The Architect

Who is responsible for my creation?

“I don’t know how I got here” I thought to myself as I approach the old wooden door covered with red chipping paint. The old ornate doorknob now resides in the palm of my hand. I don’t remember reaching for it. I begin to wonder what I will see on the other side of the door. My gaze shifts from the handle, to the door, and back again. I let out a breath I did not know I was holding and turn the knob with a quiet creek. Inside I see a man sitting in an old wooden chair. He is holding something, I can see his hands moving but I don’t know why. I notice that the room is incredibly dim, above him resides one single lightbulb on a dark black wire. 

I step inside the room  cautiously, to see if I can get a better look at the man. As I step quietly around the outskirts of the room, holding my breath so I don’t make a single sound, I near the first corner of the room. I am able to see the beginnings of the left side of his face. His dark brown hair is styled carefully on his head, shaped and parted to perfection. His cheekbones are strong and prominent in his face as well as his jaw line. His jaw is spotted with an ungroomed stubble that does not match the perfection on top of his head.  I take a few more steps as light begins to flood through the only window that resides on the left side of the room, showering me in shadows from what I assume is the tree outside. This is when I notice his tan skin and piercing hazel eyes. I can also see his hands in perfect view. 

In his left hand there is a note pad, the right a pen. This is not an ordinary pen, it is a fountain pen that much be refilled upon empty. I step closer attempting to see what he is writing. This is when he notices me. He looks at me with his strong eyes and a look of absolute distain. I would have been more fearful, but truth be told he was the most handsome man I had ever seen. I break my gaze from him and move toward the window. I don’t know why I turned my back on him or why I felt like this was okay, but I knew I had to look outside. The shadows that covered me before become more prevalent as I near the window. There is a tree, and nothing else. There is no grass, no birds, no cars, nothing but whiteness that stretches out beyond me further than I can see. As I stand there I listen, again there is nothing. I begin to be filled with terror as I wonder how I had arrived in a place of nothingness. 

 My mind snaps back to the man that resides in the chair behind me. I turn to look at him. He is scribbling on his paper again. Fearfully, I step forward. I need to know what he is writing. Ten feet away, five, two, one foot away. I can see his paper. There is a single tree with large leaves, the tree that is growing outside the window. Next to the tree there is a girl, she is wearing a red knee length summer dress with black heals, there is a gold chain with a small pendent around her neck. The girl is me. “Who are you?” I asked him with terror in my voice. He doesn’t look up from what he is drawing, which at the moment appears to be nothing more than lines on a page. “Who are you?” I say a little louder, still he does not look up from his page. Suddenly, there is another chair in front of him similar to his except there is a small red cushion that resides in the seat. I sit down. 

Anxiety begins to build in my chest as we sit in silence. As we sit, glace from him, to the paper, to the window, and back again. The paper is beginning to be filled with drawings of trees, hills, birds, but no people. Only the girl who looks like me. As he draws the things on the page begin to appear outside the window. “How are you doing this?” I ask him. Finally he turns to the next blank page and everything outside the window disappears. Everything except me, the chairs, the man, and the room vanished while I was blinking. “I am the architect” He finally said as he put his pen within the rings that bind the paper together and crossed his legs. His voice sounds like sweet honey as he tells me who he is, with the sweetness of his voice I feel the anxiety that has been building wash away. 

“What does that mean?” I ask him as he returned his gaze to his blank page. Within seconds he has retrieved his pen from the bindings and drawn me again. I become the only thing that resides on the page. “This is you.” He says very matter of fact. “I created you with this pen and on this paper. I am responsible for building every world that exists and I am responsible for destroying it when it becomes poisoned by those who reside in it.” He explained. “How do you do it? How do you create worlds, create lives, and then erase them as if they don’t even matter?” I feel the anger rise in my voice, anger that I do not know the origin of. “Who are you to decide the worth of those who live their lives in the worlds built for them?” I am standing now. He turns the page and looks at me. With a single sweep of his pen, he draws a line through me. 

“I don’t know how I got here” I thought to myself as I approach the old wooden door with the red chipping paint.