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@altamugs.bsky.social

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The angel is a nightmare. Their purpose is to instill primal, oppressive horror. I think if angels existed, they'd resemble a divine pillar of light, from the heavens to the earth. Devoid of anything remotely human.

Kindly Miquella... I see you've thrown away something you should not have, under any circumstances. How will you salvation offer to those who cannot be saved? When you could not even save your other self?

You smiled, stood up, and came out into the sunshine. Perhaps it was the light on your face, but I thought I recognized you from somewhere a long way down, somewhere at the bottom of the sea. Somewhere in me. Sometimes the light is strong enough to reach to the bottom of the sea.

The angel is a nightmare. Their purpose is to instill primal, oppressive horror. I think if angels existed, they'd resemble a divine pillar of light, from the heavens to the earth. Devoid of anything remotely human.

Miquella set off for the tower enshrouded by shadow, abandoning everything—his golden flesh, his blinding strength, even his fate. All in an effort to bury the original sin. To embrace the whole of it, and be reborn as a new god.

And yet, the young Miquella abandoned fundamentalism, for it could do nothing to treat Malenia's accursed rot. This was the beginning of unalloyed gold.

You will be loved. You will shed rivers of blood. You will think hard as to what sacrifice to make. You will inevitably make the wrong choice. You will try to distance yourself from the Bachelor's path and back the wrong horse. Then you will disappear. That's it.

Once upon a time, the size of the moon would tell me the difference between the dream and the waking world. Is the dream a nightmare or is the nightmare the waking world?

So do not be afraid to fall. Do not be afraid to be nobody. It's because you fall that you can stand up. It's because you are nobody that you can become somebody.

I think this is the price we pay for leaving too much life in our wake. Life that is lush, blooming, unpredictable and unrestrained. The soul that could have belonged to our children is dissolved in our man-made legacy.

I remember a child the way one remembers a tale told around a campfire burning. Inside their head. Inside a dream, ripping apart. What am I? Was I ever a child?

Ah, on the windshield, the rain is flowing down. To be far away enough for my cheek to feel the touch of your breath, let me use that as an excuse.

They are all trying to be mysterious, but in reality every action we take is a mere consequence of a deep wound. Our words are like the drops of blood seeping from it. Sorrow is what opens people up fully.