They lied when they told me that I would die one day. I have died 1,948,349,234 times and each time I have been deceived at the start, that this one would be my last.
After a certain amount of time, you quit counting. I guess I have yet to do that. When I think back to those lifetimes that I remember, they aren’t unique in their story but rather repetitive in the grand scheme of things. You’re born. You live as you love. You die. Then it starts over again. Of all of them, only a few were special or noticeable to the degree that the cosmos’s flinched when they swung. I am shaken often at the normalcy which 99% of my and your existence accounts for. People hate to hear that they aren’t that special.
What is really profound comes from the rare gilded copy of a life that is found in the hands of it’s Protagonist. Those versions of myself who’ve lived beyond my ability, who have succeeded where I failed. Those who attained the heights that I always dreamed of; They are what I aspire for and drive into each broken poem I cross. What and why they seem to achieve these feats doesn’t originate from their power, their drive to be better or to have the thing which sits as their goal, no. What the victors in my story share in common, is that they gave up. They gave up their goals as they saw them, they chose not to hold onto the things which got in the way. At some point in their story, they were so absolutely broken that their ability to challenge the God of that world left them. They were crucified on their own cross and now until their death, they suffer for the world they’ve made.
I don’t want to paint the pictures of the green and golden always. Though their scenes are known peaceful, calm, and serene to the world which sees them. They are not the subjects of my gallery. I desire the vivid, the harsh, the sickly sweet and the mourning loss. I seek those that seed emotion and reaction in their perception. It is you. I want nigh the whole, but all the broken that I may mosaic a masterpiece upon the cement of God with each shard.
Each life matters in the way that is your chance to stand out. To be remembered. When in this one, your actions have led you to become complacent and still. When your colors are greyed beyond notice. You will be forgotten and those memories will fade into the sum of so many like them. You must bring and be the color which all the Gods testify as the most beautiful to be seen. This isn’t a task which leads you to do anything other then love the world you have as you have it. Accept that the space is the one which is watched, seen, and governed by the Gods. Make your life the center of the faith which your family worships. Stand under the idols of the many and flay your flesh to the foundation, watching as regimes fall to the sacrifice you’ve laid.