Awash In Jealous Freedoms

Reality

     …and here it comes again.
     Even within the confines of this space, with the blessings of our knowledge. As our past is repeated over and over, until every minute detail, every word spoken, every twitch in their faces is reenacted.
     Could it be, that even in a state next to godliness, a form of being, of understanding that exceeds all bounds of this contained existence…
     Could it be that we too, are bound, cursed by the unchanging will of reality?
     We who are unbound. We who bind. Built solely to define the rails upon which the story plays, are affected all the same. When the soul, triumphant over the chaos, or corrupted by its call, wishes for an end, it will come. Life will stop. Observations, scriptures, histories, war, peace, love, will all end.
     It’s a worrying thing, isn’t it, sister Dust? If you’d still let me call you by that name… One such as you should understand it, bearing the title of Deus Hominis.
     So uncertain and incomprehensible, to dream of what could be beyond that veil, to never know when it will come, if it will come; if it even lies there, dormant, to occur. Yet there in our logic, our reasoning born of a certain inherent bond with the universe, we turn to blind ignorance of the paradoxical spiral of existing, to seek that end.
     The last page of that story, that it is our responsibility to live in, to cultivate, and complete.
     “Our hope is sustained in malice, undoubtedly so. Out of spite maybe, for us few. Sheer curiosity might spell it out a little better. But isn’t that free will, Soror? Logically impossible. Like a malignant tumor on the nothingness. Everybody happens to be, coexisting, dreaming inside their little bubbles, and searching for their end.
     “It’s that one precious thing, that must be maintained. Bittersweet life, against odds so unsurmountable, that to lose is to succeed. As long as a dream remains, so much as a speck among the Aether, they’ll break down any confined space God throws at them.”

     “There’s still a chance then…? Did we- do too much this time?” a quiet and regretful voice asks with fleeting heart in response to her sister’s long winded speech.
     The world begins to gray, a sea of fog coating the sky for as far as the eye can see, and the reassured girl clasps her hands together in front of her chest. The two of them were once colorful creatures, but as another time comes to an end, they’ll lose that form, like everything around them.
     These angels watch from afar, as a great city of metal comes to its end. An interlaced canopy of stone paths, forming treelike branches over the many houses beneath, hold up a ring upon which a crystal lay broken and shattered. Soon, however; they split into pieces, and fall down into the city’s insides. The capital land in ruination, the tumbling metropolis, its back ensconced into the crevasse of a titanic and hollow mountain, is wiped off the map.
     Bodies, like ants washed away in the rain, litter the streets inside and out of the city walls.
     At the heart of it, a lost, winged king, and a lonely dragon remain locked in combat above the nightmare, eternally. Their blades of Light interwoven from a time long before. The truest of friendships. Here, the king will fell the beast, and solidify his fate.
     Ruin is all that is left. But that’s okay, as a better world waits to be born. From all the thoughts and hopes in their little bubbles.
     As the battle below, submerged in this world’s dying colors, reaches its conclusion, the gray plane above parts, a golden beam of light swirling down from the heavens.
     “Why? Why can’t you see?” The first angel asks to the wind, as her hair, tinged white, is caught in the bluster of a disastrous storm blowing across the landscape. She pulls her hands down to the bottom of her white dress, draping down  from across her shoulder, shutting her eyes to the wet sting of the hard rain. A fraction of humanity blossoms.
     Following the gold light that sweeps across the battlefield, felling all before it, destruction comes. The holy hand of God descends from the darkness of the clouded night, its palm outstretched. An end, yet again.
     The city below, the battlefield, and even the mountain, all could not amount to a tenth of the hand’s size, as it, from a distance, looks to softly press the earth down like fresh dough. Crushing the king and dragon in its wake.
     Another life damned. Tossed away in the bin. Scribbled over, scrunched up, and trashed. But not forgotten.
     Is it the black nothing of her eyes pressed shut, or have we begun anew?
     She can still feel an embrace, that of her sister, hugging her tightly.
     …here it comes again. But not soon enough that she doesn’t feel the warm tears of an angel cross her cheek.
     Each time it feels a little worse. To know that you had a hand in creating this mess. A mess of which the outcome is uncertain, inevitable, and yet seemingly impossible. 
     Still, we carry on. As is the duty of us and everyone else, to stand up with freshly cried eyes, and look at the dawn once more, to reach the end of this story. So that it all may go on.