Among us gods there’s a saying: the first ten thousand years are brutal, after that you just lose all illusions about people and, well, it gets easier.
I’m not sure though. Some of us swap one set of illusions for another, usually about ourselves. A god’s cult of personality is a pitiful thing — more like a toddler screaming “I hate you all!” just to get a hug. Throwing down plagues, wars, and famines, gods are only waiting for someone to call their names, to feel a bit exalted.
When I stopped loving humanity, I fell for solitude instead — transparent, sharp, almost soothing.
After all, who can wound someone who has nothing left? Who can chain the one who carries no ties?
(Digital drawing, 2025)