I was reading a thread on Reddit the other day about the saddest realization a person has had. One poster was saying that this universe we live in? This is it. Too late for land exploration, too early for space colonization. That made me think of my writing.
Every story you write, you create a tiny world of flora, fauna, animals, vegetables, minerals, emotions, colors, feelings, and so on. It doesn’t matter if it’s placed in a fantastically magical world, or if it’s in real time, in the real world. This universe’s time stream is entirely dependent on me. I can put up the Great Wall of China, I can tear it down, I can have wars fought, ships launched, hearts were broken, all with the flick of my fingers. I can fall in love, I can fall out of love, I can examine the reasons why love is love is love.
There’s something inherently beautiful because of that. It’s almost existential too. I can choose to abandon a story and have it be forgotten, and no one would ever know it existed. Does that make it real? Is it real because I’ve placed that designation on it? It’s real because I wrote it. Just because it’s hidden from the world doesn’t make it any less real. I think that’s a lovely thought. In my deepest darkest choked up depressive days, I feel that way about my existence. I think that’s how God feels. You send these beautifully flawed creatures created in your image out into the world to do whatever they want, and all you can do is guide them and let them know in small ways that they exist. They’re real because they want to be.
Reminds me of God in Futurama:
When you do things right, people won’t be sure you’ve done anything at all.