(no subject)
It is twice now the angels have slipped through my fingers. I had one, until he slipped the teeth of my bear trap, through the closed window, and sprang aloft, leaving behind only a drop of blood the colour of warm gold. It smells of old honey, wildflowers I can never name, the fresh sap of trees, and my first girlfriend. I keep it on my nightstand, stoppered in a Victorian lead-crystal perfume bottle from my Grandmother's collection.
I shall not be lazy anymore. Stretched on my lap, my old Scouting handbook is opened to the trapping page.
Angels can be caught, one must just fashion the right kind of loop. The bait was a simple matter; Angels follow sadness; they can't help it. It's in the nature of an immortal thing to try to understand, to desire complete knowledge; but sadness is an imperfect thing, rooted in lack and insecurity. Of course it can't be understood by Angels. So they just float around sadness, looking for a way in with their vastly beautiful, stupidly puzzled eyes.
The loop is the trick, the real rub of this particular proposition. What can you fashion to hold beings with no definite mass or substance? In fact, I don't even know if the contents of my bottle are real. Theologically, angels shouldn't leave blood. It could simply be an elaborate joke at my expense, performed by beings with incomprehensible faculties of humour.
So I have it. I have fashioned the idea of a loop, then twisted that knotted shape out of locks of my own curled hair, and soaked it in my own human miseries. The tears from my last break-up, vomit from my nights of drinking, sweat from the gym, blood razored from under the vulnerable skin, used come from an unfulfilling night of sex.
Now, I simply fix it to my headboard, and wait until I dream of unhappiness again.
I shall not be lazy anymore. Stretched on my lap, my old Scouting handbook is opened to the trapping page.
Angels can be caught, one must just fashion the right kind of loop. The bait was a simple matter; Angels follow sadness; they can't help it. It's in the nature of an immortal thing to try to understand, to desire complete knowledge; but sadness is an imperfect thing, rooted in lack and insecurity. Of course it can't be understood by Angels. So they just float around sadness, looking for a way in with their vastly beautiful, stupidly puzzled eyes.
The loop is the trick, the real rub of this particular proposition. What can you fashion to hold beings with no definite mass or substance? In fact, I don't even know if the contents of my bottle are real. Theologically, angels shouldn't leave blood. It could simply be an elaborate joke at my expense, performed by beings with incomprehensible faculties of humour.
So I have it. I have fashioned the idea of a loop, then twisted that knotted shape out of locks of my own curled hair, and soaked it in my own human miseries. The tears from my last break-up, vomit from my nights of drinking, sweat from the gym, blood razored from under the vulnerable skin, used come from an unfulfilling night of sex.
Now, I simply fix it to my headboard, and wait until I dream of unhappiness again.