I can still call you that—for time and custom have eroded my grasp on such titles—I stand before you, a relic of eternity. I have lived for ten thousand years, my existence stretching back beyond the boundaries of history, beyond the rise and fall of empires, beyond the shaping of the world as you know it. I have seen the birth of civilizations and their inevitable decay. I have watched stars fall and oceans rise. And yet, for all that I have witnessed, for all that I have endured, I tell you now: I wish for nothing more than the sweet release of death.
It is not a wish born of despair, though despair and I have been close companions for centuries. It is not a cry for help, for help is a fleeting concept in the face of immortality. No, this is a yearning born of exhaustion, of a weariness that no mortal could ever comprehend. To live is to experience, to grow, to change. But when you have lived as I have, when the flow of time becomes an endless, unchanging river, life itself becomes a burden.
I have fought countless battles. I have clashed swords with gods and demons, wrestled titans to the ground, and shattered armies with the force of my will alone. Yet these battles, once thrilling and filled with purpose, have become tiresome. They are now nothing more than echoes of an ancient rhythm, a dull thrum of repetition in a life that refuses to end. Killing an efreeti or slaying a jinn—once feats of legend—bring me but seconds of satisfaction before the emptiness returns. Their fiery demise and their spectral cries fade too quickly, leaving me with only silence.
Do you know what it is to be so ancient, so far removed from the human span, that even joy becomes a hollow echo? To walk through millennia and feel the weight of every moment, but the meaning of none? It is not glory that sustains me, nor power, nor even memory. I am not here because I wish to be. I am here because I must be. Immortality is not a gift. It is a curse, wrapped in the guise of eternity.
And yet, I continue. I walk the earth, though its paths have all become familiar. I engage in battles, though they no longer challenge me. I seek out the fleeting happiness that might come from defeating creatures of myth, knowing full well that it will not last. I am a creature of habit, a wanderer trapped in a cycle that has no end.
So I ask you, those who live and breathe and age and die: cherish your mortality. It is your greatest gift. Your days are numbered, yes, but it is that very limitation that gives them value. Every sunrise, every laugh, every tear, every embrace—they matter because they are finite. You are free in a way that I will never be. Free to grow old, free to make mistakes, free to end.
As for me? I will continue this endless march through time, seeking a release that may never come. Perhaps one day, I will find a battle that finally consumes me, or an adversary worthy of ending this unyielding existence. Until then, I remain—a shadow of what I once was, a monument to the cruelty of eternity, and a living testament to the agony of life without end.