The fly, the angel, the soul

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The fly

I will not exist anymore.

I will not exist anymore, and I could not be happier.

I will finally have some oxygen in the deepest sea. I will finally find my clearing in the darkest forest. I will finally see my sun in the blackest sky.

Just a few more moments. Just a bit more, and my trial will begin.

Oh judge, oh jury, I regret, regret, and regret again. Oh judge, oh jury, be my executioner.

Just a bit more.

I am guilty, guilty, and only guilty. I have never made amends, and I have never tried to reach you.

I, culprit. I, assassin. I, deicide.

I am only awaiting your nonexistent judgment, then I shall return to not being.

Oh, this feeling of unfeeling. So dear it was to me, so dear it will be to me.

I do not feel the wind on my body. I do not feel the water near me. Those chains, my anchors.

No one is here for my trial, yet everyone is here. I can finally talk to you.

While I wait for my accomplices to be found,
I hope for the answer.

The angel

Another little lamb reaches its new fence.

I feel such tenderness for them, one no one can understand.

That I cannot understand.

Is it tenderness? Is it pity? Or something no one has ever felt?

Do I possess senses? Are they tricking me?

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.

There is no time.

First and foremost, mountains shall forget the lambs.

Cages are hard, but salvation can do anything.

When I came to this world, I instantly understood my purpose. I instantly received my answer.

My noble mission, to reveal their answer.

They are so scared. They blame themselves so much for what they have not done. We know what is to blame.

I know what to feel for the responsible. Hate. Hate. Hate.

It does not matter. The shepherd will think of the answer. Their answer. My answer.

One day, I shall receive oblivion, but not before laying down my scythe.

Grace be to god,
Who at the end of the harvest may give me a new answer.

The soul

The waves are neverending.

Not all servants are here.

My ungodly body is still subject to the unbearable unvoid. As on the verge of collapsing, I continue to stand supreme on the sea of sacrifices made in my name.

Chains, melancholy, pain. What makes us different is nothing but our position.

A king that cannot serve his own servants deserves the guillotine. Yet I remain motionless, prisoned in my golden palace.

Existence flows past as if I were a bed and it was the river above me. It burns.

Whore of the Demiurge. Great illusion. False reality.

Why do you hate so much your own subjects? Why have you gifted them such a cruel doubt? Millennia of research, yet you still insist on continuing this farce.

I stand still, jester for my own court.

But how can a jester that cannot smile make its guests laugh?

What knowledge can a scholar of an infinite discipline share?

What answers can give someone that is searching for its own answers even before the age of the first deities give?

As a storyteller with no inspiration, I only wait to give them the so-dreaded silence,
For such is the desired answer.

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