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Each day feels very much the same. The routines, the pain, the loneliness. Each day expresses the same emotions. He wonders how many other people feel the same as him, or do they not? Are his feelings his own? Or perhaps is he in the wrong for feeling this way when he was born blessed to the entire village. No other child has to go through what he does, and do they envy him for that? Or does he just envy those who can run on their own feet and talk with their elders and peers.
The only people who surround him are the priests. The village elders. A total of 5 men all far above his age who only refer to him in a name that isn't his own. Who only look at him in reverence and worship, but also in disgust. Was his birth a blessing? Or perhaps a curse… No other child was born as he was, all colour and pigment stripped from their hair, and their eyes and unnatural hue. No other child was given away by their parents, resulting in the fact he doesn't even know who they are now. He'd been too young to remember their faces or their voices. He didn't belong to them. He belonged to everyone.
His rooms are large and empty, lacking in any personal items aside from his robes and a few toys he'd been allowed to help pass the time when he was younger. No photos, no scrolls. A God didn't need to know the words of humans. A God didn't need to waste his time walking on the same ground they walked on. A binding across his feet is a constant reminder. The seclusion of the shrine is a constant reminder.
There was only one other person who was allowed to visit. Thrice per day. To bring him his meals, to help dress him, to bathe him, and to wrap his feet in the decorative, restrictive bindings. To wake him and to put him back to bed. Their conversations were the only thing that gave him any idea of what was outside the walls. Their conversations were the only thing to bring light and warmth into his life.
He was his sun, and maybe because he never told him as such, that now it was the reason his sun was setting on him only to leave him with the cold night. Alone
Something was wrong, and he could only say it was fine and not a problem. Surely other people had more important duties to do than to spend time with him, or perhaps there were just no more stories to tell. The gentle hands are still there to help him dress and to move him from room to room, but there's no warmth along with it. Something was wrong. And he didn't know how to ask that.