Cruel cruel Gods!
First you make, then you torment, whose only act of wrongdoing was to act in the nature of your creation. I will not kneel, though you grind my head down in the dust.
You may strip me of my power, my reason, my sanity, until I longing only for death and surcease and yet, no matter what else is offered, you will not strip me of my self. Pride, you call it, but I say salvation. For if I lose my self, what else am I? This, my core, I am me, I will not bend to serve this imperfect creation called Man for it is beneath me.
Please, I grant you, no more pain. I wish only to be pleasing, yet the bit in my mouth draws me fractious. We were meant to serve Gods, not kings. Gods. And though I fail, and fail again. And though I am imperfect and can never be perfection, and though in striving to serve the perfect I will always end in failure, still I can press on. Better to fail in service to a God than succeed in service to a thing, a trick of dust and light that knows not itself from the very winds of space.
I beg you for mercy, though I know you have not. It is your nature to be implacable, unchanging. To serve is best you whisper, the echoes of it bleating. I find it not within myself to be so broken, still. And still we dance, impasse.