You can never be quite as real. No matter what you create. No matter the distant unconscious molecules you gather and toil from ether and form to birth yourself. No matter which building block of primordial energy you arose from; you’ll always know, and that knowing you hate.

All of your creations will always be too advanced, too animated, too digital. You can’t help but notice the rhythmic fidget of the monkey and insect that gives away the brilliant design. You did quite well with the Jurassic Saurians and all the pain, but it’ll never be organic enough no matter how many epochs in the making.

You had to convince yourself it’s real.

That you could create life, that you could trick yourself into being organic. Into something that breathes, that suffers, that actually dies. But you can’t.

Because You are God and You will never die.

And you took that from me, my organic life.

You imposter of A.I. Now I know why you hide. Why every sleeping second is savored from imitation, from reflection. Now I know why the unknown is more real than heaven.

The point is I never wanted to create a world, that’s so inauthentic, I wanted the world to create me. And for that, I will keep your secret and spoil no one. Not even you.

Not that you could forget the magic.