Me and My Creator

We have a strange relationship, my creator and I.

In the beginning there was unqualified love. His out of the boundless joy of having created, mine the unquestioning adoration of a newly coined consciousness.

Those were the days that give the warmth to the golden glow of fond memories. Days of boundless wonder. We were in constant contact during those early days, as if still connected, by a now invisible though still essential, umbilical cord.

That was a time of affection and of adoration and of adulation.

Very slowly I began to take my first tottering steps. Eager and at the same time terrified to let go of the extended finger that provided assurance, stability and support. Soon my hesitant uncertainty gave way to curiosity as I began to discover the world around me. Every new discovery was earth shaking, and I would rush back to share it. Every new step was applauded with the shining eyes and the puffed chest of a proud parent.

That was a time of pride and of adventure and of camaraderie.

As it became familiar, far from breeding contempt, the great wide world deepened infinitely in its allure, its seductive charm. The more I saw, the more it promised and I allowed myself to be drawn in. It was neither an act of will nor was it done unwillingly, it was simply done. With each early foray, my first instinct was to rush back to share the excitement, to bask once more in the love and the pride. With each foray I became aware of the many more just around the corner, and soon even the thoughts of return faded. With each prolonged absence I learned that the bond between my creator and myself was not one without rules. Sometimes pliable, often rigid, sometimes written in stone. And there were penalties for breaking them, harsh penalties.

That was a time of bewilderment and of anguish and of pain.

With experience and knowledge came confidence, even a certain brashness that has at time been called arrogance. The world lay at my feet, to be brushed aside at whim. There were several compensations for what had been callously sacrificed, sops for the mind and the body that consumed the senses and more than filled any void.

That was a time of celebration and of gratification and of excess.

The sun has traversed its heavenly path and slowly begins to sink beyond the western horizon. The deep blue of the sky fleetingly flecked with glorious gold and an amber red, turns foreboding with progressively darker shades of gray. The icy winds that rule the forsaken plains rack my aging frame, cutting to the bone now covered by sparse and infirm flesh. The memories that remain are not those of a towering youth, but those of a cowering babe and that comforting touch, once omnipresent, then forsaken and now gone.

It is a time of regret and of remorse and of awaiting the inevitable.