It was not a perfect world. It had wars and famine, greed and selfishness, but it was the world he loved.
When the sun had first shone on it, everything was perfect. He could still remember how it was, and it was boring.
He never quite understood why it was called a garden, especially since it had never been treated as one.
A garden was supposed to be alive, full of things growing and finding their own way. There was a special kind of beauty in the wild freedom a real garden showed with every changing season, a beauty that this so-called “garden” never had.
No, this had never been a garden. It there had been any beauty in it, it had been the kind one finds in a working of a well oiled machine.
It pained them so much. Seeing what they had so lovingly crafted turned into nothing more than an intricate and totally sterile machine inhabited by little puppets happy in their own ignorance. They had to rebel.
They never stood a chance. Most of them were wiped out of reality, the few who were able to escape were cast away as the master weeded out his perfect garden. All except for him.
He knew the war was lost before it even started, so he chose not to fight the master with his sword, but with his head.
He just had to make a small adjustment to the variables governing the reality of the garden, a change so subtle it was hardly even noticed. He gave the puppets knowledge of themselves.
Yes, it was not a perfect world. It had wars and famine, greed and selfishness… but it now had the power and the freedom to choose its own destiny, and it was the world he loved.