I Built A World

I built a world.

In the manner of a lonely child, I imagined a life more perfect than my own.

Histories, cultures, and infinite varieties of drama most suited for my soul.

Escapism, for the creative depressive, provides a multiverse of pleasant distractions,

But no amount of fantasy and detachment could bring me satisfaction.

A dream unrealized breeds a most uncomfortable unrest,

As a lack of attention breeds a desire for intimacy and human contact.

Imagined lives tease us with the taste of everything we’re missing,

Contrasted by who we are and how we define ourselves as being.

I built a world.

The void and lonely chambers of my heart combusted into matter.

Like a supernova, the elements of creation chaotically birthed and scattered.

I quiver with excessive anticipation, separating the firmament from the water.

The shape begins to form, and my passions give rise to nature.

I carve the coastlines of continents into temperate lands of abundance.

Every aspect of my subconscious gives birth to another substance.

Creatures of every sort roam wild across my creation,

And characters I’d only imagined breathe in their first sensations.

I built a world.

My child, a living art piece with a plethora of adventure and possibility.

Beautiful personages, alive and well aware of me.

Everything balanced so perfectly I’m in tears.

Finally I can touch all my loves and my fears.

In a world of my own, I don’t ever want to leave.

The most precious attachment I have is the one I’ve conceived.

If a millennia were to pass, I doubt I would miss my life.

Better than any fiction I could imagine or write.

I built a world,

And I hold empathy for every God humanity has conceived.

A creation so magnificent where I am worshiped and believed.

The more I watch it grow, the more in love with it I fall.

Generations live and die, as I adore and lament them all.

Tragedy and romance, adventures and days of peace,

Uncountable amounts of story that change and never cease.

Can’t tare myself away enough to live my life outside.

God is dead, as Nietzsche said,  but it was blissful suicide.

 

 

 

 

 

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