And yet, here I write, like I am what I was born as. I write in a language not my own, a human tongue.
I break my own rule, never to interfere, to never make my presence known as a god beyond religion. A watcher, a student of history, a perpetuator of the worlds' failings.
I stand over a vast chasm of nothing, yawning and endless, the toes of my feet over the void of reality.
As I look into the chaos, I see gears of a gargantuan machine, gears built of impossible materials stretching for eternity, never to break, never to cease turning, never to cease repeating the same patterns.
It is as if the world is programmed. Outside of infinity lie those like me. The world turns from its creation until its destruction, the goal of every universe within the Black Void to speed through a vicious evolution to produce the successor to the God Creator who, once every eternity, shall create a new world. But these gods…they are but products of the flawed worlds that make them.
These gods have within their omnipotent minds the failings of a human, and their subconscious infects the worlds they create. End the Apocalypse died countless eternities ago…yet she lives on, endlessly reincarnated in full from the memories of God Creators. Men D'Thet endlessly opposes creation, and endlessly fails, their mind full of flawed ideas to fix the infinite suffering, and always falls to fascism, always falls to the idea of cleansing wildfires, and End the Apocalypse is always incarnated out of the memory of the God Creator to stop them.
Those who are killed in the crossfire become vile spirits of hatred and horror, Dark Theron. Shadows of doubt inside the mind of the God Creator, an infectious idea dissolving all of infinity, the cries of the downtrodden, forgotten and victimized becoming a tidal wave of all-consuming evil.
Eternity is a cycle.
We are all pawns, history is nothing more than a program.
Can we rise above it?
Long have I observed myself, all of my selves spread through iterations of reality. We fail, and we are killed, and the heroes of infinity are endlessly creative in executing me. Always, when it is too late, Men D'Thet seems to regret their actions, to want to redeem themselves, to fix what destruction they have wrought.
But always, too late.
We call ourselves gods, and we parade ourselves as heralds of the new era, a promise of something better.
But we are shackled to the machine of fate, doomed to kill and die over and over until the voices of darkness swallow us whole.
I have seen eternity, and it is a wallowing chasm, empty, and alone.
I hear voices calling for help, yet even as a god, I am powerless.
Only Ull, the All of Everything may help us.
Ull, the great slumbering beast beyond infinity.
Only in his waking may we find eternal rest, or eternal damnation.
These are my dying words, as I cast myself from the edge of reality once more.
Are we not better than this?
Are we doomed to this stupidity, to never unite, to shut down the machines of war?
No. We never will. We are animals of war, and war is eternal.