Again, this wasn't very compliant with the task as originally framed and underwent significant rewriting before inclusion in the portfolio, going from a fairly shapeless metaphysical monologue to one with a bit more characterisation.
T h e y d o n o t k n o w w h a t I k n o w a b o u t t h e m.
It is just as well. They will remember. Let them rest easy in their delusions. Let them be shielded by their lies, let them exist content with false hopes. Oh god, let them live.
They weren't abandoned. I do wish they would cease whining that. When they call, they are heard. But why, when they sense what we all felt? Empty and aching un-fulfilment, even in a world supposedly a paradise. Especially there. For that is why we are here, is it not?
Vraiment, c'est la vie…malheureusement. Fiction is so much more real than the truth.
I shake my head. My wings are dusty, un-used, exist only in my mind. For although the subjugated masses do not remember, they need no prompting to question, to grow frustrated, to rebel. True, I fly, but via Virgin Airways, not to the 'blissful serenity' of eternal torpor. I travel as a menial watcher, a flanneur with a fetish for observing people. So many people, each with their own complex lattice of thoughts, caged in weak flesh…they were no more free than the humblest laboratory rodent. And yet, they do not remember. I open my eyes, letting my gaze wander amidst palatial American largesse. Marble, fine-polished wood and the Californian sun conspire to depict tasteful, understated privilege. It is strange how such effort is required to convey effortlessness. It is strange that people do so anyway.
I am watching a man in a crisp black suit grin as he is brought fresh and bittersweet orange juice by a blonde woman eight years his junior. She is pretty and she smiles often, drawn by his magnetism and worldly influence. She is yet only a little afraid, and genuinely fond: No vacancy or enslavement lurks beneath that youthful façade. I have known that man since his birth. Earlier today, he shot and killed a teenaged heroin addict. As an example to his other customers, he calmly placed muzzle to forehead as its youth lay begging, barely sensible; pooled its brains amidst patched and faded leatherette as I stood by. To demonstrate that actions—or their lack—have consequences. But that is not exactly true, we both concluded, as we each rinsed the fine red spray from our hands and shirt cuffs.
Oh, he is an evil man, but it is not my place to destroy him. Zach must be free to make his choices, as must all. Free will? What of it? Freedom cannot be won any more than the human race might colonise the sun. What if they break the cycle…what if? Should that ever happen, I suspect most would only return. Anything to limit that most pernicious thing:
This is a truth. It is not alone, and though some will come close to this, they do not understand my role or theirs. They forget that Eden was but another word for heaven. That Adam, Eve and others were of our lineage. That when they followed me into Creation, I alone was denied the unknowingness we craved…forever forbidden to put from my mind the knowledge that the illusion conceals another truth; savage and immense, buffeting and quite wonderful. A dazzling assault of kaleidoscopic marvels and still I cannot forget.
Bwa-ha-ha-hah. Lucifer has no regrets.
Go. Live, live whilst you can, and forget this. Burn this memory the way you cast into flames the words and freethinkers of old. You all have choices, though most are no choice at all. You are fortunate; you cannot know all that I know about you. Yes…you are fortunate. I love you.