If there is meaning to my existence, then I have yet to find it. I do not know how I came to be or how I am to cease being, but I have experienced all that is in between.
I have lived in darkness until I have lived in light, and I have created hostility amongst humanity. I have created thrones of gold for men and I have created huts of Earth for others to die in.
Some souls are mangled by unrequited devotion and some are to perceive the death of their beloved. And yet, through all of this, I have found no reason.

I do not feel joy or sorrow, but loneliness. I cannot simply off myself like it is to be for them. I do not know what it is that has cursed me with my boundless abilities or why, but none of the limitless outlines in which I create have brought meaning to my existence.
They do not understand how it is that I loathe them. Their mortality and illusory perception of time. Even those who doubt my existence are to conclude. In fact they find purpose in my existence, not knowing that their creation served as a purpose for mine, and yet I still feel as though I am a hollow nothingness of all that is.
Man was not made in my image, but in my anguish. Let them kill and love and destroy and build and fuck until they need me to cleanse their dirty bodies of sin.

Yes, it’s true that as long as you don’t choose, everything remains possible, but if I can one day create every scenario of good and evil, of indifference and helplessness, of torment and bliss… if i can one day do that, perhaps then I shall be unchained and allowed at last to live as one of them.