Painting the World

I painted the world.
It was time, so I painted the world. My tears, my blood, my soul, and my heart. I gently weaved everything that I am into the sky.  When you look up at it, just as the sun is about to go away for the night, when it's silent and calm, you can read my story in the soft breeze that flows through the cold air.
The stars hold my memories, slowly turning to star dust and sprinkled into the dirt for new lifeforms to take as their own. Where do you think Inspiration or new ideas come from?  They rise out of the ground and make their way into your head. The biggest amounts of dust get turned into real things, and the small amounts just sit in the back of your head.
The clouds hold my knowledge, then are transferred to the trees whenever too much knowledge gets collected. It rains down and fills the trees, given to the souls who spend their time taking long walks in the forest, or sitting on the trees reading a book.
The tiny little creatures that no one pays attention to, like ants, ladybugs, butterflies, dragonflies, spiders? They get my strength. They get my strength to fight the world, even though they were given the least advantages.
Who or what am I, you may wonder? I’m an artist. When It's an artist's time, they get to paint the world. It was my time.
I painted the world.