Angels and Demons
Angels and demons are nothing but carrion birds.
They fight over our loose souls like seagulls and crows fighting over sandy French fries on the beach.
They do not ferry us from here to one place or another. Our souls are merely food for them and they are hungry.
The only difference between them is the colour of their wings. The angels are white-winged and strong, a little bit bigger that the demons. The demons have black wings that glint red highlights in the sun. They are slightly smaller than the angels but they’re quicker and there a few more of them.
They circle above us, unseen, waiting, diving at every death in a flocked race with a gluttonous finish line. Disasters with high body counts thicken the air with their screeching cries and flapping wings.
We are a school of fish. They circle, gliding in lazy circles above the shifting, scalloped-glass meniscus of the ocean’s surface. They drift in an energy-conserving spiral, heads twitching for signs of death, flecks of struggling fins breaking the surface. Then they dive.
The sun glinting on the waves, shimmering down into the depths, is the light we see near the end.
There is no afterlife. Nothing is wasted, not even the soul. It is a closed system.
tags
They fight over our loose souls like seagulls and crows fighting over sandy French fries on the beach.
They do not ferry us from here to one place or another. Our souls are merely food for them and they are hungry.
The only difference between them is the colour of their wings. The angels are white-winged and strong, a little bit bigger that the demons. The demons have black wings that glint red highlights in the sun. They are slightly smaller than the angels but they’re quicker and there a few more of them.
They circle above us, unseen, waiting, diving at every death in a flocked race with a gluttonous finish line. Disasters with high body counts thicken the air with their screeching cries and flapping wings.
We are a school of fish. They circle, gliding in lazy circles above the shifting, scalloped-glass meniscus of the ocean’s surface. They drift in an energy-conserving spiral, heads twitching for signs of death, flecks of struggling fins breaking the surface. Then they dive.
The sun glinting on the waves, shimmering down into the depths, is the light we see near the end.
There is no afterlife. Nothing is wasted, not even the soul. It is a closed system.
tags