The Fallen Angel and the Kind Mud — A Sinful Man’s Survival Tale
It’s hard to find faith in challenging moments.
The mud asked me if I wasn’t bored with this routine dance and if I wasn’t planning to discover a new habitat. I immediately replied that my skin was already so used to its texture that nothing else could incorporate me like its voluminous void.
-How can you get used to the dark? I’m not beautiful as you see me. I’m just the precipice of those who don’t know how to fly. — said the mud.
-My mind is chained to my wings. You can’t fly when you can’t even walk. — I replied to the sweet and welcoming mud.
-The road to liberation is a straight line that demands determination. The heaviness of the effort or the apathetic agony you feel when pouring yourself out on me? What do you prefer? — she said, advising a hopeless case.
-I prefer the anguish I know. What I ignore is too much for me. — I answer concisely.
-A fond of grief angel... Tell me, which impropriety from paradise has disillusioned you?
-How can a perfect place be segregated? Why give us the charm of sunlight and then silence our delight with sovereignty?
-You’re better suited to rock bottom, never to me — she replied intolerantly, sliding me into a ghastly narrow pit.
I miss the mud. There, The sun was still shining, and the pain was served in controlled doses. Below the pit is hell, there dwell the heaven’s rejects. There is light in hell, a dying light, but it is still light. At the pit nothing hurts, nothing shines, nothing speaks, nothing smells, nothing, nothing, nothing, NOTHING! There’s only the chaotic mass that I am, and when all that’s left is what I am, a populated hell is closer to heaven than an abandoned pit.
If you made it this far, tell me what you do to get out of the mud. PLEASE!
