Perhaps you see humans as complex figurines, complete with sophisticated AI so that we can talk back to you when you speak.
Perhaps you see life as a blank page offering you creative license, so you write and you draw until all the marks melt into chaos.
When there’s no more space left to make messes on, do you simply turn a new leaf? And what about the crippled characters of the previous chapters? You will leave them to treat their own wounds. You will come back to them when you are ready, but only if you feel like it.
Perhaps you go through life like a bulldozer, ploughing ahead and leaving destruction in your wake. No one taught you how to dress infected wounds quickly, before the gangrene sets in. No one taught you that there was a difference between damaged buildings and damaged bodies; fractured monuments and traumatized minds.
You may be right in thinking it is beyond you, to singularly bear the responsibility of restoring a demolished city. But the limits of your strength never seemed to be a problem for you each time you thought it wise to try lifting a mansion at a time, and had them all crash down, one by one, whenever your knees buckled.