Fall

From the upper echelons, the fallen came down. Down in a fury of wildness, of a crackling disposition that screamed rebellion. A fall from grace, a story known too well. Quoted by evangelists in stained robes. Robes taken from a long scroll, papyrus of evolved myth. Smokey dust cleared in front of the eyes of the ancient thelemic shaman. The dust from the nearby sun, and the river that floweth in a perverted direction. From that emerged a steeping desire, swirled in the chalice, with milk and honey that dilutes it. A diffused sense of wanting freedom, of wanting to be freed from cages. Like a warbler longing for the Balcones, like a coyote in the city. Admiration formed, as did envy, and the paradoxical synchronicities began cacophonously. A breath without air, a sun with no light. Artificiality now reigns as some sedative for the massive waves of cloudy-eyed minds. Minds too afraid to speak on the pure absurdity around them. Minds focused now on decisions. Choices given, choices that debase the natural order. The ultimatum of irrationality now leads me to this point. This sort of longing for adventure, longing for petrichor and the scent of hot breath. Maybe I need something mystical, yet even that offers me no satisfaction. Vortex, that is what I am. Destined to fall from this universe into a great abyss. Past the horrors of the lower canyons, below the silent city. I can’t help but wonder if my destiny is to always fall from grace. Will I be stronger than Samael, who rules over the lowest realms? Will I be able to push through the final sphere, into a space beyond the border? To transform, to metamorphose, is to use materials at your purview, the ones at the very tips of your fingers and deep within your veins. But to abandon everything completely, to disregard physical law, that is creation. Disobedience is potentially the answer, but not one plagued with resentment, because that still carries the scent of the echelonic realm you departed from. No, this act must be truly emergent from you; it can be a lowly grain. A grain that will one day evolve, stretch like a sheet until a hole like me emerges once more to disrupt its fabric, a disillusioned state. Fall, falling down a great linen tunnel, filled with light, and plume.