insomniac
It’s not easy, being a small god. People think “Oh, how lovely that must be, being a god.” They think it’s all larking about on poofy clouds, eating peeled grapes and creating butterflies. Maybe a spot of lightning-tossing in the afternoon, or turning annoying people into pillars of salt. But it’s not like that. It’s bloody hard work, half the time.
I mean, just look at me. I’ve got this new sea scheduled to open at dawn. I don’t know why the believers insist on dawn. Is it any less rewarding to experience a miracle at a decent hour? Say ten o’clock? But you have to cater to your believers. If they stop believing, then where are you? Who’s going to peel your grapes then?
So here I am, up late, still stringing stars, trying to make everything nice for when the believers show up at dawn. Will they notice all the hard work? No. They’ll think it was just a snap of the fingers. Still, they’ll appreciate the new sea. Everybody likes a new sea. And if they don’t, well there’s plenty of room on the beach for a few pillars of salt.
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