18 to Life

It's a typical Midwestern theme. "Get out of this town", they told him as a young man. "Make something of yourself." Without a trace of condensation, he smirked at the quaintness of that phrase. If they only knew...
At night he would go to desolate country fields. He would stand there beneath the stars, studying their position, noting their beauty. Then without warning he would fling his hands upward toward the heavens, and he would begin to move the stars, to arrange them, to push and pull the planets as he saw fit, orchestrating a cosmic symphony. He would rise the sun just to freeze the dawn, just to see those few moments of watercolor splendor streak the sky. And just as effortlessly, he would set the sun, just to see the twilight's dull contrast. Ocean storms were but a tempest on his canvas. Birds migrated in the dazzling patterns of his will. Lightning would strike precisely, setting an ancient oak tree awash with brillance, or perhaps silhouetting a mountain. Flowers bloomed the vivd shades of his fancy.
Was he God? Certainly not. But perhaps he shared at least 2 qualites with the sovereign; that of image, and that of designation of "Creator."
No, he was not God. He was merely a young man who had been told to get out of town and to make something of himself. He could not make something of himself; he was his self, and nothing more nothing less, ironclad and solid. He had purpose and vision and integrity, and no room to throw in compromised baggage or false pretenses, no time to entertain costumes, charcters, and facades. Make something of yourself. No, it was worded wrong. His identity did not stem from the external; quite the contrary, the external would stem from his identity. It was compelled to by his very nature. Of himself, he would make something. Of himself, he would make much.