THE CREATOR
To me, To you, To everyone who goes through
The dance of the Creator.
The Birth
The first cry you make shakes the world to its core. For the redeemer has arrived. You are here to do what has been laid upon you. A mighty task for your tiny shoulders but never has that deterred your spirit. You are loud. You are Kind. You are the one that feeds their mind. The one that will be remembered till the end of time.
You create, You Inspire, You Wish, You Desire.
A “Creator” shall they call you. With the ink of life, you were drew. And a reflection of your creator’s love is what you are going through.
“Sacrifices are asked of you. Oh, the mighty crafter of something out of thin air. For your ways are too rigid sometimes and too mellow the other times. Each breath you take is borrowed from the one who could’ve been. Waging war with the one you know you should have been. You don’t know relief as your mother is pain, for your father is the unforgivable rain. If you didn’t grow your roots you should be washed away. It hurts him but he knows why it has to be this way.”
The Blame
Shouldn’t your purgery be charged and should you be made to pay for your crimes? For you see the unthinkable and scream its beauty before anyone else can even sense its presence. They all look at you as someone relieved of senses. They laugh and continue in their world of tangibles. Where the pillows are hardened by their cry for a utopia in the nights, but the same pillow’s hardness is used as a counter to any claims for the existence of such utopias brought to human experience. If I can’t touch it how am I expected to believe, they say. In the same breath, they talk to their inner voices and pray.
While you let not these words cut you too deep. You would be lying if you said these words aren’t the reason for your majestic weep. You take it upon yourself to bring this utopia to existence, but your twisted wish to be recognized makes you less persistent. Before even dipping your blade in blood you start fantasizing about the glory of your triumphant victory being sung by the mindless millions.
But the thought overwhelms you soon enough, you start to judge and criticise your work a little too much. “Are you worthy?” a voice echoes, for you have nothing but shameful memories of the lost battles and walk back home with your head down. You aren’t even given thorns for a crown. You push your head underwater in this river of life where you wish to drown.
The Creation
You keep walking...
You keep walking...
You keep walking...
Each day gets more difficult than the last one. Fiery stares from the unbelievers leave you naked and burned. This time you aren’t ashamed because you know you are him. Crafting is how you mimic and worship your creator and repeating your creations is your hymns.
Every day, You cut parts of yourself to feed blood to your own creations. These creations suck on you till they grow up to fend for themselves. You have never known if they will grow up or just die in the process. Even if you did, would knowing make it any easier for you? I think not. For your eyes sing a different song, of the unanswered prayers, the sleepless nights, and the shriekiest cries. For the tears have inherently received a blessing that they will dry. But your pain is left behind to hurt you for the next several times.
A sage once narrated this maddened dance
“He created what he saw and what he didn’t,
With his words on this world, he left a print,
His shade rubbed on me, gave me a darker tint,
His light came from the darkness he held in him
Feeding the sharks of despair, in the ocean of love he swims,
He laughed at the ugly truth and smiled at everything that’s grim,
For I wish I had found him earlier,
For my life would have been closer to the truth,
I would have created joyously, with love and with youth,
I want to be as lost as he is,
For that is how he finds him,
He might not know what he creates,
But he loves and shapes everything at his whim,
I Want to be him, The creator,
The arm of the force of nature writing through me, a mere creative limb.”
The Redemption
People falsely assume the beauty you carve is inspired by the beautiful valley on the without, in reality, those valleys can't even portray a fraction of the beauty that lies within.
Death life is all alike. The continuous transition from being the manifestor to being manifested. From being the creator to the thing created.
For I shall die doing this as this is all I know.
The Creator gave me himself, And as a Creator, I rose.
I create myself now the same way he did. I pick the good I pick the bad mix it all like he did.
WHY ME
WHY ME
WHY ME
WHY ME……..“DO NOT GIVE UP” a voice echoes. This burden of speaking the words from above isn’t given to everyone. It's a curse that you never broke, but you must do it without a sigh or a hoke.
Your life is a cycle you don’t agree with but must bury within you. For it is the same millennia-old tale with nothing new.
If nothing else it has the same life-giving force within it. The same force that lets a fallen fruit turn into a tree of its own kind, multiply and prosper into thousand more if allowed. Without guidance. This force within has its motion naturally set Godwards but do not be fooled because the same tree that is growing Godward has roots that keep clinging tighter and tighter to hell. The force that flows above flows below. The force that fuels life fuels destruction.
Knowing this you put yourself in the pot. You love your creation so much that you die to breathe a new life into it. And once alive, it creates using the borrowed breath of the one that should’ve been and it realizes it is HIM.
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