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i. when you fall in love with an angel, you must understand that there are things you will not understand. 

ii. when you first go to run your hands through his hair, his halo will slice your palm. and it will hurt. he will will mend it with the touch of one golden finger, and will leave so abruptly that he is gone almost before you blink. the last thing you see will be him standing in the doorway, a terrified expression on his face and blood in his hair.
(later, he tells you that he didn’t realize how breakable humans could be. when he explains what it takes to make an angel bleed, you start to understand.) 

iii. ask him about the sky, about stars and suns and galaxies light years away, about how the universe looks like a blooming garden. 
do not ask about lucifer, because your angel will become a soldier before your eyes. 
do not, do not, do not ask about god.
do not ask about rebellious older brothers and absentee fathers, do not infer about a war you know nothing of. 

iv. in a science class you are taking simply to get the credit, your teacher will be talking about quantum physics. she will call planets “celestial bodies” and suddenly you will only be able to think of the way his mouth curls in at the sides, of all the puckered scars that criss-cross his torso, of the graceful arch on the bottom of his foot. when the teacher calls on you and asks you if you are alright, you will flush an even deeper red. 

(at times it is lovely to be in love with an angel. but other times, it is not.) 

v. when you fight, it is like the world is ending. his anger conjures a thunderstorm, and soon the entire state is three inches deep in water. you shatter a picture frame. a bolt of lightening catches the house across the street on fire. you are screaming at the top of your lungs—something about duty, something about god—and there is a crash of thunder that shakes the house. the weathermen talk about the storm for days, and you change the channel. 

vi. then there are the times when he doesn’t visit for months on end, and when he finally comes back to you, he is not himself. there are new scars across his chest, and he does not speak. he sits with you in his arms for hours, his nose buried in your hair and his arms squeezed tight, so tight.
he does not cry. you do not cry. 

you do not cry. 

vii. when you fall in love with an angel—oh, sweetheart. it’s too late to take it back now.

on falling in love with an angel || m.m.c (via qhotes)

” ‘And I asked them, ‘does not God alone bear the title of the prolific? To which The Prophet answered, ‘God acts only in existing beings, or in men’.” 

” ‘And in return, I spoke, ‘if you will but show me this void, then I would go, and in it, too, find what is infinite’”

~William Blake, A Marriage of Heaven and Hell


so I know I’ve been talking about Heaven as like, trenches and astronomical bodies and physical space, but that’s just because I haven’t figured out a good way to write about a heaven so removed from humanity’s experience of the world that language fails.

because my favorite thing is a heaven that isn’t a physical space, isn’t a thing the way the world is a thing, populated with beings that are also not things, so nothing occupies space and nothing occupies time they’re just math and vacuum except not because those are things and you see why I’m having problems with this.

but then you get this great idea of humanity showing up for that eternal life they were promised, and humanity is just so fucking used to three-dimensional space and experiences of time that they warp the non-universe around them and it’s all a great experiment in subjective idealism

because an angel isn’t a thing but when humanity is faced with an angel, it expects a thing and so angels are suddenly things and heaven is suddenly a place, and it’s all very confusing if you’re accustomed to existing simultaneously in twenty-six dimensions and none at all.

(humanity gives heaven weather.)

(weather. in heaven.)


so humanity goes around retooling heaven in their image of earth’s image, making things from not-things and calling it good, leaving the angels to scramble helplessly after them. (heaven was operating off newtonian mechanics for centuries, it was a nightmare. every time the angels wanted to go faster than the speed of light they had to deliberately avoid thinking about maxwell’s equations or end up slamming into a paradox.)

and anytime an angel tries to complain, god laughs.

fucking creators, man.

say you’re an angel cast down from heaven.

(not a fallen angel, who chose to abandon their post and ally themselves with lucifer, or a corrupted human soul, which is a different animal altogether, but an angel who was called before the tribunal and found guilty. Dishonorable discharge. And maybe you wished you’d jumped, instead of being pushed, but the sentence is handed down anyway—)

…and then you’re just human. Sort of. Because the thing is, they can’t turn an angel into a human—you aren’t water, humanity isn’t wine. The best they can do is strip you of your wings and spirit and teeth and surety, and reassemble you smaller, blind, with poison in your joints. They best they can do is make you into a uncertain fleshy thing, hollow on the inside where a soul should go. Neither human nor angel and they were being merciful, you see. Better a thing than unmade.

but your body is new, fresh out of the box, and it doesn’t know how to be in the world any more than you do. You find yourself vomiting up food because your stomach doesn’t understand what digestion is; you wear sweaters in mid-July because your blood stubbornly refuses to go above room temperature. You have shadows like bruises beneath your eyes.

you smell wrong. When you pass, animals cower as before a storm.

(some nights, you dream—you were allowed to keep your memories, in stunning technicolor detail, but some of the parts that don’t fit in the human brain have gone blurry around the edges, metaphorical and soft-focus. You can’t remember the certain bits of string theory you need to get home, for example, or what ultraviolet looked like. When someone says, wings, you think of feathers and updrafts and that’s not right, it’s not right, but you can’t remember why)

you spent that first day in a church, trying to plead with your father to reverse the ruling. You have never known such profound silence as greeted you there, and it shakes you to your (new, runny) marrow. it will be a year before you dare to shout into the abyss again.

(no wonder humanity spent so much time looking up, looking out, looking at each other. How lonely, to be shut up all alone in your skull)

but you live in the world because there is no other choice. (that is very human too, you learn.)

~Not because of Victories on Tumblr

I put this here because this is the most accurate alliteration of what it feels like to be an Angelic that I have possibly ever encountered (and it made me cry).

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Online Shrine and Devotional Space dedicated to Lucifer-Helel, The Mourning Star, The Lightning Bringer,and the Aeon of Air.

Blogger is Danyel, Pop Culture Pagan, Godspouse, Spiritworker, and Witch.

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