angel diaclasis
its a birth, of an angel. born without desire and thought of selfishness, for when your an angel. what is desire? is it inherently meant to be anything? is it the ache of longing for home? is it misery? or is it the longing.
the very beginning of this story, reminded me of a sentence of a book I've read too much, something i blame vesta z for id never had discovered it otherwise.
“The sweetest thing in all my life has been the longing — to reach the Mountain, to find the place where all the beauty came from — my country, the place where I ought to have been born. Do you think it all meant nothing, all the longing? The longing for home? For indeed it now feels not like going, but like going back.”
― C. S. Lewis, Till We Have Faces
but lets get into this,what i felt upon reading this story. it is not like orangepeel onionskin,something i hold dearly to this day,to my heart for orangepeel made me wail like a hurt child who hadn't known what pain was til the feast ran out and the vomit came.
angel diaclasis,is cruel. its so fucking cruel, its sickening down to its very core.
for an angel has fallen from the only place its known down to a lower life, into the arms of a demon and a writer. a writer who lusts for the ideal of angelhood and a demon filled with envy for its angels beauty. the angel is born with no knowledge, all it knows is the rolling gentle tide in its guts. the water is a piece of home, its sacred, its holy.
aqat was born into a new life, and into this new life, he dared to love two bodies not made to mold into his, not physically of course but rather into his heart. they are beautiful and curved and fat. cyris is rounded in its gut, with pretty lashes and bright eyes and the other, a lost cherub deep down, unaware that he begs for a life never designed to hold him.
this is a narrative of a new beginning, of jealously and fear from three wounded animals, one who has never walked among human men who ache like this before. its spellbounding,the story is a knife you carve into your back for words you don't even god damn know! yet you pray the snakes among you can learn to read it!.
“When the time comes to you at which you will be forced at last to utter the speech which has lain at the center of your soul for years, which you have, all that time, idiot-like, been saying over and over, you'll not talk about the joy of words. I saw well why the gods do not speak to us openly, nor let us answer. Till that word can be dug out of us, why should they hear the babble that we think we mean? How can they meet us face to face till we have faces?”
another quote from til we have faces by cs lewis.
because there is no god in this story. because if there was,why did he make love? why did he let someone whos back stings from the weight of his love,fall into a pair of arms who claw at his feathers til the skin is raw?.
because thats the lesson for aqat and the player. this made me go beyond wailing in confusion and fright. i felt the same anger the angel did,the repeated "why? why?" on a loop.the confusion,the hurt,the fear,the tears,the water droplets. the fact the angel does not hold the pain of having. to be free of human agony when your body betrays you,something psello could not escape
i could joke,say that yes this is trangenderism and gay love as its peak form. but thatd be a lie. its beyond that.
vesta z always manages to write painful love and im convinced she is a romantic at heart,for this romance was downright blinding in its glory.
this game is an omen. orangepeel onionskin was about carving your teeth down so youd bite your chosen one gently even when the hot stinging acid melts you down. angel diaclasis is softness you blindly trust, you lay in it, you think finally, i am warm in the cold. but the warmth is just the ache of feeling your spine slice open as it rips everything out of you just when you think you've settled, that, that you thought you ever had a choice.
you don't and neither do angels.
they beg for death in the same manner we do when where on our knees,fingers spread on cold bathroom tile as we retch into the cold glass bowl of a toilet.
a near damn overdose of bad memory we don't want to forget but we must in order to live,which we never want to.
we yearn for holyness in our bodys,for the blood within us to be sweet and clear but often,its just vile matter.
as usual,beautiful writing,art and narrative from vesta
and beautiful game set up by Oscar. the couple manages to make games designed to rip pieces of you out from beneath the ribs with no chance of collection in your palms,because it must be placed within a vase.
i leave my review with one more quote
“Death opens a door out of a little, dark room (that's all the life we have known before it) into a great, real place where the true sun shines and we shall meet.”
― C.S. Lewis, Till We Have Faces