Have you experienced the joy of creation?

To forge in fire, carve from wood, mold in clay, and wet with paint?

I know that joy well.

But creation comes at a cost.

My kind came from a world of two heavens. My people were similarly split. Half had only a sun; the rest, the sparkled void. We would worship them in our own way, seeing either the One or the Many. It caused great conflict between our people who only recognized a single sky. But, through creation, and sharing our art—our joy—we were able to show the sky we knew and understand the one we didn’t.

It would be in that exchange of delight that we discovered that the One and the Many were the same. Each Many is the One in its own right, all bringers of light, all deserving our faith and admiration. But even with faith, there is still fear and uncertainty.

“Our shadows grow larger the closer we are to the light. How, then, could we hope to purge the darkness from our hearts if the light is external and not within?”

The question gave our scholars much pause; and for generations it went unanswered.

Perhaps, I thought, it was never meant to be answered.

For years, under a new One, I would toil away my life, pondering the old ways, and asking the same question to each traveler who came by. And, eventually, a crimson-haired outsider gave me her odd insight.

“Temperance,” she said. “Accept the darkness in your heart so that the rest of you doesn’t burn away.”

I replied, “But there is no darkness in the One. How, then, can I truly bask in Its glory if I create a shadow that denies the light its passage, spreading darkness?”

“Does the sun not burn you? Hurt your eyes? Enjoy the darkness for a moment.” She floated above me, blocking the sun. “Shadows exist because we do—not because of darkness. You can bask in the light while also enjoying the shade.”

The air chilled and the nearby colors faded. For a brief moment, everything became dark, an eclipse of the One. That was when I saw the Many, the true color of the sky in darkness. I said to the outsider, “I am… inspired.” She then took me away to a room of creation. I saw many tools, wooden shells, and paints. I sat at that great table, a child in mind, wanting to play.

She told me: “Give color to these shells as the light has done for you. See that it is not darkness in your heart—but passion. And when passion runs dry… return to the light again.”

I followed her orders and opened up the paints, taking the shells, and covering them like how light covers the land. The wet colors mixed; the new shades inspired me—a destruction of the old colors to create a new one.

“Temperance,” I wondered. And I began to understand.

I grew tired and weary; beginning to hate each new shell. So much potential in every one, and yet, so little time and energy. I could see in my mind what they were meant to be, but my hands started to fail, the paints started to dry, and the colors were all becoming brown. It was a maddening frustration, one which only progressed in the presence of creation. I realized, then, that I had to step away; else my work, in all its innocence, would suffer through me.

When I returned to the One, letting the light warm my worn joints and invigorate my soul. So, too, did the outsider return to me.

I said to her, “The body limits what the mind wishes; what the soul will always permit. These three things must always be in balance—else it leaves the heart wanting what it can never have. We do not need the light in our hearts, for they are filled with the essence of creation; and the potential for our own destruction; a reminder of our own imperfect creation.”

“Temperance,” she said and smirked. “Of light and dark.”

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The outsider then revealed an orb from her robe, the insides twisting and turning. A rift, it seemed, contained inside of glass—but it was much more. Mysteriously compelled by the light, I grabbed the orb and saw a history not my own; my mind becoming undone.

❦ ❦ ❦

An enigmatic creator toiled away deep under the world. His people lived outside of the mountain which he claimed solely for himself—their underground city abandoned and populated by living stone. And the creator, still flesh, denied himself the sky

All feared the dark of night near the mountains, embracing the sun and shunning the stone. His creations stole away those who lived near—dragging them deep into the city—to his forge to create more. Their blood fueled the erg which drove their animation, their screams silenced by deft hands. Each death created another life in the stone. And each stone was made unique; a facsimile of their previous identity. The creator had no maligned intentions for such transformation, but a transformation it was—and forced. And so, the stone often wept blood from unseeing eyes, wiping them away with unfeeling hands.

Ci-Pe-Ra they were called; weeping stone heart.

Sloppier and sloppier became the work of the creator, the weeping stone hearts’ shape becoming rougher with each generation. The creator was losing his passion—losing himself—to the madness which guided his hand. And so, his work suffered through him as much as it suffered because of him.

The stone eventually became still, as dead as the motivation which drove the creator; the nightly raids stopping after countless years. The creator, seeking a new passion, painted a new sky above the underground city for all his creations to ponder as their bodies slowed down, gazing up at him, silently pleading for release. But for all his strife and trouble, the creator could not complete his image of the sky; it had been so long that he had forgotten what the sky even was. The colors of his paint soon mixed into the same brown and grays as the stone beneath it.

A lone man, more curious than brave, headed down the caverns into the ancient city to see what became of their old terrors. His sole light, the torch in his hand, attracted the gaze of the creator from the ceiling above. Creeping along the walls, dangling down, and meeting the hero, the creator spoke: “Drawn to flame like moths, I seek a new sun. Guide me out of this tomb and eternity in stone will be your reward.”

The hero, not understanding the creature before him, threw the torch at the creator and ran back up the winding tunnels. The creator followed, filling the caverns with pleading echoes and light from his burning body until they were both out of the mountain—in sight of the sun.

“What magnificence!” The creator cried. “I will capture this beauty and make it my own!” He raised his arms to claim the sun, but nothing filled his hands.

The people of the nearby village watched the creator, aghast at what they saw. A man twisted beyond his years; his burnt flesh being boiled by the sun. Stone, then, he became. A permanent statue, still living, in eternal admiration of the sky. And thus, their torment ended, but that was not enough.

For all the malice the other nations had for each other, there was not one greater than the one the creator’s kin had for him. When the magisters came to provide their technology to undo the gods, they willingly turned against their misunderstood protector.

Chipping away, until the stone bled, they found his heart, and made him dead.

A single orb was left in the rubble and ruin—the same sky the creator admired was captured in its luster. The magisters then took it away, being followed by whispers, and handed it to their leader who uttered: “Temperance tempered.”

❦ ❦ ❦

I awoke from the dream, my body cold and unfeeling. The light of the One graced my skin once again, bringing it warmth. “Such a terrible memory,” I said to the crimson-haired outsider. “Is that the future you intend for me?”

She shook her head. “My hope is that you will fare better than him. A heart of stone, unfeeling and immune to extremes, is not suitable for creation. We must feel, and hurt, to know that there is joy. The creator was selfish, unwilling to share, and coveted all that inspired him. Eventually, he forgot why he was even creating in the first place.”

I thought over her wisdom, but had some of my own. “To me, the creator wanted to share too willingly and forced his creation upon others. He created facsimiles instead of something truly his own. To copy the sky? One could never hope to capture the natural beauty of the world; but through us, we can create a thousand new ones.” I paused, thinking a new thought. “What is created in life is not solely ours… but the domain of everyone far beyond one’s own existence. The creator’s work, as still and lifeless as they seem, still outlived him—his mark on the world. His creation alone was not the value of his existence, but his existence itself became a work of art.”

The outsider then grinned, eyes glowing red. “A paradox, perhaps, that someone can breathe life into unliving things; and to survive through them beyond death—becoming something like art themselves… But what is life if not a contradiction?”