A Perfidious God and His Angels
A throne-less cloud next to a cloudless throne, they meet: A creator and his models. Far away, I used to see them, beyond the horizon that appears to humans. With enchantment, I was enticed by a promise that this world, as it lacks beauty, is compromised by these diaphanous forms of light. I once believed that these spectral creatures were saviors of the grotesque need of sustaining the lives we keep on living.
And I found solace within my creator when I was nine; I beheld him as the perfect father to the slaughter house he has contained between the clouds. He beguiled me with his perfervid gaze, and I, keen enough even as a child, terminated the drifting boat from merging with the exiguous waters of the pond.
I, wingless and shackled, bound to a rock for eternity. Yet, no eagle has come for my company, no wings have sought my liver for a living. Solitary and fatigued, an epiphany revealed itself to me: As I am a bearer of no wings, no bird would find an equal in me. I am the enemy of a potential comrade, the enemy of a potential enemy. The blood staining the chains is not succulent to the watchers, it is simply a rewarding stain. If anything, the chains must have been prayed for, for their menial is worth not one dime of time.
Fear not, I have never raised my hands, neither for prayers nor for violence. My connections were thoughts, and my thoughts are often deemed as the unholy blade that shalt wound the vault of heaven. Choices are beyond our periphery, it seems. You are, as I was, given a blurry vision; a cold stone turned into a feather. As any sickness beholds a man from adolescence till his demise, that sickness feeds on his flesh and circulates his body instead of blood. That sickness, most times than not, is the unbridled sight that narrows his eyes with each growing thyme.
I was taught that justice is inevitable. That if I were to abandon this malodorous domicile and build another, the old one would manifest itself within the new one. Detested and forsaken, the corners of my room would never know the touch of warmth. And neither would I.
He who holds justice can revoke it with ease. Then, we wonder why the mirrored image has only witnessed fragmented pieces, and never plenitude. But a flood has never played loyalty to silver or integration, and God’s wrath upon sins mistook Noah for a new Adam, but a new did not mean a last.
And to hold a new Adam means to hold a new sinner.
An ark for a violence, an extermination for a violence. The birds, half-asleep, could no longer use their melting crowns, let alone soar into the sky. The rain brought complicity to the clouds, whom have seen the sinful fumes of every hidden basement, of every frozen fly, and still chose to remain silent. He loathed the silence of a mute nature, yet kept reminding us that this test should proceed without his interference should we attain the final reward. Even the one with most potency holds lips that are greeted by flames, just as you and I are.
At least, my scalpel slices when I command my arm to command it. The space between him and I is too vast; I cannot see him in flight, and he cannot wave me good night. This assures my soul that if I am doomed, my commandment has already painted that portrait for me- I hold no coalition with a foreigner that wishes to testify for my house of butcher.
But I cannot use the same coherence when it comes to his companions. Enslaved, obedient, once so beautiful, and another time too beautiful. Subservient till the death of the light, aphasic for their lips are twins, and their serene clash of blue whiteness. Their gaze as ice as winter, their touch inert as a lotus. Carriers of God’s mighty throne, sidelined by his chores.
My daughter disclosed to me that she wanted to perceive an angel standing before her. The chapel’s rings were too strident, they followed her tiny footsteps and found home between the walls of her small, fragile bedroom. I declared, “Why do you want to see an angel? Must you know already that their gold and whiteness is made to wash away the blood they’re tainted with?”
“He hides between the clouds, up above or down below. He sharpens the knife he molded before creating the heavens and the earth, and then hands it over to one of his companions. They pierce the carried away, the sinful, the heretic, the human. They pierce me and they will one day pierce you.”
With their rich Marian blue, I pity them. Untouchable, like the blue sky of the virgins. With their forgotten cries, I remember them. Created for one creator, whose hands were cursed to be plenty. As they are created for him and so are mortals, angels are created for their creator and his creations.
With all the human sorrows, we are one sorrow short for we are expected to design no coffin made to carry an angel corpus the way they are expected to carry ours.
Promised heavens by the act of silence, their shoulders swollen and their hands bruised; ruthless work is the light’s worst enemy. This perfection means nothing if its sight brings agony. This light is no longer of shine when the bruises begin to darken and engrain.
I look at the sky and try to scout for chains. My senses have never fooled me: I never saw any, but it is the reason God preys in his powers. Trinkets can appear pleasing and bright, bringing sympathy to shackles. His yielding hand searches for the golden halo; of reach they will always be. To get away with something, it must be done far away, thus why the sky is unattainable to us. We know not of the true relationship between God and his angels.
I know, however, what occurs when the light strays to a different angle. The heavens fall down from their crown, and their Marian blue fades into naked transparency. The Morningstar, tired of this invigorate sphere of serfdom, broke from this cycle. His sin brought humiliation to his once poetic beauty and intellect. Being adored once by God did not stop his exodus, and having the title of an archangel did not grant him mercy. Instead, he is now the father of lies, the origin of evil, the whisperer devil that feeds on human transgressions.
As angels bear will and fruitful thoughts as you and I, they can never shape their realities upon wish for their fear is shaped around the thoughtlessness surrounding God’s limitations on them. Or else, you would have heard of many, many Lucifers.
They are made to be pictured flawlessly- ghostly gowns and immortal beauty beyond gender. They are far from that. A blade never chooses a lovely possessor, and they are forced to play God when he sends them to battle. He sits on his heavenly throne and laughs as they hang, one by one, by a bloody thread.
Far from existing as intact, they are senseless creatures whose innocence was abducted. We shouldn’t dream of seeing angels, we must fear them. We must be fearful for them.
