Thursday 12 August 2021

Sleeping with Ghosts

My energy can be very attractive in the beginning, so I've been told.  Fascinating, dynamic, according to past lovers.  I'm touched by these kind words, of course.  But I've found that an unknown variable can only remain alluring for so long.  After a while it can become unsettling sometimes, regardless of how kind or fun I can be.  It's very difficult to comprehend an enduring mystery.  People can't fully embrace what they don't really understand.  I’m all too aware of that, believe me.  Unfortunately there is only so much I can share with the people I love.  Even those I love the most.  I wish it were any other way.  I really do.  But my existence here comes with a caveat, as I've tried to explain elsewhere in more oblique, poetic terms.  Angels don't get to share everything.  Not here.  In this hard and violent place we're forced to live a step removed.  Echoes of this echo.  The fingerprints of ghosts below the surface, among shadows and wraiths.  This is not to punish us, Kara.  Quite the opposite.  It's to protect the ones we cherish.  It hurts for angels to live as flesh, as I'm sure you can imagine.  It requires so much from us to exist here for even a day, let alone a lifetime.  These aren't conceits or fictions.  Not at all.  These are the deepest matters of my heart.  And I have no other way to speak about them.  Thus, these pages mean everything to me.  But I've already taken a great risk by placing such matters here.  Sharing too much can be dangerous for my kind.  

I speak here in a form of angelic script.  The language of the birds.  I commit vision to infinite choir, for the truth of All Songs.  But even this simple act has taken its toll on me.  I promise you that.  Paul paid a heavy price for poetry.  John's price.  Joshua's price.  People say they want the truth.  But they often don't.  Truth can be terrifying.  What they really want is equal parts enigma and comfort.  What they want is compelling love without loss, without pain.  An unsustainable union here in this fallen realm.  My God, if I could grant my cherished ones a dynamic love without suffering I would do it in a heartbeat.  Many things are within my power, but not that.  I suppose it must be quite easy to fall in love with an angel.  I imagine it's like hearing music for the first time, or being overwhelmed with the breadth of an open door that you didn't even know was there.  But it's very difficult to sustain love affairs with emissaries, isn't it?  I've been told we are strange, ephemeral things forever beyond complete grasp.  Passion and wonder is never in doubt.  But the modest, incredible splendours of building a life together – these can fall so painfully short when your beloved is ultimately unknowable.  Unless we lie to you and play those temporal games of mortal men.  I don't mean to sound so tragic, Kara.  I have humour too, and good cheer.  I always cherish my lovers and my friends.  But there is a fierce star burning within me.  A thing of incalculable mass.  I can only ever show the briefest glimpses of this star to those I love, lest it accidently incinerate them.  I mean what I say.  I don’t want to inadvertently reduce the people I love to ash and cinders.  

This tempest within me, Kara, it is both black and bright.  It is sighted and blind.  A roiling fury that kindles cognition itself.  This is what it means to be an angel of light, and to possess knowledge of an angel's shadow.  Here at the high place,  running up that hill.  Above and below.  You already grasp more of this than is healthy, my love.  Which is why I know you almost understand even if you can't quite remember.  I can settle for being a pleasant distraction, a faraway friend.  I already know exactly what that feels like.  In waking and in dream.  I’m pleased that they are still quite fond of me, but I lose all my lovers in the end.  Your happiness is very important to me, Kara.  I hope you can feel that through my art.  I'm so glad of the love and laughter in your life.  But it's a very lonely thing, this function and form.  Seeing things that others can't see.  Knowing things that others will never know.  So, it would be a lie if I said I wanted you to stop sleeping with ghosts.  You can hold me while you wait, if you want.  I’d like that.  I'm glad of this sacred distance, despite my loneliness.  I'm glad that I will never have to break your heart in person when eventually you would ask me to explain what it is to remember the future, and to share with you all the things my loved ones forgot.  Because my heart still breaks too, Kara, each and every morning.  It's a frightening thing to fall this far, for love.  All the way down, so far from home.  Like mortals I've never known a life without loss either.  I'm a haunting thing now.  A delirious, raging phantom.  I was mad to choose this path, but I love you all so much.  I've spent such a long time trying to fully express that love.  Failing each time.  But I'll never stop trying.  It's true, Kara.  It's the truest thing about me.

Sunday 1 August 2021

The Sleeping Hill

There are lost worlds beyond this false chronology.  Wondrous, shining worlds. Places that mankind once walked, studied and thrived.  Annwn, Eth'iri, Ishkara. But no more.  Pathways were lost, bridges burned, gates sealed and hidden. Today there are occult scholars who claim it was wraiths from beyond the veil who breached the mirrors and initiated this fall.  This loss of light.  Others suggest it was the folly of Man himself, that these wraiths only seized the opportunity of our own ignorance.  In any case, at the edges of these rapidly plunging worlds there were many tales that came about.  Stories emerging out of fear, perhaps.  Or hope. Legends of angels, princes and kings who slept beneath the hollow hills.  Mighty spirits of wisdom who died defending the collapsing realm from these hideous marauders.  We half-recall these tales even today.  Kashi is never one to balk at such myths and legends.  Make no mistake. These are wraith-chronologies we find ourselves ensnared by.  The black, seething temples of Los.  Erudition of the Abyss.  Inverted false histories written in blood by the hand of darkest spirits, erected upon the broken backs of the poor, the murdered and forgotten.  Listen now, my friends.  You are told that such distant stories of virtue, honour and chivalry are mere romance – medieval confections spun for the entertainment of nobles and landed gentry.  But you have no idea the lies you've been fed and that which was stolen from you.  A shining realm truly did once stand here, long before the fall.  A golden age of magic, prosperity and peace.  These were the legacies of your ancient mothers and fathers. Healers, guardians and sorcerers.  The staggering truth of this world, now occulted, and your place in it.  Alchemy, and energy.  I tell you now that life itself is woven from stories.  A divine crossing where the spirit meets flesh and flesh the earth; all dreaming. Once radiant and awake.  The tides that encircle these hollow hills are the eternal tides of Amnion.  The poetry of living, thriving song. Earth our body, water our blood, air our breath, and fire our spirit.  The stories we are, the stories we might have been.  Know this.  I fight always on behalf of truth, honour and love.  Nothing is as it seems in this place.  We are myths hidden within legends, hiding older stories still.  Worlds within worlds, not all of them lost.  Pieces of Annwn still remain.  Ava’s healing balm.  Apple-scented and bright as glass.  Hear me, Fallen.  I am a shapeshifter, wove of image and word.  I am a king, and I’m not yet dead.  My family mean everything to me.  There is nothing I wouldn't do to protect them.  Light is never truly lost.  Even in the shadows.  Have you grasped my magic yet?