I've thought about many things lately. It's not just you, after all. There are countless things, innumerable skirmishes which compose this ongoing war. So much bloodshed, yet still no victory. Still no defeat.
The ash still falls, day and night. Artillery thunders in the distance as I watch the grey-black snow fall easily to the ground. I'm the commander of it all, and yet I have no army. I am the institution and the rebellion. Countless generals thirst for my command, but they shall not be quenched any time soon.
And there are times I feel as a statue. Better yet, a gargoyle. Meant to protect something noble; apprehensive of my role. I feel that if I reach out, my hands might crack and crumble into the very dust that surrounds me. I am destined to stand here, motionless, until some nameless life-giving beacon presents itself to me.
No, it's not just you, I'm quite convinced. You've played your part well, and sometimes I wonder if somehow the ash embodies your now lifeless spirit.
There are times when I could raise the hottest magma from the bowels of the earth and scorch the sky. I'm so sick of this, I would rather destroy this world than wait for some nameless resolution.
But you know what you did to me? You took away my power. You doused the fire and brimstone that was once plentiful in my world. If I had it now, God knows I would wreak havoc on every mountain and meadow I set eyes on. You're like some stealthy mistress who stole her master's knife, with which he planned to do the unthinkable.
Perhaps this would explain my bouts of hatred. My bouts of disgust, of distaste. There are times when I'd kill. I'd kill.
I suppose that this is what I need. Or, rather, what you've inspired me to need.
I hate it, but I suppose I should say...