By Raph al Guul
We all faintly remember the time when we could fly – but we can never quite piece together the day they took our wings. It is pain fading in the haze of time.
Time, what a fiend. You treat it like treasure, you conserve seconds as if they’re gems. Meanwhile, it consumes your life until there’s nothing left but a small pile of dust in a crumbling hall, the place deserted and the grains cast in the wind of enthean caprice. Yes, time feeds on you and you willingly seek it out as if to offer yourself up in a twisted act of religious self-sacrifice.
I believe a great many things and none of them are true. I have futile hope and I know it’s futile and I cling to it. It’s as if what I imagine is the last reality I can trust or at least choose to. I make up my own truths as if that made up for the fact that everything I know is invention. Maybe if I join the process it will bring me closer to god.
Was it god who took our wings? Can you picture it? It is brutal, draconian love, no matter who did it. And yet, we all try desperately to find back to the memories of innocent eyes. As if knowing would change anything. As if it would explain something – an imaginary answer to a question we ask habitually, almost numb to the notion of interest. Almost…
_/ I \_ Unchain the Light →