Why is it that I am here? Punishment, maybe? Perhaps I was exiled. Mayhaps I crossed my people. Could it be something else? A mistake, an error? But no. . . my people are too perfect to commit one of those. All of them except for me, that is. Or so it would appear.
I cannot remember how I got here. . . how I managed to lock myself in. I may not be as intelligent as the rest of them, but I am fairly smart enough to know I couldn't lock myself, not here. Wherever here is.
There is this feeling all around me, it makes me tremble and I can only deduce this is what people would call cold. It is uncomfortable, but I don't know how to shake it off. Just now I have discovered that parts of my body retain what I like to think of as heat. Or was it several minutes ago? Or days? It would make so much sense for time to have effects on me now. This 'time' is hard to describe - as opposed to my homeland, where one can only live in the present - it is almost as if wind, inexistent but existent at the same time, flows threw everything, corroding objects and beings in its unstoppable breeze. My skin isn't as perfect as it was. . . before; several strands of my dark hair have fallen. I know humans believe this to be normal, but I cannot take it. Every hair that rids from my skull leaves behind an aching pain, and each new hair opens my skin, bringing a cloud of grief to me. Could this be what pain feels like? Are the people so used to it that they do not mind pain anymore?
Why is it that I am here?
Grown-up and a child at the same time. His wisdom exceeding those of anyone on Earth, but his lack of knowledge making him a frail creature. He, he who knew everything except for feelings, wasn't home anymore. He who once knew everything didn't know where he was. How he wished for this knowledge, he'd trade anything, of course, he didn't even have anything.
Like a child, he came with the purest of souls, with the kindest of intentions and with the ignorance of life.
No word and certainly no combination of letters can come close to what he was once called. Now, not even he could pronounce his previous name. Apparently, the Earth wanted him to forget, to perish. From his mouth only an unfamiliar sound came, Yuno, he knew he needed a name and adopted this strange sound for one.
Yuno - how bizarre did the name feel - stood up, or attempted to. He fell back to the floor, he wasn't used to walking, much less with gravity around. The man stayed in the floor for hours, pain ate at his knees, where he had fallen, and at his head (for he did not know he needed to stop his fall with his hands). He made a discovery, a valuable one, pain hurt. Especially for him.
Yuno had lived for about two centuries, and it was the first time that he experienced pain. His body, so used to luxuries and comfort, reacted furiously at the smallest hint of pain, which ironically only caused more pain. He had so much to learn if he wanted to cling onto life, if he, by any chance, had one.
By the second time he tried to stand up, he succeeded and managed to stay up. Great achievement, and a sign of progress. Although the room Yuno was in was pitch black his gorgeous, blue eyes had already grown used to it. For the first time did he examine his surroundings. Besides it being sarcastically dark, the room was squared and looked yellow, like a piece of old parchment. The roof was low, Yuno could stand, but he could not jump without experiencing pain. Scattered around, and moving were several dark circles that lived in fragile-looking nets.
And on the far corner, a door.
"An exit, maybe?", his soft voice bounced around the room, repeating his question aimlessly, but never giving an answer.
Yuno was now faced with another obstacle. Walking. He needed both his feet to balance himself and moving one made him stumble. Slowly, but surely, he managed to arrive at the door. Yuno turned a round object and stepped outside. To face more of the unknown.
I have been wondering about existence. Am I really here? Was I really there when I was back home? Is anything really here? Is it that we are just illusions made up to protect something? But would that something exist or would it be an illusion, like the rest? Do we have actual control over ourselves, or are we puppets for a puppeteer?
I have come to the conclusion that it is the first time I think like this. I blame it on time and on pain. Or is it maybe just one of those? I have no idea, for once I cannot comprehend the meaning of something, or its origin.
My thoughts still concentrate on why I was sent here, sometimes. All the time. I still cannot differentiate. I have been clutching strongly to the thought it was on purpose. This makes me. . . feel. This new feeling is not pain, it is not the cold either. It grabs my throat and shrinks it, my vision becomes blurry as my eyes grow wet and worst of all there is a constant squeezing at my belly, making the breath go away, but wanting more in an instant. Maybe sadness is its name.
As of late, it has become very hard to think, continuous grumblings coming from the abdomen area interrupt every idea. They make the squeezing more painful, and I have to wrap my arms around my stomach to keep the growling down. I had never heard of this before. I hope no sickness has hit me.
But the worst part, by far, is the condition of my wings. They are not white anymore, they have taken a liking for the color gray, a darker shade of white. White represents purity, is it that I'm turning into a creature of nightmares?
Not much time had passed since Yuno had left the room behind. He was an angel, a creature that had an incredible thinking capacity. It was the only explanation for so many thoughts.
The angel had been experiencing too many human emotions in the few time he'd been away from his home. Each one left a lesson, however small, in Yuno's mind, even hunger: if he could find food before starving to death - assuming he could die - he'd learn that a happy stomach gives no troubles.
The angel had been to immersed in walking and in his thoughts that he didn't notice his whereabouts. After he left the room behind he came to a peaceful prairie, instinctively, he'd turned around to look at the edification in which he'd been trapped in. His eyes had picked up the image of a triangle, huge and imposing, however, his mind had rid itself from the image since he had no idea what it was. He wasn't familiar with the word: Pyramid.
By now he was a good distance away from the pyramid. He was still in the prairie, and the sky was turning orange on him. It was the time of day when day became night. Yuno managed to appreciate the beauty of the dawn since he'd already learned the rhythm his feet had to follow.
Angels being the mighty beings that they are, are also powerful, they however, choose not to use their power. But the growling had intensified. Although Yuno wasn't human, any human should understand the reason for his outbreak. He killed a rabbit that crossed his path. It was instinct, the driving force behind the action. The angel only understood he was hungry until the rabbit was being eaten by him - in the most primitive of ways. Yuno didn't notice immediately, but his wings grew darker at the same time.
He tried to enjoy dusk, as the sun set on the horizon, but found he couldn't. It was a masterpiece of nature, but some force was moving him forward, trying to make him approach something, someone, someplace. Yuno took this as a sign from his kinsmen, thanking the skies for the opportunity to have a remaining connection with them.
Somehow, he managed to sprint into a run. And before his eyes a cloud of smoke made its way to the skies. And where there was smoke, there was a village
In my home we were taught white was the color of purity, black the color of evil. We were told that we should always stand beside white and always despise black. It was hard for all of us what black was, we knew it was a color, a shade, but authorities were so afraid of black that there was never a sample that showed us what black looked like.
Now I know. Black is what stretches across the sky, black is what surrounded me in that cold room. Black was the fur of the rabbit, the color of shadows. Black is what completes white.
As far as I can see there is nothing wrong with black, it another shade, another color. It is something present in life. White, the good, along with the black, the 'bad', result in gray. The color of my wings. I am glad none of my kinsmen can look at me, or at least that I cannot see their eyes as they look at me. They would call me names, absurdities. Or they would keep their hate sealed inside themselves, after all, aren't angels supposed to be forgiving? I know now that I would forgive, but if I did not, I know my hate would have to go somewhere, my mind, probably. And it would end up eating me from the inside.
It wasn't long before Yuno arrived at the village - if it could be called that. It was more of a settlement. There were only a few people, all of them gathered around the fire that raised the cloud of smoke.
The angel wasn't seen by anybody until he approached the circle of light the fire provided. His body reacted to the heat instantly. He felt miniature droplets of sweat begin to form on his forehead, he felt cozy, and was immediately overrun by drowsiness.
"An. . .An Angel!", a woman cried when she saw Yuno.
"It can be only a miracle", a man added.
Yuno understood no word the people said, but he understood their intentions were not evil. He felt how warm their hearts were, similar to the fire.
The angel traveled with them for many moons. And he grasped their language within the week. But he never spoke a word to them, he knew better. The people were pilgrims, travelers with the only purpose of searching the land for riches and opportunities. And throughout the journey, Yuno learned a great deal about people. Things he'd never imagine.
And one day, as easy as he appeared on the land, he disappeared. No traces to follow.
I'll never go back. I have been forbidden from doing so. The superiors decided I wasn't to be exiled. I was more trouble down there than I am up here. I tried explaining. They wouldn't listen. I tried demonstrating. They wouldn't allow me. I tried returning. And I was punished.
My wings have stayed gray. And my fellow angels don't bother in hiding their repulsion. They - we - are not perfect beings. Nothing is perfect, nothing nears perfection. Much less do angels. We have been portrayed as the epitome of purity, while we cannot even live in tranquility, accepting differences. To angels all is, must and will always be white. My temporary banishment opened my eyes. Erased the negative energy from my system.
Does this make me perfect?
Not at all. I cannot comprehend my kinsmen's thoughts, and to some degree that makes me ignorant and therefore imperfect.
Am I comfortable with being imperfect?
I am, and though none will ever understand that as well as myself, my existence is joyous.
Perfection is a dream and nothing more. From experiences we learn and approach perfection, but never reaching it completely.
Here, where I live, time doesn't pass. I can only wonder what would happen if it did. Would the pig-headedness of my fellows turn into comprehension? Or is it only that I am different? Difference. . .my curse and my blessing.
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