Angel Stomping
Hear the dance of Angels feet, God spoke in a voice so sweet!
READ CELEBRATING THE FUNERAL. THE MISFITS ARE VIBRATING WITH ELECTRICITY AND FIRE. ARE YOU?
There was a peace in the calm. One that had just opened its arms to embrace the young man.
A head full of warped ideas, a body bruised and cracked from trying with impatience to put it all into the world.
This young gunner had wild eyes. His pupils a vault of a million stories. Once pure White corneas now had the maroon colored streaks of restlessness running through each of them much like blood on a fresh winter snow.
He had an overactive nervous system that created an overactive body that created an overactive mind and he wondered often if others felt this too, this cocaine like sensation that flooded his veins beneath the skins surface.
Impossible to tie down.
To grab him for longer than a few good conversations was to catch lightening in a bottle. To get him to open up was like trying to pry open ancient crocodiles mouth with hands of baby strength. A locked vault underneath but on the surface this zapping around, this constant movement, this enigmatic character who’s eyes lit up at all things from an old ladies cooking to a homeless man’s philosophy was more human than most would think.
He sat in this new quiet.
Watching out over the water that was silent as an assassin. Not giving a ripple of disruption. In his hand was a note he’d written to himself. Black ink streaked across the page, smudged from the sweat and tears and vodka and burn holes littered across the white from cigarette embers landing on it as if ordained to scorch holes through the Note to Self.
Opening it up to read once more his life philosophy.
Wanting again to remind himself of what mattered to him.
He knew it was absurd. He knew others would look at him with fearful expressions if they new his true motives. He felt this.
And he argued often if it was only his perception of how he’d be received, an anxious result of a negatively skewed imagination.
So he tested the theories at times. Bouncing fractions of the ideas off strangers. He saw their hesitancy, the slow backing up, or the eyes that pushed upwards an eyebrow in an uncontrolled motor movement that shined light on their true beliefs.
Even if they were aware enough to correct this after a millisecond he had still noticed it and this noticing over and over again, throughout all walks of life, had brought him to the edge of understanding. A place where he now sits, isolated by the duct taped mouth of the lake. Silent and still.
A deep breath and a feeling of pure love at the ostracization. For once! “I’m understood by everyone here” and he smiled at himself.
The quiet around him had silenced his mind is a silky turn of events. A full bodied exhale accompanied him on his way to the ground, excited with the laziness of simply laying there.
AND THEN BOOOM! A STOMPING. A STAMPEDE ABOVE!
The sky trembling with movement!
His eyes widen, back to that frenzied look at a madman. He twitched from cloud on the left to the hidden sun of the right. BOOM. Heavy foot steps.
Like in the kitchen of an 1800s home and someone’s moving furniture upstairs.
His eyebrows raise just like the citizens he’d been spilling his truths too. A look of worry and confusion.
BOOM. The sky rips open. The dimmed blue layer tears in half. The stomping collides to right above him.
He grips the note tighter. Crumbling it under anticipation.
The stomping of Angels feet, the voice of electricity and water and fire and all that’s sweet, a voice so powerful the young man curls into a ball. Not scared but overpowered. humbled. Brought down to the size of a grass blade and he’s for once seeing eye to eye with the ants until a voice right in his ear speaking with the lightness of air:
“It’s not yet you’re time to retreat from the World.
Stay, fight. Do not calm down, do not release tension.”
With fire,
Winston
Souled Idea
Wild Eyed Man
The Vessel, The Pen.
