Did you expect me to be merry? Filled with Mirth? Happily waiting for one day to end so another could begin? Hands clasped in patience, eyes gleaming with excitement? Bright eyed and bushy tailed, as it were? Did you expect me to come away clean, unwounded, not a speck of blood on my person from a violent battle? Unscathed? Did you expect me to clean house without sneezing once? Without rolling my aching shoulders or sitting to rest?
Who do you think I am? Some sort of God? Someone so perfect I am impervious to pain?
I am sorry to dissapoint you. But I am fearfully mortal. I am delightedly human. I am irreversibly Oru. What does that mean to you? Thankfully for me - absolutely nothing. You know nothing about me, my secure Oru-ness. You know nothing about how my eyes look now, how much green has fled from them to make way for the brown. You don't know how much they have dried out over days and weeks.
And if I were a God, I would be hollow. An unfeeling diety. Some cretaure more curious of the ways of man than sympathetic. I would stop and stare at my own displays and cock my head to the side in interest - then move along.
Like you did.