It was an odd sensation.
Admitting something he always knew but did not want to think about had placed him here, in this moment, facing truths he had walled away behind achievements and certainties and the accumulated weight of everything he had accomplished. For all his past, he had been trying to infuse his existence with Infinities. His Infinite Formless Depth. His infinite foundation. An infinite this, an infinite that. Layer upon layer of endlessness crammed into every aspect of his being.
But no matter how many parts of himself he infused with Infinities, the core of who he was remained finite.
His mind was finite. His mentality was finite. His identity was finite. And every time he tried cramming Infinity into something finite, he limited it. Every time he expressed Infinity through himself, he constrained it. He was a straw trying to channel an ocean, and no matter how wide he made the straw, it would never be the ocean itself.
