All our deeds give birth to angels, good angels and bad angels. They sprout from the ground, or from trees, burst out of stones like a chick from an egg, or condense from a wisp of vapour. Every good deed brings a good angel, every bad deed, a wicked one. But there is no obvious difference between them, except for one tiny characteristic; good angels don’t smile as much. The evil angels lure victims by their wit, their humour, their charm. Good angels say little and do more.
And even a thought can produce an angel. Thousands of angels are born every second, they are released into the world to pursue their ends, coaxing the unwary into good or evil thoughts or deeds which will, in turn, beget more angels.
A story can produce angels, and this story may do so. It depends on you, the reader. What happens here, as you read? Do your thoughts lead you to some ethereal domain, or to some dark, damp cell, where your anger is trapped and fed, possibly by my reluctance to give you a narrative or by my (apparent) tendency to discuss matters of no significance, when the world is full of inequality and injustice, when the planet heats because of centuries of industrialisation and consumerism? And this leads to you releasing your wrath, your sinister angels?
But I ask you, instead, to allow that dark, damp cell to dissolve, let it dissipate, and within it, those evil angels. Now imagine eternity and our insignificance. Imagine your consciousness as a spark in an otherwise impenetrable night, a tiny, momentary spark. What will it illuminate? Will you see only the knots of your own rage?
Fill the night with bright angels, thousands of tiny, bright, singing angels. They will, in turn, illuminate the universe allowing others to see their own bright angels. And so eternity can be filled with light, light upon light, light outside light, light beyond light.
yawn the post 