Stanzas: Monthly Chapbooks May 2015: Equality | Page 24

I dream of a middle aged man, long cut off from old dreams of success and
achievement, his reminiscence cut short by a snore from his wife in bed. I feel his
desperation to provide, to have a better life, to prevent her from realising the mistake
he imagines her to have made in marrying him.
I dream of a young man, scared that he doesn’t have the capacity for the life
he wants. Scared that he’s overestimating his own capacities, that he will be small,
ineffectual, that he is mocked by people he loves and will never even know their
contempt for him.
I dream of an artist, her work evading her, critical inspiration out of reach, rent
due next week that she can’t afford to pay, no one to turn to, all bridges aflame and
smouldering like her charcoal.
I wake troubled. These people mean nothing to me. They are mortals. God
knows why they exist in the first place. We serve, and authority is not questioned with
impunity. Lucifer taught us that. We fulfil our posts obediently, each being striving
to be one with our Father, to honour him in our work. But they care. Father, do they
care. They burn through 70 years of life in the time it takes our wings to beat, and
manage to cram it full of so many insignificant trivialities, glances and moments and
hopes that create something greater for its futility. I watch as they establish heroes and
villains, timeless loves and family feuds. I pity them, mostly. If they were as we are,
they’d do nothing but hold each other and pray for the universe to stop spinning so
quickly. Maybe it’s for the best that they can’t.
I dream again that night, this time, not bound by stone walls or cold floors. I
dream myself standing with my creator on a hill, overlooking the city of Rome. I sit
quietly, genuflecting in His presence. He smiles gently, and motions for me to stand.
I rise and stand behind him, watching the city at night, the illumination, the graceful
curve of the buildings, a tawdry mock-up of the Silver City. He breaks the silence, in
His own, quiet way. 'They do their best, you know. I didn’t give them as much help
as I had to give the Angels.' I realise that not only am I diminishing his creations’
creation, I’m doing it in full view of Him and apologise. He waves it away. 'They
need inspiration now. More so than ever. It’ll all start happening soon, I can’t shield
them from themselves for eternity. The–' He seems to catch in his own throat, the
underlying tone of sadness and regret permeating the evenings air. 'They’re going to
need new beginnings, Nathaniel. They need fire. They need you'
I move to ask more, but before I can, the dawn chorus strikes, and I’m struck
once more by the aesthete’s tastes. I sit in silence among the orange trees and take in
citrus scents, quietly watching Him smile, soaking up his contentedness. And then I
am alone in my cell again. And the dreams are starting. But this time I know what to
do.
The middle aged man’s wife stirs in her sleep. She holds his hand, kisses him. Tells
him he doesn’t need to provide, he just needs to spend more time with her. They have
24