We were once angels with wings. We lost our wings and were re-made from the dust. From the ashes. From the Earth. When we had wings we could direct our flight and we flew into the fire. Into the sun. Into death. To the tree of knowledge where we ate the rotten apple. Now as dust we can only fly when we are scattered in the wind, to mix with each other for a time and then scatter some more. Where would I fly if I controlled my flight with wings? Away from everyone with my gold and jewels, whatever those may be for me, in cold isolation. Instead I am made to scatter in the wind, randomly, with no control of my own. Mixed with your dust and her dust and his dust. Landing in fields to grow things; landing on cold concrete to blow away; or simply floating endlessly, unrecognizable from the dust of all the other angels.

Tuesday, July 6th 2010