I made this for you; or, a word about world-building

I have grown a forest that crosses a continent, tangled green and thick with trackless depths, for you.

I have spun families and traced generations, who wander and rule and rage and despair, for you.

I sat up nights, and days, and weeks, and years, listening to the faintest whispers and calls of the bodiless, for you.

I have left clues for you.

I have measured and mapped bright hills, snakes of rivers, and seas of tall grass that no one had yet seen, for you.

I shaped a girl, given her eyes still uncolored and a mouth waiting to sing, for you.

I have let the dead walk for you.

I planted wheat and fed families, decade after decade, so that one grandchild could ask one question, for you.

I have named and unnamed nations, started wars, brokered truces doomed to break, and offered alliances to fools, for you.

I built a tower and then tore it down, for you.

I killed kings for you.

I have made storms, brought thunder and dust and snow and screaming winds, for you.

I have tunneled under mountains for the sake of one stone, to take it and polish it and set it in a sword, only to hide the sword, again under mountains, under water, under mist, for you.

I raised a man from birth, whispered secrets to him, and then cut a hundred flaws into his soul and skin, for you.

I have endured the cries of gods for you.

I have stripped my flesh off, wept, and lied for you.

I have made shelters, scattered them throughout the lands and the hearts and the dark places here, where a wanderer can nest for a night or stay to raise sons, for you.

I hid libraries throughout this world, some that fit inside a poppy seed, and others that can hold a hurricane, for you.

I dreamed for you.

I made this all for you, not so that you might find it beautiful, but just so you might find it.