The Dream of Eden
Is the Impossible Nigh, or has the Dream Died?
Peace is a slippery thing, always shifting and falling into the spaces between our fingers; I have never felt so disjointed from peace. The inner peace sought by a person fighting demons. I am not proud to say that I have listened to their whispering, merely holding on to the idea that even Lucifer was once an angel. I hold not to the devil from which great sin has sprung, but to the angel, who sang to a person blinded by glass.
The glass of shattered childhood and adolescent dreams. They shattered, falling into my eyes as if they came from a pair of broken glasses, and cut out the light. I am a nonbinary woman seeking light in dark spaces and love in quiet places, and the sound of the angel felt like no mirage, but maybe imagination, the possibility of continuing what had been, the demon’s former grace someday. Imagination and hope is what colored the wings of the demon white in my mind’s eye.
Perhaps I am a lover of broken things, dreaming that they will be whole no matter how lost. Can a soul no matter how bad be saved, no matter how long it takes if it is with love, that is the question. Do we give up the hope for world peace in a hell bent world? I do not know, and maybe I am a fool for holding on, but I do. I dream, the dream of Eden.
