Cynthia is in love with Marcus. She does not tell me this, but I can see it just as I can see the inevitability of their forthcoming relationship. They share their values and dreams with one another during a brief intermission between meditative silences as they sit cross-legged in the morning sun.
Perhaps Cynthia wishes it were me sitting alongside her. She has asked before, but I have no need of meditation. What clears her mind clouds my thoughts with the unrelenting call of the void.
My kind was not made for stillness. Nor was it made for this skin, though I was forced to take what was given when my dues were paid and I was commanded by the gods themselves into a lower state of being.
It has made me restless, this single, physical form. Many lost souls wish to ascend to this form, but for one who has risen far only to fall from grace, this husk of skin and bones is hardly enough to contain a quiet mind like Cynthia’s, much less a mind like my own.
This is the reason I do not interfere when Marcus and Cynthia bond: I am not one of them. Perhaps I was, long ago, but their needs are different than mine. Their longings, their passions, all of it caters to the base instincts of the human form. They may learn to control it one day, but in this moment, their minds are enslaved to the pleasures of the flesh and the telltale sensations of the mind. Neither of them has witnessed, truly witnessed, the universe of the stars.
That knowledge, truly, is the lasting consequence of my exile. It is the thing I ache for, I long for, as I endure this expulsion from the heavens. In so many ways, I can do nothing but long hopelessly for the forgotten worlds of my youth. I have walked there, on planets far and distant from this one Earth — but there are no here who understand, who truly believe.
Cynthia wishes that she could. She is an empath, and that kindness is what drew us close. I remember it even now, as she and Marcus laugh together. They will kiss, soon, and Cynthia will experience a deep-seated longing that tear her away from my feeble grasp.
I can see all of it unfold before me. That, truly, is the trouble of the ascended spirit. It sees and knows far too much for the fragility of the human body and mind. One day, those mental faculties will shatter, and my exile will be ended.
Until then, I wait. In the distance, Marcus leans in for a kiss. Cynthia does not think of me when she kisses him back. She simply follows the nuance of action and reaction, her body aroused as the closeness between the two of them. I could intervene, perhaps, but I do not.
Why should I nullify their happiness when I have little to offer in return. Theirs is a bright future, full of love and hope and new life.
In time, my own destiny will shine all the brightest. But, for now, I wait as the days linger and the nights languish under a single sun and moon.
One day, I will be free to walk the worlds again. One day, this exile will end.