Destiny's Queen
an excerpt

I have heard that it helps, this human- thing. That writing words down on paper, and then not showing the words to anyone, is somehow the way to regain a sense of perspective, of looking at things the same way again.
Only I know that I will not look at things the same way again, no matter how many silly words I write down on fragile scraps of paper.
Why am I doing this, then?
I don’t know. I could lay down this pen and just walk away, or float away, or fly. I am not limited, the way that these humans, scrabbling in the dirt of their new land, are. I have power they will never understand, and grandeur and magnificence they will always look for and always lack.
Except that some of them didn’t look for it, of course, and that was what drew me in the first place.
Why can I not understand my own thoughts?
It is all her fault. Yes, if I have someone to blame, then I think my mind will grow clearer, and I will come closer to what I once was.
But even seeking to lay blame on someone else, or thinking it is important to know who did what, is a human thing.
By all the powers (including me). What did she do to me?
I don’t know. I started writing in order to find out, I thought, to organize my thoughts and return to a clean and ordered existence. But now I find myself rambling like a human, and complaining like a human, and having strange and futile hopes like a human. I know as well as anyone that I cannot change back, yet here I am writing of it.
At times I feel as if there is a stranger in my mind, looking around with eyes that see only the limited horizons of human life and a heart that is bound to human concerns. Of course I could always feel this before if I wanted; their minds are open to me, and I could understand them just by looking. But then I could escape the understanding, and rise into my own immortal self once more.
This stranger in my mind doesn’t seem inclined to go anywhere.
Perhaps I should use this writing the way I intended, after all. Perhaps if I tell the story, then I will know how it happened, and what to do with it. And I should tell it the way the human bards do- not as if they were there, but from the heart and mind and soul of the person who lived it, the thoughts of the one who is the heroine of the story. Of course, their recitations shall be imperfect, while mine shall be perfect. I can still see many things that a human would not.
And now I am showing pride and humor.
I am very worried about myself.
To the story, then. May those who read it, even if it is only me, understand what is going on better than I have understood it so far.
-Shadow.