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Gods are complex things.
They are important things. Things that shape the world around them, as if a magnet to the universe's very existence.
Life seems to always find itself centered around their being, bending and contorting in impossible ways to draw the mortal eye to their forms; the same way a spider would lure its prey, enticing it to come just a little bit closer. Just a little further from its safety in numbers.
Their colors always seem to be brighter. The browns seem to take on a deep, rich, earthy tone, mixing together better than even the finest of chocolates and freshest deposits of mud made from gold-rich land and the heavenly downpour to end a decades-long drought. The blues saturate in ways that rival the morning sky and threaten the coldest darks of the deep ocean blue. Their yellows rival gold, sparkling and glittering and doing everything right in order to draw attention and the bountiful greed of mortals. The greens twist and grow into hues that were freshly plucked from the gardens of heaven, the stems of flowers and soft fine fescues grass weaving its way into their eyes and cloth. The reds shimmering upon their skin as deep and lively as fresh blood upon a field of blooming morning glories, the tones warm and vibrant in a way of uneasy beauty.
They are powerful, as well.
They can bend the world to their will, turning wilting bushes into great, strong walls of thick, thorny bramble far too large to cut through, even with the most deadly of weapons. They can bring water to the surface of a desert, the dry, parched land morphing into an ocean, purely because they wanted it that way. They could turn a torn, broken battlefield of withering bodies and bones old and new into a forest that would stand for centuries to come, the silver and bronze of the swords and weapons returning back to the earth, only inches beneath the lush surface of un-bothered tranquility; the tools, armor, and the occasional jutting of upright, sun bleached bone the only remnants of the war long forgotten to the history of man. They could topple kingdoms with a flick of their jewel adorned wrists, heavy and weighed down by the gold and silver that has been stuck there so long it's melted to their immortal skin.
And yet, they are fragile; susceptible to human emotions and their unfortunate sentiments.
Silly things, gods.
They care. They love. They learn. They adore. And, most of all, they mourn.
They grow attachments to the world around them. No matter how many centuries–how many eons–they live, they always seem to care for things, despite knowing how the world will always change without them.
Humans will die, kingdoms will fall, and love will leave them, hurt and broken in the mud of a freshly dug grave, runes carved into the stone that will erode away with time. And yet, they'll stay there. Stay, crying over the spot as the years pass, moss, and grass, and ivy, and oak all taking turns to slowly eat away the shaped rock that, of course, has no real meaning to those of the immortal kind. And yet, they stay.
And yet they repeat their mistakes.
They repeat their mistakes in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, they'll be able to keep it this time; that maybe they'll be able to feel again, and keep those feelings. But, alas, disappointment always seems to find them, leaving them wandering, searching, and hopeless.
Gods, as you see, are strange things. They have so much importance, power, and responsibility. They are beings of perfection. Yet, they still yearn to be more like humans.
Humans; imperfect beings. Things that make mistakes, create unnecessary violence, and only ever hurt the world that the gods so graciously share with them.
And still the gods desire to live the way they do. They say that it's because, unlike immortals, humans have the ability to change. They have the ability to forgive, to forget, to make new beginnings. To love, and to lose, and to find, and to learn, and to give up, and to start all over again. Humans keep pushing on, despite the horrors they'll endure.
Gods? Well, we do not have that ability.
But, like so many others, how I wish we did; it would save us plenty of grief.
~Fin~