I do not mistake myself for an infinite being, but I take into account that I have lived a long time. Too long, indeed. I have watched things come to pass which should take nothing short of a millennia to complete, yet it passes in a blink of an eye. I have the power to kill things with no remorse, or disrupt the normalcy humans try to obtain.
But it doesn't bring me happiness.
To be truthful...
...nothing does.
The heart was something I was never missing, it was merely a component to draw out the weakness in fools and lead on the lesser beings. Those who found they needed 'hearts' or 'dreams' were merely looking for something to fill the emptiness in their shallow lives, but were they happy when they found these things? Did it bring them joy to see another's life crumble. Or sadness when they became the cause of misfortune. Or perhaps they felt satisfaction as they ended one life after the other. After the other. After the other.
Perhaps.
Who am I to know. Is there a reason to know. Where is the pleasure in watching Nnoitra toy with Kurosaki and the Quincy? Or the pride in watching Kita follow Aizen's orders? I may find an ounce of sadistic rapture in Szayel's experiments when they think they have broken free, but when will it fade? When will everything melt into the same unifying colors of: black and white.
When.
That was my prerogative. My right to remain static and unchanging. I was free to move within my set limits. So here I lie, monochromatic against a white canvas.
I am resplendent in white. Because I am a finite being.
