As a writer, one of the big risks is that you will create a world so realistic that it will draw you in. You will become obsessed. Inevitably, then, you will yield to the temptation to breathe life into that world. Now you’ve done it. You’re no longer a writer, you’re a creator, a god. There’s no way for this to turn out well. Independent life leads to freedom leads to suffering leads to evil. It happens every time. And this time, it’s your fault. You’re the god. This is why I always burn my good writing. If it’s good, it’s dangerous. We’re not cut out to be gods. No one is.
Somewhere on a long stretch of empty highway in the afternoon heat, the devil is jogging. Every few hundred yards he has to stop and catch his breath. He can’t seem to get into a rhythm, to get his breathing right. His top minions cannot understand why he feels compelled to do this, but he’s just been feeling soft lately, out of shape. It’s beginning to affect his self esteem. So, he decided to take off for a while, to get alone and get healthy. As he psyches himself up to try again, to go at least a mile before he rests, he wonders if maybe he doesn’t have the right shoes. They were advertised as running shoes at the store, but maybe he should have gone to a specialist or something. Maybe his instep needs custom fitting or whatnot. He’s not sure, so he puts it out of his mind and, taking a deep breath, sets off again, his stride a little awkward, a bit too bouncy, robbing him of energy with every heavy impact on the hot blacktop.
When the world was young the godchild played in the shade of the rainforests with the ants and snakes. They did dances for him, in their own way. It was here, in the cool, wet place, that the godchild saw the sacred orchid. It was purest white with a blaze of crimson red at its heart. When he saw it, the godchild smiled so widely and laughed so joyfully that he burst into millions of flower petals which scattered on the winds all over the earth and, when they landed, became, each one, a man or a woman. One day, when the last man or woman dies, an orchid will bloom in the forest, and the godchild will step out from its crimson heart. “Is the orchid good or evil?” asked the disciple. At this, the teacher only smiled.
Hello, friends. I hope you’re well today.
Later. Love.
