We were never meant to live that long, that is the problem.
I have had plenty of time to think recently, you see, for the mad God refuses to speak to me now.
I know that there are some who think the Gods created us all at the beginning of Time. Such heresies must obviously be stamped down mercilessly, relentlessly, if only for reasons of social stability. For surely, if the people thought they held such a high place, such a special position in the minds of the Gods, untold atrocities would follow?
But even I, who should be sterner than most, cannot help but find these views more laughable than reprehensible.
Because I know the Gods more than any other man alive. Doesn’t one of Them walk at this very moment, next to me, in the rain? And to believe for an instant that these poor creatures, these maddened beings, these wretched things who do not most of the time know their own minds, could create from nothing the infinitely intricate complexities of the human body and of the human soul? No, Sir! To one who knows the Gods, this idea appears comical in the extreme. ’Tis better to think we were born from the primordial mud a long time ago and slowly ascended to this lofty station.
Eh! And what lofty station it is! Look at me! Drenched to the bone, shivering in the rain, covered in rags and with only the distant memory of a lukewarm watery meal to sustain me; and old, so old!
I should have died a long time ago. I should have been buried and left to sleep in the bosom of the Earth. I should know peace and oblivion. But that wasn’t to be! They are to be punished, those who meddle in the affairs of the Gods. And my punishment was an elongated life, my existence became a stretched ribbon from which all savour and joy has leeched away. All this so that I could become a walking crutch to the last God of this world.
Luckily I shall die soon, and so will He.