Cyr the Seer

As I trek through this mortal realm I frequent inner turmoil, a heavy heart and a mounting despair I dare to understand.  Humans are not perfect.  They are beautifully flawed with their own unique memories.  To be human means to error and calculate heinous judgment and though I admit these as my own as occasionally my faculties operate like all others, I feel nearly inhuman.

 I succumb to emotion like a human, feel pain as a human would and bleed, yet a complex wave of oddity flows through me.  Should this all be my own delusion I beg forgiveness.  My palms burn with heat; an energy to heal or to warm another.  The lamp at my side falters at my touch only to cast brilliant illumination upon my lifting of a finger.  How can this be?