When I feel alone, your voice comes through. It's your way of letting me know you're here. It's your way of letting me know I'm here, too.
It's 4:44am. Angels are among us. You are one of them. Though I often refer to my long silken-wings, today, I feel very human. And so, very scared.
There's an animal living between the walls in my house. It stays quiet during the day, but in the wee hours, when the world is still dark--like now--there is rattling, humming, scratching, and movement of all varieties. I don't know why I haven't done anything about it yet. Maybe I like knowing there's another living creature here. It's comforting in some way. Less lonely, though I'm never alone anymore. The benefits of outer beauty.
Inner beauty is better. I have both. However, it is the rare few who can see beyond the surface. More's the shame.
Miracles have been on my mind of late. Isn't it odd how a miracle can be seen as a curse by humans? I sit here wondering how these creatures have been able to remain on the planet for so long. What you and I know of existence makes us outsiders to them. Threats. It's why you left. Yet, it's also why I'm still here, isn't it?
So strange to be so powerful, yet have no power at all....
What happened to me, my friend?
I so wish you could do more than just show me your sympathy-face...though, I greatly appreciate seeing it. Getting sympathy is not something I often feel from living people. I suppose it's absurd for me to expect it. They're still here. Still trapped by their physicality. The physical world is maya--cosmic illusion in the old language. Like water, we can't see beyond the murky surface. I can. But even when I do, it doesn't change my course.
I play along with the fools of this world because it amuses me. Like playing with my food. They are the unwitting entertainment. The dancing clowns.
I've always liked clowns....
Tattoos are dead giveaways. Revealing more than the wearer often understands. True predators don't have any. Nothing masks fangs better than nakedness. When you've actually walked with angels, you don't need to etch it into your skin. Because, it's etched into your soul.
"Imparo ancora," echoes through time, causing the thin curtain between worlds to ripple a little.
I am still learning as well. I can walk among the humans for 40 more years, and never stop learning. Not about them. About me. Who I really am. What I really want. As an individual. Not as part of the fabric of the Universe. Not as an angel, Or a god. Not as a woman. Or, a man. But whatever it is that makes up the eternal fire at my ember-core.
The rain falls like sheets outside. A grey shroud surrounding me. Even the giant ever-greens below look grey. It almost feels like a cleansing. Or, a rising tide. Perhaps it's warning of a flood? Change happens in a split second, after all.
Fertilization happens in a split second, too. After a week or so, the blastocyst forcefully burrows into the uterine wall--a violent and bloody process, like a hostile take-over. Or, an infestation. Just like that poor animal in my wall. Seeking shelter--protection--in order to ruthlessly multiply. Merciless in its pursuit to exist.
Existence only becomes a right after war. But war is just another kind of fairy-tale. Another kind of lie. There are no winners after a battle. Only losers. Like the needy party in a one-night stand wanting to cuddle with a perfect stranger. Sad. And, pathetic.
Fairy-tales are no different than tall-tales. Things we hope can happen but never do. And, never will. Not outside of my pen, anyway. It's too bad, too. I like fairy-tales. And, fairies.
I met a lovely couple at the stone circle this year. We spoke of fairies. The taller one, Tom, thought fairies were evil. I laughed. Magical thinking...human psychology has always fascinated me. The full moon was two days later; it was the first time in 120 years that it was in perfect alignment with the stone circle. The very next day, not more than 60 miles away, I felt it. Change.
Maybe fairies are evil....
Nature doesn't lie. Neither do numbers. But people do. We have to. To survive.
It's all about perspective. Sunrise is later at a 45-degree latitude. Even across the ocean, a 52-degree latitude brings the sun hours earlier. More light brings more productivity. More joy. Less anxiety. Less depression. At least, during part of the year. The other part is darker. Always a balancing act. Like love. And, sex.
Excuses in love or sex are mere justifications for underlying apathy. Those who speak them, reveal their own self-loathing, insecurities and lack of self-esteem. Just like with tattoos. Inky evidence of individual vulnerability.
Destroyers are full of excuses. Reasons why they can't or won't be there. Narcissism is all about victimhood, you see. While victimhood is a choice--victimization isn't. There's a difference. A big one.