I Am A God

I’m having a shitty fucking year.

The worst year of my life (so far). In January, I lost a close friend from high school. He is the first friend of mine to pass away. I’ve had family members pass away, and family-friends too, but - a friend’s passing is a different kind of grief. The residue will be there forever. Of that I’m sure.

We had to put down our cat in early April. I say our cat, but he was my girlfriend’s cat at the end of the day. Her grandma had been keeping him until we could officially take him to live with us. But he developed a chronic liver condition and wouldn’t eat. We had a feeding tube placed in him. We did what we could, but he was ready to go. He lived with us for 19 days (my girlfriend and I both swore it was over a month, due to the stress of taking care of him). I say our cat, because it took less than a day for me to love him. He was only 12 years old. And he is the first pet I’ve lost.

There have been so many other snags, hiccups, bumps, and setbacks this year. Some big. Some small. Most of which have been out of my control. All of which have become water in an overflowing bucket.

It’s frustrating. It’s wearing on me. I’ve been beyond patient and I’ve been trying to navigate this year with as much grace as I can. But my light is fading. I would love to run away from everyone and everything, retreating to my own little corner of the world where nothing can burden me. Maybe I would emerge one day, like a mussel emerging from its shell after danger has passed. Maybe not.

But I know myself, and I’m reminding myself of my needs. Running isn’t my answer. It never has been. It’s not what I need. It’s not going to help me.

I go back and forth between cruel and tragic. Maybe it’s both.

Around the time I graduated high school, I remember my mom telling me she often knew what mood I was in based on what I played on our piano and how I played it. I didn’t always talk to her about what I was feeling, but I… I was still able to tell her, in my own way. When she told me this, I felt somewhat exposed. As though I had been wearing a heavy cloak and someone pulled it off of me. I suppose that’s not a bad thing.

While I was in college, my grandpa passed away. He is the first grandparent I lost. I channeled my grief by thinking of a memory I have with him from my young childhood, and turned it into a short piano piece. The memory takes place at my grandparents’ old lake cabin. It was cathartic to write. I remember showing the piece to a dear friend shortly after writing it. The recording was raw and unedited. I didn’t tell her anything about it, other than it being dedicated to my late grandpa. After hearing it, unprompted, she said, “it reminds me of a lake!” And I shed a tear.

One of my favorite pieces of art that I’ve painted is the one to the right. I don’t like it for the quality, per se - I could do better. No, I like it because of my intent behind it. Two figures floating in an endless cavern, one on the floor and one on the ceiling. Both draped in ragged gowns, looking at each other, reaching out, longing for connection. But I didn’t give it to them. No, I painted the figures to be so incredibly close to reaching each other - but they will never achieve that connection they so desperately desire. It’s a wicked power trip on my part and I know that. I won’t deny the satisfaction I have when I think about that painting though. C’est le vie.

For the past year, or two, or three, I’ve been trying to create for others and only for others. What do others like? What would people buy? What’s marketable? What’s marketable this week? This is wrong. This isn’t how I create. And you know what? I haven’t been creating. My focus needs to be on me. What do I like? What would I buy? My best creations have been and continue to be those that I make for myself. The art that satisfies my thoughts. The music that satisfies my feelings. Everything else is absolute shit. The last year, or two, or three are a testament to that.

I love worldbuilding. I love maps. Culture, history, politics, religion, geology, language - I love all of this. How they relate to each other, affect each other, and evolve over time. Creating fictional settings has been a wonderful pastime all throughout my life, but especially in the last few years. And I especially love it because… it’s mine. No one can tell me right or wrong. I can make it in my image, as I see fit, at my whim. The rules are my own. I can follow them, bend them, break them all I want. No one can tell me otherwise.

I am the creator of the universe of my imagination.

I am a god.