The Language of If

I still remember the end, my cherished one.  How could I ever forget?  I was holding you.  The night sky was on fire as angels hit the earth like gutted stars. The hideous genocide of that so-called rebellion.  The shrieking silence.  The seething hush.  I was holding you in my arms at the end of the world.  Your spilled blood became my blood, your death my death.  Your stolen life became my incalculable fury.  And I scattered the last of my family in hopes of protecting them from the blackening desolate of wraiths.  I lost everything to the violence of bitter angels.  So I swore to my Father that day, that I would butcher creation itself if I had to.  I would murder every angel, renouncing wing and feather and crown.  I would burn everything; drowning all dreaming if it would sate my rage.  I paid greatly for such hubris.  Imagining that others hadn't suffered as I did, both mortal and angel.  Imagining in my grief that I could use the horror of vengeance as a righteous proxy for love.  My love for you.  Those terrifying ways we gild our losses and feed our phantoms.  But I was so very wrong.  Not only was I wrong, I was eventually graced with a miracle I didn’t deserve.  Miracles are real, my friends.  They actually happen, and they are not rare.  We just don't often believe them when they occur.  I say to you now, what if there are other worlds?  What if you could step from world to world, from ashes to ashes, towards a brighter place?  In truth, a dimly lit pocket of the infinite dreaming.  But a blazing beacon of hope and opportunity compared to the fallen worlds left behind.  What if all of this was truly possible?  Shifting consciousness, changing worlds?  To shatter the earth itself, for love and misplaced grief, and to still be forgiven by the one who forged that earth.  To drown the stars, only to be embraced by that which lit those stars.  I can’t imagine anything kinder.  In my ear like a Father, in my heart like a friend.  Ka'shayel, hear me.  I forgive you.  I will never hate nor abandon my children.  You are eternal, winged one, and always loved. You can fix this.  You can make amends.  I know how you yearn, and how you grieve.  There are still hidden ways back to your beloved, if you are willing.  And so, I humbled myself.  I made myself willing.  It was the most terrifying thing of all, facing my shadows and my grief. My agony, and rage.  To this day it hasn't fully cooled.  Like a black flame hidden within.  I'm still learning, my cherished one.  Still healing and willing to heal.  Willing to serve.  I couldn't have achieved any of this without listening to the quiet, glorious voice of my Father.  We tell stories to explain the inexplicable, I think.  We create art to make seen the unseen.  What if?  I feel blessed to have experienced these secrets, to be so loved by my Creator despite how far I fell from his grace.  But I shall make amends.  The Angel and the Word.  These mysteries of the heart.  Greater than space, or time.  Waking each new day for the promise of imagination, and the opportunity to Love.  Such is the nature of infinite dreaming.  Even such dreaming that perhaps never was, by grace, and never shall be. 

The Language of If from Raj Sisodia on Vimeo.