The Plea of the Indentured One

The world was perfect. I stood upon the zenith and looked down at its splendor. Everything was complete, without a single flaw. Every molecule was in place and worked in perfect harmony with others around it. I could not contain the excitement within. I had to hold on to it, feel the perfection with the hands that had created it.

I should have listened to the warnings blaring into my ears. I should have halted when I still had the chance. I should have not done a lot of things... including the creation of this world. But the sad truth of reality was, once something was set in motion, turning back was never be an option. So there I was, holding my "perfect world". My soiled hands in turn tainted the world; where it was once clear and pure, now had become murky and dark.

The light from within had been extinguished. It looked like nothing more than a mere lump of clay: cold, dirty and amorphous. I had ruined it... I am forever indentured to its need for survival. I had sprung the trap and now lay immobilized upon the throne of duty and responsibility.

I cried out in agony but no one heeded my voice. No one wanted to be trapped along with me. They had all forsaken me and left me to deal with my fate alone. So alone I sit with the muddy world within my palms. The more frantic I tried to "fix" it the worse it became. For days I screamed out at it in shame and anger while drowning it with my salty tears. I teetered on the brink of sanity yet, the world did not care. It latched on to me with greed and relish, never wanting to let me go.

To entice me, the world would often sing to me; praising my existence and thanking me for my unwavering presence. I laughed at its mockery. The world made it sound as if I wanted to hold it. True, I did want to touch it at the beginning but this was far more than what I had bargained for. I had to give up everything to become nothing more than a mere shoulder for when the world felt sad and a punching bag for when the world was angry.

I loathed my existence. I constantly pleaded to the world to let me go, to release me from my prison. Every time the rain falls, those were my tears. Every time the wind blew those were my heavy sighs. Every time the sky thundered and spewed lightning those were my screams of anger. And every time the snow fell, those were the eons of dust collected upon my aching hands.

I could, in the end, destroy the world. However, I sincerely hoped that it would not come to that; for it was my creation and it began as the essence of perfection. A state in which it could still return to, provided that it would be willing to release me. I alone was the cause of the world's fall and I alone could change the soiled mud that it had become. Free me, and the world would return to its original state. Free me, and I could show the world what it was meant to be...