Monday, 14 February 2011

Love is a dying star heavier than the sun

I have only seen her in dreams and visions, an angel like no other, my angel, the most beautiful woman in the world. It is not a world where I can be myself. I am rarely present. I spend the majority of my time in astral sands and seas. And my companions are ghosts. I am not complaining. You make your bed. I will die in mine. But it would be nice to slip away for an hour or two, a day, a year, oh forever, to see this miracle in the flesh. For my mystical sightings of her are not satisfying. She is often more ghostly than my friends. Or, in illuminations, too good to be true. I would give anything to hold her hand, to caress her face. Is her hair as golden as it seems in the astral light of my mind? Are those eyes really as blue as a perfect summer sky? So, I stand on the cold ground. Could I bring her to me now? Surely no angel woman could step out of a vision into dull reality and still please the seer who had wanted her? And I want her, as much as I want life, all life. A universe is growing in my head. I ache for planets the size of Jupiter, and infinite spaces. I want a great cosmic scene before the light goes out. And I want love. Even though love is a dying star heavier than the sun.

I go too far. One day I will not come back. My angel with me. It would not be a tragedy. She may beg to differ. No one knows her feelings. I know she is not oblivious. This angel senses the power of my fantasies on waves across the ocean. Water we can drown in. The wet stuff that separates us. It is rather distressing. Far worse would be an eternal night, with my yearning for an image of her in darkness. And hearing that voice, out of nowhere and everywhere, like a haunting, or a breakdown! I may not be able to conjure her up, may not actually be able to touch her, but she lives for me in a secret place where I can enjoy her company whenever I desire it; though it is the thin experience of souls without bodies, and a game of illusions. Better that than nothing. I will take what I can get. I will take death with all its sweetness in my bloody mouth to have her. I will take the horrors of existence and any suffering. As long as I can make my own choices, with strength. I know my destiny. I will not be forced into a weak position, obscurity, and the shadows of life. I will not go down, all wretched, crying. Angel would frown. She moves in light. An unnatural environment. But it suits her so well. It is hard to believe that she exists at all in the physical realm.

I am tired of wanting, tired of needing. Beauty is destructive. I could sleep and never wake again. That would be a relief, a form of salvation. I wonder if she cares. A seer can see things that should not be there. I am empty. If she were empty, we could come to an understanding. One deep breath. So, my feet are on the ground. I rise, a little, waiting for a fit of passion to lift me higher. Coming on. Yes, coming on. I feel her. She is the fire in my heart. She is the electrical storm in my brain. This human angel, inhuman: an angelic creature showing no mercy. Angel. The word, as I use it, is more than a term of endearment. It has become a cold, hard fact. And now, my word, it is darker, and now, my heart, it is frozen. The impossibility of love in a dirty world! I look to the pale sky. I try to comprehend those infinite spaces. They are everywhere. Is there any escaping them? Oh, going. I have two ways. The void or the angel. I must surrender to her, and give her, my angel, everything she wants. Her coolness is intimidating. She wants love for her own reasons. I am a human sacrifice. Is this what they call vulnerability? I would not recommend it to anyone. I am a stupid man. I submit, knowing the folly of it all, knowing that love is a dying star heavier than the sun.