He doesn’t come to my room often, but it’s always at night. In his presence I sense power and justice, a great calm. Last night, he wanted to know how I was, and when I told him he smiled:
“You have a good few years in front of you, have no fear.”
I asked him about the state of the world, what he, and the others, were doing about it. He laughed.
“We observe. We are not interventionists, as those politicians would say. We keep an eye on the other guy, who appears to have recruited quite a few followers. We are not surprised. His main skill is to instil fear in the minds of humans. We know about it.”
“What can I do?” I asked.
“Be yourself, pray, for we can hear you, any time. Don’t listen to the liars, the cheats, the false prophets, the merchants in the Temple. You know the path. Don’t deviate.”
There was a pause. The great frame stood up, I felt the low sound of powerful wings unfolding, and Saint Michael was gone.
Image source: Nheyob, CC BY-SA 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons, https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Saint_Paul_Church_(Yellow_Springs,Ohio)-_stained_glass,_Saint_Michael_the_Archangel.JPG
How to fight Evil? Some say, the Goods and the Angels must rise: only the Sword can triumph, in the Name of all that is Holly. I am no longer so sure. Isn’t the Enemy already among us? Can we still recognise the Fallen one, among the Angels? For he’s an expert of disguise, borrowing beauty and charm when it suits his ends: the ever-changing Joker.
Today he’s everywhere, in the sweet songs, and the laments, in the unctuous speeches of the virtuous. One day, the hateful legion, the next Innocence, in all her nakedness. And the fools to applaud.
Yet, we have been victorious before. All it takes is determination, and clarity. In this world, and beyond.
Image: Von Arnold Böcklin – 0wFgMTIQ3kZCpg at Google Cultural Institute, zoom level maximum, Gemeinfrei, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=13251755 (Original in Alte Nationalgalerie, Berlin)
Weekly Writing Challenge #164
The artist drew the small horns, atop the hideous wings, but we have to notice the hooves. The fallen angel turns his gaze toward the snake, an act of sheer despair in the desolate landscape: the gate of Paradise is shut.
Image: Paradise lost, by Gustave Doré (Paradise Lost or James Donahue) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
Weekly Writing Challenge #141
The stage was set long ago, where we have to admit our guilt, the betrayal of all that we believed in, when we were young.
That innocent person, that child, has grown into this: a pretentious liar, a coward, a traitor to what is fair and noble, an unctuous criminal.
The angel is waiting, the page is blank.
We will have to confess, for once, we will have to tell the truth.
Not only tell, but write it.
It’s that, or the gun, lying on the table.
A clear choice: go to the light, or die the miserable death of the servants of the Enemy.
Picture: grave in Invaliden churchyard, near the Hohenzollern Kanal © 2016 Honoré Dupuis