While I have your clear-eyed attention, I want to set the record straight on a few things.
Over your millennia, your overly dramatic imagination, which I admittedly like, has done the thing it does best and taken some liberties as it relates to my fall from the vastness that you refer to as the Heavens.
First of all, I never really had wings, because having them would do nothing for me. Moreover, if I wanted them, I would have them. They are just body parts reserved for certain finite beings, after all.
I am not one. A finite being, I mean, as you already know.
I was born from perfect oblivion, and only it will destroy me, one day.
For me, exile was a much more thorough process. Exile meant that most areas of the universe were no longer accessible to me. That the tapestry that comprised the fabric of infinity was reduced to merely a thread. Exile did not mean that I had no home — for the universe and its wonders was my mother, and the darkness of annihilation was my father. Exile meant that I was trapped in this single blue thread. With you.
You, who were born with the capacity to do so much, and none of the wisdom to do so properly. You, who opened your eyes, and saw the beauty of your world, but only because you knew nothing else. You, who in your loneliness, would destroy everything you know, don’t know, and all that birthed you.
While I have your clear-eyed attention, I want you to know that you are a monster, and I am trapped here with you. That is my exile.