A God’s Regret: What I Would Tell My Younger Self

The First Arrow

I was barely more than a boy when I first drew blood with my arrows. I remember the weight of the bow in my hands, the way my father’s laughter echoed through Olympus as he watched me at play. It was a game, then—a cruel, careless sport. A mortal girl, barely past her childhood, fell to her knees in the dirt, weeping for a shepherd she’d never noticed before. I laughed. How could I not? I was a god, and mortals were puppets, their hearts strings I could pluck for amusement. But time has a way of sobering even a god. If I could speak to that younger version of myself, I would tell him what I have learned since: love is not a toy, and pain is not funny.

The Wounds We Make

There was a time I believed love was simple—strike the heart, watch the chaos unfold. I played my part in the story of Psyche and Eros, though not the one you hear in the songs. That Psyche was clever, yes, and beautiful, but she was also relentless. She climbed mountains, crossed oceans, faced terrors I would not have faced for her. And I, her so-called lover, hid from her, tested her, doubted her. Why? Because I could. Because I did not understand that love is not about power, but trust. And when she left me—truly left me—I felt something no god should feel: loneliness. I would tell my younger self, "Do not wound what you cannot heal. Even gods leave scars."

The Weight of Desire

I once thought desire was the same as love. I confused longing with connection. I filled the hearts of emperors and beggars alike with yearning, never stopping to ask what that yearning would cost them. A king fell for his daughter’s best friend. A priestess abandoned her vows. A poet starved for a muse who never loved him back. All because of my arrows. You think gods are above regret? You are wrong. I have seen the wreckage left behind. Desire burns bright, but it consumes. Love, true love, is quieter. It is patient. It is rare. I would tell that boy, "Do not mistake the spark for the flame."

The Ones Who Endure

I have watched some mortals find peace. Not the kind that comes from passion, but the kind that grows in silence, between two people who choose each other every day. A farmer and his wife, weathered by time. A soldier and his lover, waiting year after year. A mother and her child, bound not by magic, but by memory and sacrifice. These are the loves I did not understand. The kind that does not need my arrows. They endure without me. And now, I envy them. If I could speak to myself again, I would say, "You are not the author of love. You are only its messenger. And even messengers must learn when to be silent."

The Meaning in the Mess

I have lived long enough to know that meaning is not found in the grand gestures, the tragic romances, or the epic tales. It is found in the quiet moments. A glance across a crowded room. A hand held in the dark. A promise kept when it would have been easier to break it. I used to believe my power made me important. Now I know it was my blindness that made me small. I wish I could tell my younger self to slow down, to listen, to care. But time does not work that way. Gods do not get do-overs. All I can do is offer this: a warning, a lesson, and maybe a prayer. Do not waste your arrows. Do not waste your heart.

Talk to Cupid on HoloDream about the meaning of love, regret, and growing older.