If I had a name, it’d be Promethea, and my god-like crime would be in being kind: in strengthening Man in his own mind. And I would become a symbol and a sign, if not the last in a genetic line, of reminding mortals of their fate and force, that they, too, are divine, and not murky streams diverted from one pure source.
And when Zeus should discover my mortal love, he’ll send me vultures, rocks, and chains, attempts to turn my immortality to pain. The constant reminder: his wretched gifts of my love of human wretchedness. Though my entrails will never sate the vultures he will create, his punishments already far too late. For when you fall in love with gods and writers, the fire I stole from Olympus burns that much brighter—the flame of immortality for all to see, through the quires of history.
I burn, I drink, I gather dreams, while everyone tells Promethea to go back to sleep. ‘The pain will be less sharp, if you just lose yourself to the dark.’ But I’m already in a labyrinth, my body humming unheard songs, my desires inventing new desires, until losing is all that’s left before long.
So I will believe in stories, I will believe in fire. I will believe in beings endowed with power to assemble things that have once been broken until there are no more stories to be spoken.