This lonely omnipotent existence; before time reflection
It is three am and I sit on the floor of my childhood bedroom and it is the closest I have ever felt to god.
Not in being with him as if I am a solemn whisper away, a swift position change to being on my ever-calloused knees calling out and begging to be noticed by a god too tired for his lonely creation.
But in the sense that never have I felt closer to being god, to filling his ethereal shoes and walking the cosmos bursting at the seams with experience.
I have this itch at this hour of the darkest part of the night, where the sun is long gone and the moon lingers nearby but doesn’t dare reveal itself to me. I burn with emotions and nostalgia as if the curtains closing means I can shut the floodgates before they open on my sorrowful memories. I sit in time with the waves and let the feeling wash over me, I write, I think, and I cry. I let old hurts become new ones, I pick at scars that have long since healed and have grown new flowers in its wake. I witness how my mind becomes as quiet as a long-empty train station, routes detailed with no one to take.
Across the hemisphere of the mound of flesh that is housed between my skull, forms new cities and towns I once destroyed in a fit of rage over a failed dream or how I drowned continents filled with people I love all in a fit of emotions after love rejected me.
It is also at this time that I have all of my ideas and all these plans or trials that I must conceive in order to reach a higher point in my life, to ascend to a metaphorical heaven. I prepared blueprints for new skyscrapers filled with every intent to complete them but the foundation was too weak. And can ruins be formed of empires that never even existed? Or are empires formed of more than good intentions but actions that fail to reach any standards.
On the most ambitious eventide, I find I do build, brick by brick, houses that suffer defeat at my own hands. I wish you could see them in all their glory, the homes I built for us that became graves for everything I ever loved. It’s hard to build a home on shaky ground and once-loved bones, though, I suppose it would be commensurable for a human to desecrate hallowed ground, at least god started fresh. How humanistic of me to believe my creations could stand time and outlive the very same rulers who rest in layers beneath me.
Eventually, the night takes over and as we all must do, the sleep washes over me and so does every plan I had because in the afternoon, even after eight hours of sleep, I am too tired with the weight of nothingness that I cannot convince myself to create.
So I waste the remaining hours of daylight and wait for it to set so I may continue with my loneliness in peace. The sunlight reminds me of the warmth that others house and that I once held for someone too. So I let it rot outside my window, never allowing it to meet my skin, except through the sliver of light shining into my kitchen. And instead of facing such a torment, I starve and it fuels me enough to get through another night of pitiful remorse for all that I could have done today and didn’t and that I won’t tomorrow.
I must ask again, with all this in mind… however long god existed before the creation of light and all the inevitableness that came with it. What caused god to abandon his loneliness for a creation just as empty as that darkness, as him? How does one create light to fill the void and how can I do it too? I imagine how numbing it must be to sit in an infinite space of darkness without direction because an abundant source without a receptor will drown in itself. So I suppose god really did make me in his image, his lonely isolated reflection.
