Before the fall our wings were like eyes that saw the golden fruit in the tree of the upper world. There was an abundance of promise in all things. To think a thing was to have it realised. A desire was its instant fulfilment. A dream was its instant reality. There were no distances for the soul. The air was a pure kind of love, and to breathe was constant ecstasy.
Everything there held the memory of infinite worlds. In that world, I once held a feather that took me faster than the speed of thought to the edge of the eighth heaven. I held a pen there once and it folded into my hands the immeasurable, magical literature of an entire universe.
Oh, those books I read there that were life in the living. A single line of a poem once released into my veins a doomed enchanted history of Lemuria. An unfinished sentence was like water from the dark wells of Atlantis, and it filled my heart with visions of successively extraordinary worlds. I held a brush there once and vast frescoes of walled cities in the seventh realm bloomed in my mind like technicolour mirages in a golden desert.
The spaces there house possibilities and impossibilities alike. I heard a note of music in that space and celestial symphonies lifted my wings into a strange blue air where I saw a multitudinous generation being born, living in ignorance, and expiring with a cry of gratitude.
But all that was when we were insiders in the unbounded temple of nothingness.
When we from an angel fell, time opened up beneath our feet. Love came rushing from the abyss. Nature snarled at us. That which sprang into our hands from a thought could only be hewn from the air with all the toil of our sinews. Meaning ran into every crevice and spilled out from the innocent surface of leaves.
The clouds above us reminded us in tattered fragments of that first space in memory. From the ever evolving seabed, a path unwound with our footsteps, tracing its way over the lands of the earth. What were dreams became storms. Before we had no need to breathe; now we have fire in our lungs. Before we saw without eyes; now with eyes we do not see.
Oh, but to discover that poignant woodsmoke of history, where bodies are growing from where bodies are burned, where flowers distill our putrid past into the fragrance of an unknown promise.
When we from an angel fell, all things were reversed, even hell. Now we fall downwards, climbing up. We rush outwards, turning in. The sea is mirrored in the sky. The substance that made all things is in our hands, like the lost word, which we have without knowing it. We forget how much we are at home.
When we from an angel fell, we became outsiders. We could become dancers in the infinite...