There's a name for this kind of entertainment, something tied to reality yet so far removed, it's almost comical. Reality television. Ironic, since this is the farthest thing from it, a scripted dramatization of life. Every once in a while it's nice to just shut off your brain, grab a big fat bag of chips and lay on the couch. And what would you find? What's the newest, hottest trending reality TV show? Something with stakes, drama, action, comedy, anything you could possibly want?

Inanimate Insanity.

The name rolls off the tongue perfectly too. What more could anyone ask for?

It's the kind of name a child would repeat incessantly, begging their guardian to switch on the television to enjoy alongside lunch. And they'd look back on it as a fond memory, even if they eventually grow out of enjoying such things, it has ingrained itself amidst the misty memories of staying up late and waiting for the next one to come. The suspense absolutely killed you. But now you know. And even when you know it all, from start to finish, you go back and see it again. You might even notice small things that you missed by focusing on the bigger picture, little treats you savor upon each rewatching. It never failed to surprise.

Your parents might even bring it up every once in a while, even after you'd long forgotten.

"What was that show you loved so much?" Mom asks.

"The one with the funny name, the uh...Inert Insaneness?" Dad misremembers.

Inanimate Insanity.

Parasite.

With a roll of the eyes you cast the thought away.

You retort angrily, "I grew out of that years ago! It isn't real, anyway."

It wasn't real in the same way that wrestling is, the storylines and characters played up by actors. Sure, they threw their punches. And people got hurt. But at the end of the day they knew what they were getting into when they started.

No one's loss.

Just as it was a fond memory, it becomes a bitter resentment over time. You cringe and seethe at the very notion that such a silly, stupid thing ever kept you up at night, sleepless, worried sick for the outcome. You'd screamed louder than a football stadium at maximum capacity when the side you were rooting for was victorious, and shed countless tears when they waved goodbye. It was a feeling deep in your chest, just shattering your little heart.

What a stupid thing to feel over such nonsense.

But in the moment none of it mattered, because you were happy.

Perhaps you aren't resentful because of how you were. You are scorned because you've never felt such a simple joy about anything since. Just a silly show, the one thing that made you smile.

Inanimate Insanity.

But that's merely a hypothetical.

Here is a definitive.

The artist has access to their tools: all the colors of the rainbow, a box set of colors, the fancy kind with a sharpener in the back.

The canvas: Lined sheets of paper.

The planning: All on the spot.

Not the most optimal way to go about such a thing, leaving little room for error being so brash might have setbacks.

He isn't even using an eraser, he just scribbles over any mistakes or tosses crumpled balls of paper over his shoulder, not caring where they land.

When he's finished, he lines each page alongside one another, like soldiers preparing for war. His battalion at the ready, he squints his eyes.

Something is missing.

But of course, the centerpiece can only be the best of the best, the sergeant general, their first in command.

But what's the best?

Don't ask me, I don't know!

Sometimes he lets me have breakfast at the table with him.

A plate of pancakes, a bowl of fruit, and a tall, cold glass of orange juice.

With a nod, he completes the ensemble. It's so perfect, almost too perfect, the way everything panned out. They all bounce off one another just swell, metaphorically of course, just in reference to their conflict. The sweet, the sour, the just right, a perfect blend. Now it doesn't just exist in his head, but it's given physical form.

It's a total rush job.

The less time you take working out the kinks and buffing out the scratches, the higher chance there will be problems later on down the line. Oh the irony. I should have listened too.

Now normally one wouldn't care to observe the meanderings of a child, but a creative mind must be nurtured. And it would be a lie to say It hadn't caught my eye beforehand. This was my own escapism, a fun break from the usual workload. I laughed. I cried. I guffawed at the sheer absurdity. It was bliss.

This wasn't meant to sound so personal, but I digress.

It was made to follow and obey, and it ended up serving that purpose in one way or another. But I couldn't have it thinking this was the norm. There way the usual monotonous routine to keep up with, and this was how things were meant to be.

Make me a tree, a rock, a cloud...Yes, another one. I'm aware we already stand on one.

Do they taste like cotton candy?

No. Of course they don't.

What a buzzkill I can be sometimes. A real stick in the mud.

I was so in my own head I couldn't even see the gleaming opportunity before me, and I fear there was a chance I might have never seen it.

But the light blinded me at last. It was such a warm presence.

And the light came up to me innocently, tapping me on the shoulder. It waved at me with a smile. The first. The best one.

And he came between us! The nerve of the little wretch. He threw his arms up defensively, and the light merely looked on in...awe? Confusion? Something I don't think even it could name. But he was afraid of me, for whatever reason I can't comprehend. Maybe the situation was too sudden, for he spouted a slew of panicky word vomit, my goodness, I thought he would actually throw up.

"I don't know how it happened! He was supposed to stay on the page!"

He exclaimed, waving his arms up and down.

"But I've been taking care of him! I let him stay in the storage closet and I feed him cookies when he's hungry! Please don't take him away!"

What a whiny thing.

But I was not angry. No, in fact I encouraged him.

And he told everything.

All the worlds he'd made up in that empty head of his.

And I wanted in on it. All of it.

Anyone can come up with great ideas, but that means nothing if there is no order, no way for them to be seen by the world. I couldn't allow him to keep it all to himself. I pried and pried, I put on a facade of interest during the boring parts and urged him to elaborate on the best.

It was mesmerizing. My mind's mind, the other me, was such a creative thing. Of course he got it from me.

The light still looked at me with those big, innocent eyes, looking from him and me, back to back. Just a refraction of light. It was not afraid, but I doubt there was a single thought in its head just yet. But that's what a thinker is for, for perfecting the mistakes, for guiding them towards flawlessness. Just long enough for them to learn on their own. One does not teach a dog to fetch for only their benefit, but so they bring things to you. It is a mutual exchange, one taking the time to teach, the other to learn. A blend of careful calculation and whimsy creativity.

But where to direct this power? When one possesses such a mind-boggling ability, why only use it to make stick figures and rushed scribbles?

Another hypothetical.

Nobody just exists that way, simply born from nothing.

Not so long as I did not make them.

Mom and dad and a sister and a brother, a family exists along the tree, and it's still growing and growing and growing. And it will keep growing.

"I'll make you proud, momma!"

"You can count on me, dad!"

"Peepaw, will you come hug me when I win?"

The ego personalizes the trivial.

Everyone wants to be a winner.

Through a monotonous repeated effort, doing the same thing over and over and over and over and over again expecting adverse results.

The definition of insanity.

Inanimate Insanity!

It was fun.

Then came more light. The lights of cameras flashing, of lights blinding you, a flashbang of colors and sounds and things we'd never seen before, a world we made, yet also discovered on our own!

Let there be light!

I had to shut my eyes at times, but he never did. That light, he welcomed it, why it came from inside him. It came from all directions. It came from everywhere, but also nowhere. And away they came! Of all shapes and colors, all kinds. I marveled at them and their wide, curious eyes. We were all so confused. He seemed to be the only one who really understood what he was doing, at least from this standpoint.

And it was a fond memory. As stupid, childish and superfluous as it was, regrettably, a part of it was imprinted on us. A part of a whole, scattered into other people, and more and more, every branch of the family tree. Mom and dad and child, a child, another child. Playing God had never seemed so sweet. How can something so saccharine be a sin?

Set against the backdrop of a light blue sky and green grass they'd stand, be it all together or separate. On rare occasions they would come together, a portrait of a perfect family, a school of fish, a herd of sheep.

Click!

What a nice picture.

He had an odd expression on his face, like he wanted to be glad, but it was forced. Like he'd been cheated out of something. Something he never had to begin with, or something he never even knew he wanted.

He looked at me.

I looked down at him with a smile.

What do you think, four?

Taking back the microphone from our first speaker, CEO, entrepreneur, thinker of the future. I hope we never let him speak again. Our humble narrators will take the lead from here, myself included.