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"I'd like to go on a walk", I had told him.
So, he made the field. A nice, grassy field mottled with colorful tulip patches. The way he knew I liked it. Like those in Holland, in the old travel postcards I had taped all around my room as a child.
The nostalgia was too much and he sensed it, so he changed the scenery into a tropical beach at sunset. My feet, no longer confined in shoes - sturdy shoes, the kind that never hurts no matter how many miles you've travelled in them. Not that he'd let me experience pain, of course. I could be walking on mats of needles and he'd still make it so my soles never bled - now sank into soft mounds of sand, chilly enough to send a pleasant feeling up my legs.
He knew I was comfortable, so he didn't speak. A group of dolphins started jumping across the waves, and I knew he meant to entertain me. Keep my mind aware and stimulated, so I wouldn't go insane. The sunset never ended, as much as he kept himself busy with changing the environment I walked through. Always a tropical beach at sunset, but now there's a patch of palm trees, now a bonfire that never spreads. On an outdoor dining table, there was cooked lobster and a Spritz cocktail. I didn't know I was hungry until I sat down and began to eat, my imaginary hunger satiated mouthful after mouthful. The food wasn't meant to fill me, but to be enjoyed as human pleasure. He made me hungry so that I'd find nourishment pleasant.
He remembered my schedule. Allowed me to keep the eating habits I had known before, and replicated them at set hours of the day. He never tinkered with my perception of time, as though he moved the sun and moon to his delight. Once, he made a full moon at 10:56 just because the thought of the moon crossed my mind at that very instant. It didn't last very long. Just the time for me to enjoy it. Then the sun came back.
The lobster was juicy and had a tangy taste to it. I dug through the head to find the most savory parts and he was pleased by my appetite. The Spritz tickled my tongue, but at the moment I didn't find the idea of tipsiness alluring so he made it non-alcoholic. I finished my dinner and sat down on the beach, watching waves that didn't exist.
"They do exist", he told me, "They will be reality for as long as it pleases you".
An arm that never was never meant to be circled my back, and I rested my head against his shoulder. I cried, and he understood. He never chastised me for it. He knew how my brain worked, knew exactly why I was crying. Knew he made it so and yet my tears didn't move him nor did they amuse him. He chose to ignore, for he couldn't do anything to stop them. All was done and it was his doing. His wishes. This, a needed consequence. I didn't hate him for his wishes. For his finiteness. I had made him and he had made a reality for me. But he wasn't perfect, because he was born of man. He was everything, but he was not God.