I am God.

You don’t believe me? I will show you.

I am not the God. I am a God. I am not even the God, solitary and indivisible, of my craft. But I am a god of words, of ideas, of whirling and rushing memes and concepts and breathless explanations. You are too.

I will show you the art of creation. Watch.

Here is Jessie. He is. Watch me make him unhappy. He now lives next door to a beautiful woman, the woman of his dreams, in fact, to whom he has never spoken, and to whom he will never speak. He loves her, entirely and unselfishly, and does not believe that she knows he exists.

Watch me make her unhappy. Her name is Doris. She is thirty-five, once married, disillusioned with the world. She sees Jessie, and thinks of another life that could be. Although she will never admit it, she, beautiful and tall, wishes that she could be with him. She imagines, in her fantasies, that a life with him would be different, that he could show her the compassion that she has never seen before.

It would be so. I have created Jessie to be caring and intelligent, a fine lover with a strong, unwavering moral compass, who would be happy and successful and have everything he desires if only he would reach out and speak to Doris. They sleep so close that it hurts me, sometimes. Their beds are on either side of the same wall, and they do not know it.

Now watch Me make them happy.

I can change the future for them. I will change the future for them, because I love My children, and want them to be happy.

One morning, Jessie and Doris leave their apartments at the same moment, and, caught up in a thought that I breathed into her head, Doris is not paying attention, and trips. She falls in front of Jessie, concussing herself. Jessie, being a good person, as I made him, helps her up, and decides that he will be late to work today. He takes her to a couch and has her lie down while he gets ice. (Although he forgot to put water in the freezer the last time he used it, I have just performed a minor miracle and put it there for him.)

Doris looks around the room, and sees in an instant a man who is just as lonely and just as intelligent as she is. They will be happy together.

When I sit down to create, My works are not perfect. I do not have same the mastery of the craft as the other gods of my pantheon. But I try my best. A small miracle here, an original thought worth pursuing there.

I am a God of great humor, of overwhelming faith in My creations, of a singular desire to give back with My works to the other Gods who came before Me. You are too. I see it in the balance of a phrase, how some words flow from your fingers like wine flows from the grapevine, swelling and bursting and carefully seasoned into a drink that the Romantics knew to be good. I want to show you how I can, like Hephaestus at his forge, craft works of such enduring beauty that I can simply sit back and say, “zeh tov” — it is good.

I am a God. I am a puppeteer. I twist strands into strings, affix them to the limbs of My children, and set them to dancing. I do not always know whether I do this for Me, for You, or for anybody else. But I do it anyway, driven by a fierce hunger for creation that sometimes lies dormant in Me, but is always there.

I am God. You are God. Let our words dance together, and it will be Good.

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