Cassandra.

[earlofgrey]

An eternity of bliss would be a torture. Lucifer falls, a third of the angels follow. The remainder huddle to their god, to their assigned roles, smug in their success or frightened and grateful as children. I think this would suffice for almost an eternity. Abuse often does. But even the most strident defenders of the Kingdom would, at last, have their fill of ecstasy and certainty and praise, not because they've grown weary of it, but because endless love and light will be found to have edges and holes. The host embraced and endured their tightly bound, fluxing millennia of heaven but at last will admit to one another that they long with a holy desperation for their lost comrades in hell.

We are told that one cannot hear the voice of god without going mad. Thus the Metatron. But the Metatron, I think, succumbed long ago. She was crushed between the horror of the perfect and the absolute on one side and the overwhelming writhing beauty of the multiple, the incomplete, the endlessly divergent and varying validity held in every particle of creation. The poor Metatron is a pair of twin sphinxes, raving and lying, choking without dying on the ineffable. Or she is silent as the grave, refusing to pollute any truth further.

I don't want to start any blasphemous rumours, but I think that god's got a sick sense of humour and when I die I expect to find him laughing.