(no subject)
The life of any human has much to do with patterns and repetition. In some respects, being an angel is no different. Even so I found life on my second island to be somewhat less stimulating than I might have hoped for. In all fairness, of course, my basis for comparison was my somewhat brief and luxurious respite in the body of Theo Mandros while residing on Piraeus.
My life was not that difficult either, to be honest. I had texts in several languages to occupy my mind and the construction of a somewhat crooked hut to occupy my hands from time to time. Lucifer was consistently out and about somewhere terrifying or befriending humans, which, in of itself, was mildly entertaining. I suppose my one regret was that I was serving no real or vital function.
Feeling no sense of urgency, no pressing call to answer or matter to attend to from God or any of His children, I was perfectly content procrastinating and translating Hafiz from Persian to French in the shade of trees a short distance away from the church. I appreciated the sun and its warmth, but I had no desire to be burnt by it again.
I say 'again,' because I was a little red from a combination of careless and paying close attention to small schools of fish for several hours a few afternoons prior to that Monday. The margins of the particular volume of poetry that I'd set down upon my lap in lieu of a table were wide enough that the only instrument I required was a pencil, and once the sun set, I imagined I would either return to more populated areas or remain on my own.
My life was not that difficult either, to be honest. I had texts in several languages to occupy my mind and the construction of a somewhat crooked hut to occupy my hands from time to time. Lucifer was consistently out and about somewhere terrifying or befriending humans, which, in of itself, was mildly entertaining. I suppose my one regret was that I was serving no real or vital function.
Feeling no sense of urgency, no pressing call to answer or matter to attend to from God or any of His children, I was perfectly content procrastinating and translating Hafiz from Persian to French in the shade of trees a short distance away from the church. I appreciated the sun and its warmth, but I had no desire to be burnt by it again.
I say 'again,' because I was a little red from a combination of careless and paying close attention to small schools of fish for several hours a few afternoons prior to that Monday. The margins of the particular volume of poetry that I'd set down upon my lap in lieu of a table were wide enough that the only instrument I required was a pencil, and once the sun set, I imagined I would either return to more populated areas or remain on my own.