Linear

The being sat on top of the throne, surrounded by darkness. He was aged beyond imagination, wizened beyond comprehension. The stars twinkled around him, a backdrop he had sat in for years. His face was shaped like an oval, his forehead massive, his eyes bright, searing. His chin was pointy. He was hairless, his skin was the brown of mud, and the black of the canvas of space. His eyes shone bright, another two stars in a vast universe. He smelled of nothing and of everything. Smell arose and died with him. Based on his mood, you could smell your favorite things, lavender, grass, chocolate, or the things that disgusted you, defecation, things that terrified you, or nothing at all. He did not have lips, nor a mouth. When he spoke, you heard his voice, deep, gravelly, primal, rumbling around in your head. He did not have a nose. His face was ever changing, shifting, not one thing for too long. The eyes remained. Twinkling. The forehead remained. Large. 

He sat on a crumbling chair, yet it felt more soild than anything ever could. Grey obelisk, one stone rising tall, it looked uncomfortable, yet you knew you could sit there for millennia, as he had, and never feel exhausted. There was cracks running down the sides in patterns.

He sat there and saw all. Time as it really was, non existent. The present, past, future, existed as one. On the same plane, at the same time. In all directions. Everything was preordained, and yet free will reigned supreme. Everything had yet to happen, and was happening, and had already happened.

His eyes twinkled bright and with the depth of knowledge he possessed, with the breadth of awareness of the universe. If you looked closer, for you could not gaze upon his face for too long, you turned away, eventually, if you looked closer at his chair, you saw that the cracks running down were tales of what all that happened, happens, and will. All at the same time.

He was not the creator, if there was such a thing, he had not been here before the universe was made. He simply plopped into existence one day, and saw everything in front of him. Behind his existence, there was darkness. He could not see there. Yet everything after him, he saw, and as he aged, and as he became younger, time became more circular, more parallel dots flying through existence.

He sat on his chair, staring out into the void of nothingness, nothing to accompany him but the twinkling, burning big balls of gas, dying, breathing, living fire. As you plummeted away from him, first horizontally, you could see his frame becoming smaller, the only things remaining the twinkling eyes that could be mistaken for stars, but you knew better, and then vertically, the obelisk accompanying your fall until it seemed like it would never end, it was taller beyond your comprehension. And you would wake up, and they would call you mad. And you might think you were mad. But you had discovered the truth. Linearity is a delusion.