Man was not born perfect. Neither divine, nor beastly. But shaped from the mud of contradiction: a being who, at the same time, reaches for the light and falls into shadow.
Among mortals, there exists no creature entirely good, nor entirely corrupt: each walks a ridge, where every step may lean toward evil or good, without ever fully dwelling in either.
According to the bards of the South, it was Prometheus who molded the first human heart using tears stolen from Eléos, a minor and forgotten goddess, born from the Compassion that Nyx, the primordial Night, wept while watching the wars among her children.
Prometheus ignited that tear with the fire of thought, but he left man with a flaw: the heart could beat in tune with another’s pain, but it could also reject it, shut itself off, dry up.
When man wounds man, when he betrays, strikes, tramples, what awakens is the most ancient part of him: not the one shaped by Eléos, but the one carved by Nemesis, the goddess of retribution, twin sister of balance.
And yet, when the guilty fall, and the unjust suffer, the heart of the just one hesitates.
Thought whispers: “He deserved it.”
But this voice does not come from Eléos.
It comes from the blade, the one Nemesis sharpened with the envy of the living and the resentment of the dead.
A blade that cannot distinguish between the righteous and the vengeful, because whoever wields it, even briefly, loses sight of the heart.
Eléos, on the other hand, does not speak loudly. She whispers.
She reminds the heart of what the mind has forgotten: “He, too, was a child. He, too, was afraid. He, too, sought love.”
And then empathy appears, not as pity, but as a sacred discipline.
It is not an emotion. It is not weakness.
It is the ability to face the pain of the one who hurt you, and say: “I do not wish for him what he wished for me.”
And then you see.
You see the guilty one’s mother watching over his bed.
You see the father remembering a boy who once ran, now motionless.
You see friends who do not understand.
You see yourself, reflected in the face you once hated, and you realize the harm he caused was born from the same hunger for love that burns in you.
Eléos sits beside you, in silence.
She imposes nothing.
But if you listen, she teaches true compassion: the kind that knows how to weigh pain, even when it belongs to the enemy.
People invoke karma. They say: “It’s justice.” But it is not justice they seek. It is revenge.
And revenge is a knife held with a cold hand, but one that slowly burns the palm.
There is no compassion in those who cry for a dog but laugh at the outcast classmate.
There is no empathy in those who grieve for a lonely elder but despise a peer who cannot speak.
Empathy is a fire that only consumes pride.
It is the art of seeing the other not as a stranger, but as a missed version of oneself.
And forgiveness, then, is not forgetting, it is transformation.
It is saying: “You are not innocent, but you are human. And I choose to see you with the eyes I wish were used to see me.”
The myths say Eléos lives in the woods at the edge of Tartarus, where the spirits of the repentant wander in search of peace.
She does not punish them. She listens.
And when a soul learns to weep for what it has done, Eléos gives it a second skin: made of silence, memory, and light.
And you, if you wish to know her, do not call her.
Sit beside the pain you once hated, and listen to it.
Only then will she come.
And she will call you:
Daughter of Compassion.
Keeper of Forgiveness.
thought about this at 11 pm while laying in bed listening to Radiohead ****
