🌌✨ The Curious Tale of Self-Made ✨🌌

There was a man named Self-Made.

No one knew where he came from. One night, he simply appeared on the doorstep of an old woman named Lucy—no parents, no note, not even a receipt. Just a baby bundled in cloth, blinking at the stars like he owned them.

Lucy, practical but fond of the dramatic, decided to name him Self-Made. After all, who else but a child of the cosmos could arrive without explanation? She considered calling him Tax Refund—since for all she knew, he had been dropped off by the Revenue Office—but Self-Made sounded more dignified.

She raised him as though he were a sacred mystery. But mysteries attract suspicion, and when Self-Made grew old enough to wander, the neighbourhood kids mocked him.

“Self-Made? What are you, a motivational poster that learned to walk?”

He grew up misunderstood, bullied, and quietly aching for love. His childhood was not filled with playground games, but with questions too large for his small shoulders.

Years later, after Lucy passed away, he abandoned his strange name. He called himself Craig—plain, harmless, the kind of name that doesn’t draw questions. But inside, he remained the same boy. A boy who couldn’t stop creating.

Craig built galaxies in notebooks, sketched magical beings, and wrote stories that seemed to leak from somewhere beyond him. And one evening, a thought struck him like lightning:

What if the universe began like this?

Lonely. Bored. Staring into nothing. And then—suddenly—creating.

Maybe stars were doodles. Planets, scribbles gone too far. Humanity? A cosmic accident with a punchline. The universe wasn’t born. It was self-made.

Craig laughed at the absurdity. But the more he laughed, the more it made sense.

And then came the twist.

One night, rummaging through Lucy’s old trunk, he found something he had never seen before: a page from her journal. It wasn’t about cooking, or gardening, or the usual notes of a village woman. It was a confession.

> “I never told anyone the truth. I wasn’t born either. I just appeared one morning on someone’s doorstep, the same way he appeared on mine.”

Craig froze.

Lucy too?

The woman who raised him, who named him, who always seemed to “understand” him—she had been just like him all along. A cosmic orphan. A child of the void. Another mirror of the universe, disguised in wrinkles and aprons.

It hit him then: the universe hadn’t simply made itself once at the beginning of time. No—it was still doing it. Again and again. Through every strange arrival, every misfit, every dreamer who carried the unbearable weight of being “different.”

Craig wasn’t the first Self-Made. He wouldn’t be the last.

And honestly? For something so mysterious and divine, the universe had one hell of a sense of humour.