But that too was a lie. He knew why.
And he clutched the mug between his hands, clinging to the sparse warmth and comfort.
Despite being the creator of Stars, to shine as a beacon of hope, the Star Maker had no such light in his Heart.
Not anymore.
He couldn't help the loathing as he stared at the synthetic stars twinkling beneath his quiet retreat. The pollution, the conceit, the self-centered arrogance and greed. Not a thought escaped his reverie. Every moment of every day, with no reprieve.
The benefit of doubt, and faith he clung to, lay battered, made not strong by his years, but broken, as all things do with the passing of Father Time.
A selfish star that shone alone for none to see. The only one he could help was himself, and he was failing to do even that.
The Star Maker, the guiding light in the night sky, and beacon of faith, of hope--had in an ironic twist, lost hope, embittered, and cynical.
It was simple, really.
They weren't worth the effort.
They didn't deserve it.
As Father Time once told him, "History will repeat itself."
Humans try Time and Time again to differentiate themselves as superior beings.
They surround themselves with walls of stone and dead trees. Cover themselves with woven threads, laud themselves for their intelligence, and "sentience". Their capacity to think--to feel.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
The insecurity of the race always seeking evidence to support their worth as being greater than that of "lesser" creatures. Be it between the feathered, furred, and finned, or amongst themselves. They knew not of kindness. Those that did would suffer for it.
A petty race, given to irrationality, hypocrisy, and cruelty.
For all their advancements, and polish smeared, they were still nothing more than a frog in the well, knowing only of the small circle of blue sky.
The cocoa felt heavy in his belly, and that in itself nauseating. An empty comfort.
In the beginning, and over the years, he had watched over them. Protected them, and guided them.
And again he watched the endless cycle of suffering repeat. Never did they learn, never did they change.
Not really.
Great advancements have they made, yet deep down they were still animals, the lot of them.
And inside, he pleaded with himself, warring over the fictitious hope people believed him to be. Whom he had believed himself to be. Wanted to be.
The unrest when the shining guardian of the night had vanished weighed heavily still within the minds people. But he refused to return to his vigilant watch.
A part of him clung to the shattered hope to make amends, to compromise with his more sinister thoughts. But the same part desired nothing more than complacency.
His involvement changed nothing after all.
Torn between himself, his light had faded, as did his wishes.
He wished for the conflict to end.
All he wanted was peace.
And he clutched the mug between his hands, clinging to the sparse warmth and comfort.
Despite being the creator of Stars, to shine as a beacon of hope, the Star Maker had no such light in his Heart.
Not anymore.
He couldn't help the loathing as he stared at the synthetic stars twinkling beneath his quiet retreat. The pollution, the conceit, the self-centered arrogance and greed. Not a thought escaped his reverie. Every moment of every day, with no reprieve.
The benefit of doubt, and faith he clung to, lay battered, made not strong by his years, but broken, as all things do with the passing of Father Time.
A selfish star that shone alone for none to see. The only one he could help was himself, and he was failing to do even that.
The Star Maker, the guiding light in the night sky, and beacon of faith, of hope--had in an ironic twist, lost hope, embittered, and cynical.
It was simple, really.
They weren't worth the effort.
They didn't deserve it.
As Father Time once told him, "History will repeat itself."
Humans try Time and Time again to differentiate themselves as superior beings.
They surround themselves with walls of stone and dead trees. Cover themselves with woven threads, laud themselves for their intelligence, and "sentience". Their capacity to think--to feel.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
The insecurity of the race always seeking evidence to support their worth as being greater than that of "lesser" creatures. Be it between the feathered, furred, and finned, or amongst themselves. They knew not of kindness. Those that did would suffer for it.
A petty race, given to irrationality, hypocrisy, and cruelty.
For all their advancements, and polish smeared, they were still nothing more than a frog in the well, knowing only of the small circle of blue sky.
The cocoa felt heavy in his belly, and that in itself nauseating. An empty comfort.
In the beginning, and over the years, he had watched over them. Protected them, and guided them.
And again he watched the endless cycle of suffering repeat. Never did they learn, never did they change.
Not really.
Great advancements have they made, yet deep down they were still animals, the lot of them.
And inside, he pleaded with himself, warring over the fictitious hope people believed him to be. Whom he had believed himself to be. Wanted to be.
The unrest when the shining guardian of the night had vanished weighed heavily still within the minds people. But he refused to return to his vigilant watch.
A part of him clung to the shattered hope to make amends, to compromise with his more sinister thoughts. But the same part desired nothing more than complacency.
His involvement changed nothing after all.
Torn between himself, his light had faded, as did his wishes.
He wished for the conflict to end.
All he wanted was peace.
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