Just a God

By Leighton Tanaka, TIWP Student

Who am I?

As every mortal invents hundreds upon thousands of tales about me, I’m left to wonder whether any of them are true.

Do they truly know of this person they describe? This God? Or are they all just living in their imaginations, as most humans do.

I have heard legends of lives I have never known, of friends I have never met, lovers I have never seen. Yet they are all still somehow me.

This God that I am, I can really only do so much. Perhaps I can guide them, perhaps I can call upon the wrath of the seas or conjure an earthshaking battle. Maybe I can spark romances, create miracles and sew together the threads of life.

Or perhaps I am no one, perhaps I do not exist at all.

Alas, this is something even I will never know.

Can I truly save lives or do I just create them? Do I make the sun rise? Am I trapped in the moon? Have I constructed this very world that we reside in? Do I even reside in this world?

Even so, I am left to wonder if there is something larger, greater than myself. A true God, capable of controlling all outcomes. Capable of controlling myself.

Though I fear that even if I expand large enough to encapsulate the whole universe I will never rise to meet such a power, nor will I become one. I am trapped in marble yet I am the most free artifact in the world.

Who am I?

A nameless all-knowing God who has been given many names. Even I do not know. Just as I do not know if I am truly alone in their universe. If these friends that they speak of even exist. Or if I am truly alone among the stars, burning like a star but only an idea like a black hole once was. For all I know I could have once shone bright only to become an inescapable void of death.

I hold love for mortals although many do not hold love for me. Why would they? I am merely a powerless entity floating above them as a ghost of the past, right?

Lonely? No, I couldn’t be lonely, for I am no person. Just a God.

So that is why I don’t mind when mortals curse at me for not getting them a chance to meet their favorite actor, or for losing them a girlfriend. They do not know the curse of infinity, for they cannot conceive it.
I am tired of being proper, of speaking like the origin, of dressing in practically nothing. Yet I know nothing else, I am meant to be nothing else. I look at myself, for the very first time. All I see is a broken mirror. I wave goodbye. I stitch myself back together.

I am not above anybody, nor am I below anybody. I am no more important than the dirt that you stand on or the water that you bathe in. No better than the dust that collects on the forgotten. And yet mortals worship me as if I am worth more than the air they breathe, as if I can do more than simply exist. As if the stories they invent are truly me.

And so I’ve come to the conclusion that I am just who you think I am. That I only exist to serve you and bless you, the humans who are so kind, who can do no wrong. You sweet angels deserve the world and I am required to hand it to you. Man, woman, friend or foe, God of one or God of all. I guess I am the God of all that you want, aren’t I? Because you, humans, created me. You get to choose what I am, right? Some claim to have met me, but I have met nobody, I am merely a “thing” that watches you from above.
And so I look upon your finite lives, that some spend spreading lies of me, and I am able to look at you with no hate whatsoever. After all, I am a God, aren’t I? Perhaps I should start acting like one.

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