Creator

Machines are those things that don't stop until their power supply runs out; they keep going and going like pink bunnies on acid. You are all of that with no artificial sweeteners, no fortifiers, no preservatives, no sequestrants. Productivity has no emotional context, no sympathy, no mercy; and maybe that's why you feel like weather formations: storms, tornadoes, blizzards -- wrathful and neutral. God must be extremely unhappy about what she's become, but feelings have nothing to do with it. It's all about rotations, about walking in circles like your foot was stapled to the earth. You are an infant at best in the grand scheme of timelines and divine purpose and your life to you appears coincidental, a random plethora of actions that flood back to back like liquid puzzles that melt into something no one else see's or cares to understand. But you can see them, the dropplets that bead on the surface, pulsing through your fingers, on the sidewalks, over people's faces. This is creation, not so much an ability of strictly the divine, but rather inherent in all those who wish to pursue such an awareness. Feel like your life traverses from your own omniscient narrations and maybe someday, you'll realize: it does.