Dreaming of Paradise - NB not in TM-verse
The angel can drink if he wants to, now. Can swallow if he feels like, rid himself of the liquor in his system however he chooses. He expects that if he really wanted to he could get rid of it the same way everyone else does. The thought does not appeal. If anything, there had been a detatched curiosity, but he couldn't imagine ever wanting to experience it.
There is little point in drinking. It busies his hands and his mouth for a short period of time. The taste and feeling burn the back of his throat on the way down; nothing like the taste of sweet death, and now the colours and smells hit the back of his mind like the worst kind of psychadelic trip. Except whilst the heady sensations, the yearnings and needs are so very bright in his mind, paradoxically the too-bright sensations are empty, hollow, with no ring of truth. A hunger that can never be satisfied, a thirst never slaked, a lust never sated and an inside always needing. If anything, it serves an aesthetic purpose. Poetic rightness, demanded by the role he plays, by the expectation of the audience, by the laws of lore. But he can't even obey those now, something baulking at the need. There is little point in drinking. The hole is still there.
There is no peace here, no rest, no oblivion. Only endless restlessness, endless drive, endless listlessness.
There is no peace anywhere. He's searched the earth over, and nowhere feels like home. Heaven isn't listening, and he refuses to go to Hell. Wherever he is is Hell, anyway. Flying brings no exertion and achievement, so he merely appears where he wants to, resigned to knowing that unless he can annihilate himself entirely, he will always have to be somewhere. The garden is as fitting a place as any other- why not? This place is no more or less secure than any other battlefield. He walks over to the tree, and if he looks he refuses to see, lowering himself to sit below it.
He closes his eyes, merely aesthetic, or habit? There's no pleasure in the movement, something he didn't fully know was there until it was gone.
He's sure Heaven is gone for him; he can't feel it, feel Him any more. But he knows it is there, from experience. Knows it must exist intellectually as well. Could an angel ever deny Heaven? He contemplates this idly, wonders if an angel could ever go insane enough to be convinced otherwise, could ever be so sundered from Him, or if, deep down, they would still know. He wonders if perhaps Heaven will still be there if he reaches out- if, perhaps, he's just lost the way? Or is Heaven truly deaf to him? Surely his broken, worthless prayers need answering now, more than his steadfast faith had? Why would he be left alone in need? Maybe that is the point: he has forgotten how to ask, and how to listen, so how could he find his way back home?
Heaven is alternately a concept, a desire and a torment to him now. A concept he wrestles with in the abstract in a vain attempt to keep himself slipping further into insanity, when it is what sent him there in the first place. A desire, in that he knows the great, terrible need could only be filled with his Creator, and a torment to know that.
Stuck in a limbo of emptiness and blurred, clouded, stark knowledge just out of reach he thinks with a clinical detatchment as he attempts to distance himself, concentrating on anything but what screams in his mind.
He knows to Fall is to leave God, to refuse Him. He must have Fallen, or he would still be able to feel God. He must have Fallen, or he would never have... And he knows that to undo that would entail repentance, asking and accepting forgiveness. Except right now, he can't quite see what. How can he ask forgiveness if he doesn't know what he has done wrong? How can he learn and stop if he can't see?
Frustrated, he tries to concentrate on what it is he wants, truly, and what is stopping him. Don't lie, he thinks to himself. You only lie to yourself and to God. And the Metatron always despised those lies most of all. From the beginning. From what he has always known:
I want peace.
I want peace and happiness.
I want peace and happiness for everyone.
At that a shock of recent memory, of making people suffer, of willingly snarling and baiting and frustrating offered help, seeking and then refusing, of trying to burn the care out of someone, desperately trying to crush the bright spark of love that burns to look at, the need to continue the cycle and reduce someone else, to...
Of Lucifer, bright, glorious, awful and dark, burning to hurt him and be hurt, and he the same. Wanting to rip out his throat in anger and gratitude for what he's done. And why has he done it? Because he's made truth, love and beauty an agony, and because to look on it.... he.... knows, now...
But does he want that? Truly? He's capable of it, yes, in the same way he's capable of turning himself into an emu, of turning Surrey into a living musical, of forcing his will on others, taking control, making them good... And though he's entertained thoughts of at least one of the above, did that mean he truly wanted to?
How can he justify this as for Lucifer when it can't possibly be helping? And is he enjoying it? What is it he wants from the Adversary, anyway?
Fingers in wings, yes, to be lost in his embrace, to surrender to it and to feel safe and wanted, to know... to know Lucifer loves, wants, needs, returns... Returns home, and feelings.
This is not that.
Try again, what else?
God. Infinite love. Loving even as I hate. Loving as I turn him down, and turn away. Opening His arms wide and giving the strength and courage to carry on and face the pain. Knowing that if it hurts me, it hurts him more...
Easier now, his chest lighter. He opens his eyes to look around again; colour painted over greyscale photograph. A harsh red, a needy blue, a hungry orange.
Paradise. Heaven. A lack of pain and sorrow. Lack, yes- even angels cannot have everything they want all at once, but there would be nothing denied. To feel His grace, goodness, beauty, truth and love again. To see others' faces lit with the knowledge. To... light faces, and to be lit in return....
Angel: it is no sin to want love.
...where the fears and doubts have no place and I can finally stop panicking, can finally stop double-guessing, trying to do what I don't want or think right, finally to give in and let Him do what He wants. To know I have a choice and choose Him, to know I am not always right. To know He will do what is best for me, and to stop trying to get it for myself...
He looks up.
I'm coming. I have something to do first. Thankyou.
The angel gets up gently, lets out his wings and powers off the ground.
OOC: None of this has happened in TM, he just demanded I write this one night.
There is little point in drinking. It busies his hands and his mouth for a short period of time. The taste and feeling burn the back of his throat on the way down; nothing like the taste of sweet death, and now the colours and smells hit the back of his mind like the worst kind of psychadelic trip. Except whilst the heady sensations, the yearnings and needs are so very bright in his mind, paradoxically the too-bright sensations are empty, hollow, with no ring of truth. A hunger that can never be satisfied, a thirst never slaked, a lust never sated and an inside always needing. If anything, it serves an aesthetic purpose. Poetic rightness, demanded by the role he plays, by the expectation of the audience, by the laws of lore. But he can't even obey those now, something baulking at the need. There is little point in drinking. The hole is still there.
There is no peace here, no rest, no oblivion. Only endless restlessness, endless drive, endless listlessness.
There is no peace anywhere. He's searched the earth over, and nowhere feels like home. Heaven isn't listening, and he refuses to go to Hell. Wherever he is is Hell, anyway. Flying brings no exertion and achievement, so he merely appears where he wants to, resigned to knowing that unless he can annihilate himself entirely, he will always have to be somewhere. The garden is as fitting a place as any other- why not? This place is no more or less secure than any other battlefield. He walks over to the tree, and if he looks he refuses to see, lowering himself to sit below it.
He closes his eyes, merely aesthetic, or habit? There's no pleasure in the movement, something he didn't fully know was there until it was gone.
He's sure Heaven is gone for him; he can't feel it, feel Him any more. But he knows it is there, from experience. Knows it must exist intellectually as well. Could an angel ever deny Heaven? He contemplates this idly, wonders if an angel could ever go insane enough to be convinced otherwise, could ever be so sundered from Him, or if, deep down, they would still know. He wonders if perhaps Heaven will still be there if he reaches out- if, perhaps, he's just lost the way? Or is Heaven truly deaf to him? Surely his broken, worthless prayers need answering now, more than his steadfast faith had? Why would he be left alone in need? Maybe that is the point: he has forgotten how to ask, and how to listen, so how could he find his way back home?
Heaven is alternately a concept, a desire and a torment to him now. A concept he wrestles with in the abstract in a vain attempt to keep himself slipping further into insanity, when it is what sent him there in the first place. A desire, in that he knows the great, terrible need could only be filled with his Creator, and a torment to know that.
Stuck in a limbo of emptiness and blurred, clouded, stark knowledge just out of reach he thinks with a clinical detatchment as he attempts to distance himself, concentrating on anything but what screams in his mind.
He knows to Fall is to leave God, to refuse Him. He must have Fallen, or he would still be able to feel God. He must have Fallen, or he would never have... And he knows that to undo that would entail repentance, asking and accepting forgiveness. Except right now, he can't quite see what. How can he ask forgiveness if he doesn't know what he has done wrong? How can he learn and stop if he can't see?
Frustrated, he tries to concentrate on what it is he wants, truly, and what is stopping him. Don't lie, he thinks to himself. You only lie to yourself and to God. And the Metatron always despised those lies most of all. From the beginning. From what he has always known:
I want peace.
I want peace and happiness.
I want peace and happiness for everyone.
At that a shock of recent memory, of making people suffer, of willingly snarling and baiting and frustrating offered help, seeking and then refusing, of trying to burn the care out of someone, desperately trying to crush the bright spark of love that burns to look at, the need to continue the cycle and reduce someone else, to...
Of Lucifer, bright, glorious, awful and dark, burning to hurt him and be hurt, and he the same. Wanting to rip out his throat in anger and gratitude for what he's done. And why has he done it? Because he's made truth, love and beauty an agony, and because to look on it.... he.... knows, now...
But does he want that? Truly? He's capable of it, yes, in the same way he's capable of turning himself into an emu, of turning Surrey into a living musical, of forcing his will on others, taking control, making them good... And though he's entertained thoughts of at least one of the above, did that mean he truly wanted to?
How can he justify this as for Lucifer when it can't possibly be helping? And is he enjoying it? What is it he wants from the Adversary, anyway?
Fingers in wings, yes, to be lost in his embrace, to surrender to it and to feel safe and wanted, to know... to know Lucifer loves, wants, needs, returns... Returns home, and feelings.
This is not that.
Try again, what else?
God. Infinite love. Loving even as I hate. Loving as I turn him down, and turn away. Opening His arms wide and giving the strength and courage to carry on and face the pain. Knowing that if it hurts me, it hurts him more...
Easier now, his chest lighter. He opens his eyes to look around again; colour painted over greyscale photograph. A harsh red, a needy blue, a hungry orange.
Paradise. Heaven. A lack of pain and sorrow. Lack, yes- even angels cannot have everything they want all at once, but there would be nothing denied. To feel His grace, goodness, beauty, truth and love again. To see others' faces lit with the knowledge. To... light faces, and to be lit in return....
Angel: it is no sin to want love.
...where the fears and doubts have no place and I can finally stop panicking, can finally stop double-guessing, trying to do what I don't want or think right, finally to give in and let Him do what He wants. To know I have a choice and choose Him, to know I am not always right. To know He will do what is best for me, and to stop trying to get it for myself...
He looks up.
I'm coming. I have something to do first. Thankyou.
The angel gets up gently, lets out his wings and powers off the ground.
OOC: None of this has happened in TM, he just demanded I write this one night.