Can you imagine how mentally taxing, as the personal wayward bride of The Gorosei is?
Your entire anatomy, stripped of all self-significant definition, the value you weigh is the bind chaining you by the pulls of the stubborn hands of Gods. The Elders pridefully render the frame of their favored, head to toe, a shell of its original self for personal ambition. Any bodily resistance is met with cold-crude determination to break in their possessions in line with their shapes, remade completely in The Elders’ ideal image. Against the sheer force of the Elders' consequences, the looming threat of painful inevitability at the personal behest of their inhuman physics is only a mortal matter of endurance; you will adjust to their size even if they have to stretch your vulnerability above natural proportions, you will find The Elders hold endless patience for the pursuit in their long, long existence, willing to put in the work for it for an easy price of time spent.
That will not be all, either. Not even the worst of it. Just when you think you're safe in the confine of free thought, one of the few things left solely you can touch, even that, and the humanity that gives it such depth, will be stripped of relevance as well. The Elders place you well beyond the desperate grasp of human comprehension; you live deliciously and at heel, at the table of God's own fingers, not amongst the same level as the insects below. To do yourself an ignorant kindness, at best, ignore at length enslaved fellow kin.
A contrast of hypocrisy. You live in a permanent state of absolute suppression, mind under lock and key in the World Government’s most luxurious vault, soul tied around the thumbs of a wicked authority far older than your generation while also being held above feeble mortal whims, bounded body standing atop a golden pedestal of eternal holiness and purity as a trophy, a compliment for the ancient men that forever rule over you. You, alone, will shine as God's brightest jewel under Heaven. But you will never betray a crude word against the holy men that grant upon you these golden privileges written in the blunt color of your suffering, ever speak as if their generosity could ever be so undeservingly bestowed or shared to the insects living in God's boot.
The mouth they kiss in blissful reverence, the tongue they taste in greedy stride, the voice that prays in devoted agony to the demonic forms of divine authority will remain dull to the maggots and vermin below. Bugs get squashed, and Dragons forgoes the skies. The rules of nature are always clear, The Elders pay no mind to any insect they step on intentionally or otherwise. The fairest of them all, the one Gods most endear to, will not waste blessed breath upon them either. You are a higher essence, a most delicate purity not for the eyes of filth and grime, The Elders won't ever allow you to stray from the path as long as you wear their imprinted ward, as both a matter of pride and pure privilege. Holy testaments such as you don’t attend to slaves nor impart kindness to their lonesome, empty variety. To do so, regardless of how miniscule said action was, will result in a very strict lesson on the obvious difference between what lives above and what squirms underground.
