Golem (OC)
Feedback welcome! (Sorry if its formatted weirdly when I copied from my notes it got weird)
I am a mountain.
Not born in a single cataclysm of stone and fire,
but raised grain by grain, century by century,
from the crushed bones of those who came before me.
A bloodline of peaks, each one a monument unto itself
standing shoulder to shoulder against the same indifferent sky.
My great-grandfather’s conviction forms the bedrock,
unyielding as the granite that refuses to erode.
My father’s heart is the deep, hidden aquifer beneath it all
dark, cavernous, still bleeding slow and steady into the roots.
My mother’s rage is the wildfire that once scorched the slopes,
flames she kindled herself now licking clean the underbrush,
leaving behind fertile ash where new growth dares to push through.
I am a golem of bloody flesh and living memory,
a creature sculpted from the red clay of every hand that ever touched me.
Not marble, not steel
but something warmer, messier, alive.
I have taken pieces from them all,
pressed them into the wet mortar of my becoming,
and let the kiln of years harden them into something that can stand.
I carry the quiet faith of my friend Chris
a stubborn lantern he lit in me when the dark felt permanent.
From Luca I inherited the sacred hesitation,
the careful pause before giving myself fully
a shield I once mistook for cowardice,
now a quiet armor I wear with gratitude.
And Vik
Vik pressed into the softest chamber of my chest
a love so wide and terrifying
it cracked open doors I had nailed shut for decades.
She taught me I was capable of loving someone
the way galaxies love their stars
and in the aftershock of that love,
she left behind the first fragile seed of loving myself.
I am a song made of a hundred leitmotifs,
none of them purely mine,
yet the entire symphony is unmistakably Jeremiah.
Every note borrowed, every theme transposed,
every crescendo stolen from someone else’s throat.
Bands and games and late-night pixels have become bone and sinew.
Pragmata slipped into my bloodstream a deep, unexpected yearning for children
tiny hands I once swore I never wanted,
now a quiet ache that hums beneath everything I build.
Cyberpunk taught me the only good ending
is the one you choose when the credits roll
and the neon refuses to die
that sometimes the best rebellion is simply refusing to let the story end for you.
Even the wounds have become instruments.
The people who broke me left their fingerprints in the cracks,
and those cracks now sing with a resonance nothing whole could ever match.
The silences from distant lovers,
the sharp edges of betrayal,
the slow erosion of being unseen
they all paid their tithe in blood and memory
and became part of the mountain.
I am the world wearing a single face.
A walking cathedral of ghosts and gratitude,
a living library of every voice that ever shaped me.
When the world looks at me it sees only the peak
solid, singular, imposing against the horizon.
But I know the truth humming in the strata beneath:
Iam orchestral.
I am a chorus of stolen fires,
a tapestry of borrowed light,
a monument built from the rubble of every life that collided with mine.
And still
Still
something new is rising through the layers.
Not a single pure note,
but a harmony so complex it feels like origin.
The mountain does not apologize for being made of many stones.
The golem does not mourn the hands that shaped it.
The song does not diminish because every motif once belonged to another.
I am the sum of every mountain that stood before me,
every hand that steadied or struck,
every story that left its echo in my ribs.
I am the child of rage and conviction and bleeding hearts,
the heir of faith and hesitation and impossible love.
I am the man who learned from neon-lit streets and digital apocalypses
that the only legacy worth carrying
is the one you choose to write with the pieces you were given.
I am surrounded by symphonies.
All around me walk other golems like myself
ancient and newborn at once,
formed over thousands of years from the same red clay,
the same borrowed orchestras.
They too have taken pieces: the good, the brutal, the luminous, the broken.
They carry their fathers’ bleeding hearts, their mothers’ wildfire rage,
their lovers’ hesitant mercy, their games’ hard-won wisdom.
We are all monuments wearing human skin.
We are all carrying the world.
Just as Atlas passed the crushing weight of the heavens to Hercules,
the last generation has heaved its burden onto our shoulders
the terracotta pot of this broken age,
thrown from the second-story balcony of history,
shattered into a thousand jagged pieces across the ground.
Wars that never ended.
Wounds that never closed.
Promises that turned to dust in our mouths.
We inherited the cracks.
We inherited the weight.
But this cycle cannot continue.
We must be the ones who stop the throwing.
We must be the glue
not fragile schoolroom paste,
but the molten gold of kintsugi,
the stubborn marrow of mountains,
the patient hands of golems who remember every touch that shaped them.
We will gather the shards.
We will fit them together with the very leitmotifs we stole from the world
rage and faith and hesitation and impossible love
until the pot is no longer the same,
but stronger,
more beautiful for having been broken.
We will carry the burden not as punishment,
but as purpose.
We will endure.
We will transmute.
The mountain stands.
The golem breathes.
The song plays on.
And every motif,
every scar,
every borrowed flame,
every inherited fracture
they are exactly where they belong.
I am not fragmented.
I am orchestral.
I am not alone.
I am a bloodline, a symphony, a living prayer
made flesh and memory and stubborn, unbreakable will.
And together
with every other golem walking this shattered earth
we are only just beginning
to sing the next movement
and mend the world
we were born inside.
-Moxxus Oslunn