Interlude (Or How even Angels turn to dust )
What is the purpose of our lives, asked an angel to the Lord. Being an angel,
it asked this question out of absolute innocence. It had seen it scratched
in the white marble steps on the Lord's throne, minute letters made by what
seemed to be an awl or a tooth. The Lord gathered the angel, the angel's
wings and its feet into his lap. The warmth and depth of the Lord pervaded
the angel and it fell fast asleep.
The angel dreamt that the Lord took his head in both his hands, fastened
his wings, and, cradling it, said,"That you may feel the futility of
my own existence."
The angel, on hearing this, began to weep and since pain is deadly in the
kingdom of eternal joy, it turned into dust. The Lord's infinitely silken
lap was covered with this dust and he made no attempt to shake it off. This
dust was the angel that our Lord had loved the most and so it clung to him,
burning, burrowing holes in the skin of the Lord until his belly and chest
were chiggered, pockmarked: anguished, he cried aloud for the dust to depart
from his flesh.
The spirit itself was extinguished; the name was erased from the book of
life and its utterance banned throughout the kingdom.
The dust drifted downwards; God crushed it in his fist. In the middle of
his palm, lay the form of a man, deformed in all eyes but one. A creature
to whom nightmares were sustenance, whose strength was despair. The Lord
blew his own mortality into this form and cast it out. During the day, it
clung to objects. But each night, the creature dreamt of the Lord's death,
[blasphemy], and our deaths[hope]. In all this, it was dark; the Lord had
The creature would stand by the gates of life,
unable to enter:
Why have you forsaken us? What have you done? My lord, we are blind and
helpless, foolish, and yet you have abandoned us.
The Lord so loved this world that he sent his only son to us, briefly. Indifference
is greater than love. The dark comes after the light. But first the light
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