She looked out upon her creation, an audience of one, and marveled at its perfection. People navigated the streets in seemingly chaotic patterns, pulled by invisible strings, unknowingly weaving designs of their own volition, unaware that they themselves were woven together with everything as far as they could see and further, and that it was all their own doing.
They were, for the most part, oblivious to the astounding beauty that was their world and, as a result, did not know their own true beauty. Precious creatures they were, lost in their attachment to the flesh, distracted by sensory input and all the stories they told themselves.
Late for work...again...
Happily engaged...
Arg...Hung-over...
A daily dose of the news...
A game to kill the time...
Hungry...
Starving...
Overfed...
In love...
In a fit...
Colors....shapes....sounds...textures
They themselves were creators, whether they recognized it or not. They had created these roads and the cars that drove upon them, the structures that lined those streets and served various functions, the words and trends that moved the masses and ideas that broadcast out into the air and into the minds and hearts of their peers.
They all created their own perception of the world and so much more. Each and every one of them.
Every figure was meticulously sculpted by atoms, and then molecules that danced along in silent synchronicity. That silence somehow survived a chorus of sounds, those which sung in harmony and those which introduced discord. It was almost inconceivable that anything so beautiful could ever even exist. But it had been conceived and so it did exist, as much as anything could ever be said to exist.
There were ways in which she used the strokes of her brush consciously, played keys in harmony at just the right moments, willing this or that forth, but always following the rules and artistic restrictions she had placed upon herself, for as soon as those rules were broken, the world would begin to come apart at the seams. These rules were not doctrine to be enforced, but patterns which gave her world a sense of cohesion. In fact, anything was possible in this world, but one needed to understand its inner workings in order to shape it more consciously.
And so, when she chose to exert her will over this world, she did so in collaboration with its inhabitants, any one which had invited her and shared her vision and appreciation for beauty. She would allow herself to merge with them.
She was a she, just as She was, at times, a He. She was a whisper, she was the breeze, she was that word on the tip of your tongue, a dream that you just barely remember.
She is here now, if you listen for her.
YOU ARE READING
Confessions of the Damaged
General Fiction"He sits on a park bench talking to trees, listening carefully for their replies. He digs deeper inside himself, knowing that peace lies beyond the depths. Meanwhile a woman watches him from afar, enjoying his every step towards realization." A raw...
