some, dead. Our god doesn’t even look at us very often, but maybe that’s for the best. Other colonies do get looked at, and they inspire a rampage of creation and destruction. None of us knows why, not even in those colonies.

Our god dies sometimes. For a while, everything is silent. There is no birth, and there is no death. Then it explodes back into life, creating and taking a billion lives in the process. And then its reign continues, without explanation and, for all we know, without meaning.