Thursday, May 26, 2011

In the Beginning...

               
“The mark of your ignorance is the depth of your belief in injustice and tragedy.

What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls a butterfly.”
-Richard Bach                     
Messiah’s Handbook

How do you determine what is good vs. evil, right vs. wrong? Does your ignorance guide you?
We are in the middle of a war, and our battle front spans many worlds, yours and mine included. Like all great wars, this one is based on ignorance, our soul’s belief in injustice and tragedy.

What is your role in all of this? You are stuck between the lines on the pages of your life. You are only innocent bystanders at this point in your life, but when you die, the choice of sides will be yours unless this war is won during our mortal lifetime, then it is you who will be left to clean up the mess that’s left when two clashing armies fight until one reaches utter destruction. You will be the one until the new master realigns the balances of the divine.

Questions are soaring through your mind; lying on the tip of your tongue – I can feel them – trying to burst through your lips’ hold on them. Listen with all your heart and the answers you so diligently seek will be made known unto you.

I am Penemuel, and am counted among one of he fallen. Scribe to Appollyn, my job is to write of the events that transpire from our war for you and its history so you may understand and see without the veil being lifted during your mortal existence of what was, is, and may become. If we are successful in our endeavors, this will become a New Testament, scripture, and model for mankind.

Scribe was not always my calling. Before my fall, I was scribe to Him, Elohiem, God of our Heaven and Hell. I transcribed during the great council, and gave scripture to many of the prophets of old. My fall came however, when I parted with my notes of the great council and the first war in Heaven to an Earthly prophet. God told me that I had given too much, that I disobeyed Heaven’s law by imparting one of the greatest secrets of Heaven to Man. Man was not to know of the war, nor of the fall of over one-third of Heaven’s angels.

I gave too much when I told the prophet of old about the debated then agreement of the Beloved’s plan for salvation, your salvation, something many of us will never know unless this war is won.

God’s words still echo in my mind when I look at my wings, feathers blackened from my fall, gleaming under the moon or by the light of Hell’s fires, “You, Penemuel, disgust me with your presence. You who were one of my most loved will never know of such love again. You are no longer one of my accepted sons.”

That was many years ago, and now, I write for a new master, Appollyn or Death as you call him. I also write for myself, whispering words into the minds of man so as to see my work displayed where all of man can read them as well as to invoke God’s anger.

I write the deeds that God will never speak of to you – his blameless children – blind like sheep, and will always until my final destruction comes, continue to write words to corrupt and cause rebellion among you - you who are blind and being led only by faith in Him.

This is our story…

Monday, May 23, 2011

Apocalypse?

The darkness, blacker than the depths of the sea threatens to overtake what's left of our humanity away. It's spreading like spilled ink on paper, through the minds of men. Its a virus threatening to infect every cell in our bodies.

I don't know how many have screamed at the top of their lungs prophesying its the end of times for us, and I laugh at their efforts as each given day pass me by and I find I'm still alive, or that people haven't just disappeared off the face of the earth.

The only disappearing act I'm aware of is when the soul leaves a body behind, and besides people dying of natural causes - which happens everyday - the only unnatural death is a life taken by brutality, not car accidents, freak accidents, but war.

With each bold statement of help comes the cries of young men and women as they die in hospitals from their injuries, or on a blood spattered battlefield, either way it's their cries that echo beneath words of promise.

Invasion after invasion, the only place of refuge now is the vast continent of Africa, and even then in time, darkness will flood the mind of some great leader, then his followers, flowing steadily down until even an entire country is infected, then the tribes left alone for ages will know a fear other than of harsh weather, illness and starvation.

It's survival in this corrupted game of life as we so call it. Men pray to the Gods when they march for battle, but the Gods aren't the ones getting their feet wet in the blood soaked dirt that lines our world.

The end of the world will come only after mutiny is released, and even then, not until mutiny after mutiny becomes the focal point and no one is left in the world but the lone survivor who will eventually die of natural causes.

Our apocalypse, you see, is not people suddenly disappearing, taken by unseen Gods, zombies or meteorites, aliens or global warming, it's politics and power. A darkness, deeper than the depths of the darkest sea and its tsunami like waves crashing over each one of us, will bring about our destruction.

Run towards the light and someday, who knows, you may be that lone survivor, left in peace to live our the rest of your days to reflect and write about the feral wars of man and final destruction of mankind on earth.

Monday, May 16, 2011

The Reflections of a Pride-Driven Ego

Time flows freely, it doesn't take a genius to see it, but with that in mind- we all at some point grow an ego large enough to think we can do one of two things... stop it, or change it.

Sitting here at home tonight, I reflect on how many times my head has grown large enough to believe I could do anything. Those many times, too many years, too may numbers, leaves my pride feeling crushed.

A pocket full of change, a handful of pennies- each with various years remind me of the good times and the bad.

The first, weather beaten and almost black with tarnish has the barely readable year of 1996. In 1996, I was eleven years old, and got my first horse, found my hidden passion for books and was disliked at school for my ability to become teacher's pet.

The second, Brighter than them all, proudly displays the year of 2009. In 2009, at the age of 24, I became the best of friends with one of the greatest women I know, and still to this day treasure our friendship more than the rest. I also made a religious commitment to another and God that today I still don't regret making, but feel saddened that it wasn't meant to be.

The final penny, not as bright, but just as important yearns for its year of 2010 to be seen. I believe that 2010 was the year I begged, cried, and wished the hardest for time to be changed. 2010 was the year I decided that killing animals for a living was never meant for me, that after giving every effort to save a marriage my eyes were opened and my soul set free, but to top it all off, I struggled with a tear stained face as I watched my confused children try to take in their new living conditions and adjust as well as they possibly could.

Each tear I swept away gave light to their talents and above all, showed me what every parent should wish to see, that with endurance, struggles, and trials, no one, and I mean no one can ever take away your joys.

Today, I think I will forget about changing time, living in the future or the past, and just enjoy the present... I will enjoy the fact that tonight I get to snuggle with my girls and for a little while pretend that time has stopped, even if for just one brief moment, and believe with all my heart that time has stopped only for me.

Saturday, May 14, 2011

From a Time We Never Knew

Well call it the future and the past, what is and what may not be, what we know will happen, but pray it never does...

Where there once stood a bridge - a passage through time, now stands what we call the remains of the time dwellers. They were people from our future living in our past. Those who never existed but who we'll never forget. Their buildings, although in tatters remain as living proof to this belief.

They spoke our language, knew our names, complained of our technology being old and never up to par, treasured our books, and in their own home had and used what most could never dream of until it was introduced into our daily lives some time later.

Their diction was perfect, and slang unruly. Their houses lived in, but clean, and always everything they owned or did was asymmetrical, yet balanced.

The crumbling buildings still hold perfection in their midst- the way the paint blends with the bones underneath, those fading columns, and bent street poles, but what makes this old ruin something from the future is the way it floats, just above the sand, like a mirage - next to an old highway in the desert.