To create a life is a most spectacular thing, wouldn’t you agree?
I don’t mean the old fashioned way, any two teenagers can rub a stick in a hole and end up making mud.
But to create a life in the way only a writer can? Now that is a feat.
To birth in the style of Athena, this form, this creation of being that is known only in its truest essence to you, it’s creator.
And like God, you alone have the choice to share this life with the world. Such an awesome, fearful power to have.
Yet no one begs the question, what of the lives destroyed?
Terminated, under the pen? What can be given, can just as easily be taken away.
What of the lives forgotten? Summoned only in a dream, and lost before the dawn; what becomes of them?
Chosen not by their master to be shared, but to be kept to the self.
Do they scream out, begging to be heard? Or do they fade quietly into oblivion?
Do they know it is happening; can they feel it?
Can you feel it?
About the Creator
I like to put pieces of myself into my writing. Sometimes it's a finger, sometimes a toe, but it's always something that gets stuck to the roof of your mouth and leaves a lingering feel in your gut.