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The Daimon

I know a man who is a God.

We meet in the diner each month for coffee.
He looks about 50 years old. But young with it.

In every other respect he is a normal man.

He looks plain. His manner of speaking is confident and capable, but otherwise unremarkable. His dress sense is smart and well put together, yet neither flamboyant or roguish.

He verges on an averageness that makes him indistinguishable from a million other men of his type.

You’ve probably walked past five or ten men like this in the street today, or stood behind them in a coffee shop queue.

One day, without telling anyone, this man, my acquaintance, simply decided that he was a God. Not a God of others, but a God of himself, to himself.

The Greeks spoke of the daimon — a self demon or secret spirit. The personal voice of higher reason. My acquaintance just announced he was a God.

One day he simply informed me. As casully as requesting ‘No milk, thank you.’ when he ordered his black Americano a moment before.

The ease with which he switched topics, moving on to casually talk about the latest inanity in the news or some such, always struck me as marvellous.

“Oh, I am my own God. I am a God. Yes.”

I wake up thinking how could he wear this so lightly? As if it was the same sort of decision as correctly loading bread into a toaster when you want to make toast. Frictionless.

I had to pry.

“Why?” I asked, hoping for some kind of transcendent experiecne, some kind of revelation.

“One must become glorious.”

The answer was flat and emotionless. Like someone describing a rock. Without any grandeur or pomposity at all.

“But what if you don’t?”

“Then I suppose I will die trying. But I will. I am my own God.”

“Do you need to pray?”

“Oh, yes. All the time. Everything I do, from the way I walk to the way I am holding this coffee cup right now, celebrates my Godliness.”

“How did you know, to become a God I mean?”

“I didn’t choose it. The Universe asked it. It’s not that I had a say in the matter or have to be motivate myself now in the morning or anything like that. I have to be a God, so I am one.”

He suddenly looked right at me after he finished speaking.

Right into my eyes.
Piercing the lens, into the vitreous.

His pupils black and flashing.
Alive with menace.

Sitting in front of me in a plaid shirt. 
A God.