Honestly my parents were hard-working and good people but very sad, very beaten by life and not ones to give me a crisp explanation. Not of life, not of anything. Don’t tell a lie, sure but why not, get a job, but why, not quite “just because” but not much more than it either. If you’ve ever experienced that I think you know.
So I went to the school and they explained it to me. God of birth, god of death. God of now, god of yesterday, god of tomorrow. God of love god of parting. Did the gods create being, or did being create the gods? Artemius of Sha said one thing, Dilododoskorus of Premee says the other. The fractal texture of the soul’s armor, the diaphanousness of epiphany and vice versa. I learned it all.
I learned it all. But I didn’t believe it. Not really. The other students who came from normal homes believed it. They were grateful to the teachers for teaching them. But me although I wanted the teachers to understand that I understood it, thought on some level it was a joke a big game. I could say those things, but I knew I was just saying them.
I spoke to my teacher once when he was quite an old man and I told him that. By that time I didn’t really care if anybody thought I was dumb or smart. He said “You’re confused. That’s just an epiphany of the god of confusion. It all seems fake. That’s an epiphany of the god of it all seems fake.”
But — obviously — I didn’t believe that either. I think I believe in the texture of my life. I think I believe from that texture thin or thick, torn or sure, the gods are woven along with me.
Maybe I’ll start a school!