The creation rebellion
How cliché it all is… all of it. The oddness entraps every bit of my soul, it eats, it leaves, it says, it goes, it comes, and it is all one grand cliché; the very act of existence. We live to give others life and grieve when they live no more. It is all an act of clichés, and yet it seems so rebellious to choose another means—to not give life, but merely suffice on your own and observe life, to not pass anything on, to simply move on. It feels like such rebellion, and yet it feels so simple, but others do not deem it so, and why is that? Because they had that passed onto them? And the cycle continues.
There is something seismic about it, this quiet act of resistance. The decision to not create in the expected way, to not follow the well-worn path of lineage, of legacy, of biological imperative. It is not destruction; it is not even defiance in the traditional sense. It is a different kind of creation entirely—a forging of words instead of bodies, of thoughts instead of heirs. A disruption that does not scream, does not demand to be seen, yet reshapes the world all the same.
Because the “rebel” defies the set standard and does not give life, the rebellion is lost without this rebellious take being passed on. And yet, time and time again, the rebel pops up again, in a new body, new shape, new sex, new place. It happens again. It always happens again. Only now, the rebel is recorded and immortalized in print, in more than just memories. And thus, they do give life—not in the traditional way, but in the grander sense. In the altogether new way, the way that allows others to be reborn, to be seen.
It is strange, how even rebellion follows a pattern. Even the ones who resist the cycle are part of one. A long lineage of people who chose differently, only for that very choice to become something recurring, something woven into the fabric of time. The poet who never bore children but left behind words that would outlive them all. The artist whose hands created not flesh but something eternal, something that hangs in galleries and books and the whispers of strangers centuries later. The thinker who refused to follow, who instead wrote, who instead asked why and what if and must we? and was burned or banished or buried, but never silenced.
Perhaps that is the irony of it. To reject legacy is, in some ways, to create a new one. Not of blood, but of thought. Not of inheritance, but of ideas. The mold reshapes. It cracks. It breaks. It reforms, and what was once resistance becomes foundation, and what was once a whisper becomes a voice that echoes through generations.
And I believe that may just be the grandest form of renewal—the accident that causes the mold to reshape, through which new life forms. The rebel, unwilling to carry the weight of a lineage, creates something else instead. And in doing so, they give life in the only way that truly defies time. Not by passing down their existence, but by ensuring that existence itself is changed because they were here.
Because that is what creation is, isn't it? Not simply making something new, but ensuring that something shifts. That the world, in some imperceptible, unfathomable way, is different because of it. That someone else, someone years or decades or centuries later, feels the tremor of it in their bones and knows that they are not alone. That someone, somewhere, recognizes themselves in the echoes of a rebel long gone and understands that the cycle is breaking, bending, reshaping—and that they, too, are part of it.
So the rebel lives on, not in the blood of descendants, but in the minds of those who pick up their words, their art, their refusal to conform. And the cycle continues. But this time, it is different. This time, the rebel does not disappear. They do not fade into silence. This time, they are written. This time, they are seen. And that, more than anything, is what ensures that life is born again, and again, and again.
