I stand upon alpine pedestals, observing the fingers of a golden dawn sneak around the edges of silver cumuli, blanketing the land with bright yellow. I watch the wind caress the verdant canopy of far-flung forests, rustling them into discordant hissing. The dust on the ground swirls in response to zephyrs which have journeyed far and fast. I see, in living colour, the multi-hued smells of apparently fragrant flowers, and watch with painful clarity the raiding of the honey-suckles by adventurous bees.
All these, and more, I see.
I control the path of healing, and direct the rains when prompted. I have the winds of a hundred lands leashed to my little finger, to ration them as I see fit. The secret of fertility is in my hand.
All these, and more, I can do.
Yet, I have never felt the wind on my formless shoulders, or the light of dawn on my face. I have never inhaled a gust of air, felt the turbulence of moving water against my form or recoiled from the heat of a smoking fire. As I stand upon the snow capped heights of antiquated mountains, I am but a void with awareness; the chill does not reach me, and the snow does not melt into rivulets beneath my feet as under the feet of man. I understand feeling as something recalled from the mist of memory, but I do not partake in its experience.
I am all, and I am not.
My eternity is a terrible prison, and my purpose was already defeated before my origin.
When the world was young, men hungered after things which did not fill the stomach, or satiate the loin. They coveted what their eyes could not see and their feet could not breach. They looked toward the stars. From the longing and desires of innumerable hearts, I was called forth and hallowed. Though they worship me and decry my name at every turn, I shall never be greater or stronger than them.
I shall never experience passion, or know the entropy of human conflict. I shall never feel the desperation of hunger or lose myself in the menagerie of quotidian life.
I am doomed, with countless others like me who abide in lands of eternal winter or endless summers, to serve the whims of our ‘lowly’ masters as we struggle hopelessly against an unwanted existence. We will never near the cries of children, or feel the responsibility of love.
Gods, they call us, but we are only the fusion of a hundred hopes, the answer to unspoken cries, the ethereal evidence of chimerical fancies, the synergy of human desire. Through the eons we persist, transformed in step with the evolving philosophy of our makers, never again to abide in the nothingness which was there before us, never again to be happy in the stupor of oblivion, forever chained to this world because we are remembered.
Now, if only men would forget.