I came across a lady in white with hair cascading to her waist. A vision that leaped from a Mona Lisa copycat struck my mind. She held out her paper white hand for me to take.
“Alone?” she asks.
“ I invoked the soul of Katha.”
“ Katha? Goddess of mourning?”
Need her say that? No war present by these gods on my knowledge.
“ There are no gods.”
“ Mock my wisdom. Yes, you may. But my faith would never wane.”
“ The gods gave way to extinction.”
“ Making you a god.”
“ But you’re no god. Never knew you.”
“ I’m not a god. Yes. Katha is.”
“ So why the confidence to stand before me?”
“ You also claim to be a god.” She replied.
“ Placid human.”
“ Ravenous mind.”
“ A kiss of scorn you may offer some. But not for me.”
“ I forgot your wisdom is excellent.”
“ And your sarcasm is perfect.”
“ Invoking Katha?”
“ There is no god Katha.”
“ The goddess of mourning.”
She reached for a dried branch and placed it near her heart. Hurt signifies this action for gods. For a goddess like her could gain everything except shed a tear. And a being like me could ask for anything except wisdom.
“You could gain it.”
“ No I can’t.”
“ Yes, you can’t.”