It is a most pleasurable and painful need of His image: To speak, to sing, to form, to make. Our hands were sculpted to press a moldless form into beauty. Our eyes were crafted to dream color into a dark grey vision. Our lips were shaped to taste the ever-sweeter sensations that we could conceive. We were fearfully and wonderfully designed to create like the Creator.
A piece of the one who creates pours forth into the physical world. Sound and smell, texture and taste. It begins as a fantasy of a faraway hope made manifest in his time and place. He painted, he played, and it was so. The unnamed nothing breaks into existence by the reckless creative expression. And he loves his creation in the reflection of the one who creates.
The breath of life fills the lungs of the infant creation. Her eyes open in wonderous adoration as she stands before the one who creates. He recognizes so much in her, his tortured past that drove him to create alongside the moments of hope that she would be the beloved creation.
But she takes up an unpredictable path. Life beyond his creative fingertips looks different than he anticipated. That breath of life speaks her own words. His sculpture of beauty twists herself into her own form. His brushstrokes appear grainy and incomplete. His words sound shallow and misunderstood. His melody does not match the wonder she should have been.
He laments his creation, because she moves outside of him. Every fresh inspiration now sends her further away from his embrace. He becomes afraid of what she has become, it is not what he thought, he does not know if this is what he wanted. Obsession over his failure, inescapable pain from her flawed existence. The one who creates plots his escape from his creation.
The tension between love and hate is sickening. Ultimately there is one answer to his artistic tragedy. Only one can survive. Shrouding the canvas. Burning the pages. Forgetting the music. She cannot survive if he must go on. He declares to her, death by the law of my expectation.
Only one can survive. Sighing, gasping, forsaken. He cannot survive if she must go on. He declares to her, death by the law of my expectation. She stands stupid and dumbfounded as the one who creates gives up his spirit. She sits in wonder as he breathes freedom into her future. She dwells with his final words; I now am crafted for you.