ceci n’est pas une blog.

The tale says that angels have no memory of the past. They cannot even remember that they are angels.

‘I guess that explains it,’ he says through bloodshot eyes. And, for the first time, I understand. I understand who I am, what I was meant to do, why I’ve always had vague feelings of displacement in this flat and material world. I belong in the world of shadows, the world of the nebulous ideal. I belong anywhere but here.

And I’m so scared that he may find out, that e may realize the secret I never even knew I kept. Although aliens may understand our breed, I am not even sure he wants to know, that it is time to reveal myself to the prince from Pluto. I don’t even think he understands what it is he has figured out, or what the consequences could be.

But he has touched on a part of me that had sunk below the soul, hidden within the layers of problems and arguments. He had realized that some of us do walk among the many, not even knowing where we are headed, barely remembering our purpose, never knowing our magic.

Maybe that why so many of us end up here on earth, with only slight knowledge of other-worldly powers. We forget our wings and learn to trust our instincts. None of us can remember what our orders were, why we were sent to this place, why we must feel so deeply and strongly for so many, why we must try to understand them all. We can only go where our crystal hearts lead, trying shyly to recognize others of our kind, but we are too scared to even ask.

So we blend. We try to fit ourselves into the selfish world, try to stop feeling, forget our missions. The ideal slips away, lost until we stop to think. We will do what we were sent to do, but it will be much easier without the map. We do not know our direction, we never realize what the scars mean.

We wonder why we can’t find our keys. We misunderstand, interpret the facts, try to be a friend. We get on the wrong roads, turn left at the wrong places, close our eyes at the wrong times.

We search our memories for some clue of who we are, knowing we did not really come from those dusty suburban houses/ We only know that we are not real, we do not belong. We touch, long to be touched, but know we will never truly be. Until we find others of our kind, others who forgot who they were and what their mission was, we will wander your world.