Impossible Angles and Improbable Angels

Here I am again. Here I am, returned from the respite of being, or is it to the respite of telling? No matter, really. I am here, once again, and I have with me a story that is picking at corners and sniffing cracks in hopes of fresh air. I am an unquestionable lout when charged with the role of protector, selfishly spilling the word like a drunk sailor on leave, and equally selfish in my need to guard, to deny, to confuse, and to deceive.

Perhaps it is with a peeling back of dramatic insulation that I open the lid and allow the story to extract itself from its box, but if the truth must be told, the story is told all on its own and the reader writes his own chapters for only himself to read. I can admit that. It's no bother.

He'd had a bit of a trial with the onslaught of insight that has barged in to the party and thrown its weight around with arrogance and scorn. He'd written a history of the world told through the eyes of acidic fear and caustic clarity.

Arriving on the wings of record, perhaps without purpose, almost certainly without purpose, this undercurrent of revelation has brought demons to the halls of calm and loosed them upon all which comes before them.

Things being as they are, and not as they were, it is perhaps better that the lights stay on than to forge ahead in total darkness convinced that the map is the territory and the territory has remained static. In this sort of environment it is only a matter of time before one finds oneself stuck in a hole too deep for escape, doomed to a fate much less than noble.

These heralds have carefully crafted ships that sail to the future, plagued cargo in tow, all with the ability to cripple and maim without any actual conscious effort. They come to work their magic on the unsuspecting with a professionalism that leaves wonder in its wake.

He stumbled over the rough terrain, fought to regain a balance, to regain footing on the grossly uneven surface, fell many times and then finally, eventually was able to call a truce with truth and begin moving forward again.

Nonetheless, he still has visits and he still surrenders in his obligation to entertain the guests, though he is always very careful to be a good host and not to make these guests uncomfortable, it must be obvious that he is counting the seconds until they leave, and leave him be.

I find myself wondering how things would differ if the perspective was to shift suddenly. How would things appear if the sun were to suddenly decide to rise in the west and make its way east across the sky?

Is it obvious that the seal has been tampered with?

Have the ravaged companions of lunacy bought seats on the floor, sat down with their snacks and trophy wives and hogged all the attention from the game itself?

The claims of ignorance, of being led astray in the throes of the calendar, are making the panel weary. There had been much debate among those gathered as to whether or not the hearing should be called on account of a well documented case of falsified evidence. "Not in my courtroom," mewls the judge, tired of being made a fool at his own party. "No one will tell me how to run my courtroom."

So the nurses have all come round, and tucked the little babies into their beds, prepping for another day in the yard, another day of discovery and adventure. But these mouths have to be fed and the pantry is running bare. The deliveryman has fallen ill and the weather is turning foul. The crows have gathered on the eaves and caw with anxious glee. So it is without pity that fate shall visit these confines and wreak havoc on those gathered. It is with malice that the mouths will starve and atrophy in their tomb and the pipes will freeze and the birds will have their day and the world will return after the thaw and recoil in terror as the dogs of brute idiocy will be fed with innocence once again.

No one will ever regret the toll taken on the weakest of the weak. Justice will have ushered itself into the mythology with a certain poetic swagger and the foolish will step in ever widening paths through the cobbled streets.

Never think for a moment that your lot is one of sound footing. Never believe that the wages of your sin could ever pave the way into the kingdom. To do this is to surrender to the throes of folly, which, despite all your gaudy parading, will actually happen, and will do so without the auspicious guise of smug satisfaction, but with the naked, bloated, wretched, and most corpulent mass of reality.

Back to it then, little man, and don't forget how alone you really are. Because all you ever really are is alone. But don't feel bad, because in that, you're in great company.