Happy Easter one and all. A bit dark for Easter, though I’m always a bit dark. Not really about Easter, just inspired by all the church I’ve went to the past few days.

Afternoon Conversations

“We really don’t seem to talk that much, you know. I wish we could talk more, but its hard to see you,” I said quietly. “Especially now. Times are changing so quickly. Civilizations rise and fall in a few blinks of an eye. Yet I’ve not gotten the chance to speak with you since then. Why won’t you listen?” I looked at the cross in front of me. It looked nothing like the actual thing, I know. Artists tended to not depict the horror of a crucifixion. They wanted the cross to be admired not admonished and feared by the people.

How it had become a staple for the religion was beyond me. There were so many other symbolisms in the faith. Why they picked a very vague form of the death penalty was beyond me. Many people used to be killed in just the same way. True, the king of the Jews didn’t exactly deserve the severe punishment, but in those days you could be killed for very little. People today act like that sort of thing was barbaric. They don’t realize exactly how barbaric they, themselves, are. We tend to find fault in everyone else except ourselves.

“Dear boy, what makes you think that I haven’t been listening?” a soft voice asked from behind me. Despite the fact that I resented the reaction, I spun around hoping, praying even, that whom I thought was there was, in fact, there. I saw a man, about the same age that I looked with, perhaps a few years older, with gray streaked through otherwise flaxen hair. His eyes were the blue of the sky. His smile was that of the sun.

“You never acknowledge me. You threw a tantrum and threw me down here. What makes them so much better than me that they get to hear your voice and I do not? How much longer must I pay? Why have you forsaken me?” I growled at him. Though seeing him at all was a near relief, my first reaction was one of anger. I could taste the anger rising in my throat. It was scorching. My temper always seemed to flare when he was around. Or, really, when he was physically around.

“Are they so below you?” he asked calmly, his blue eyes still looking just as friendly, kind and loving as before. I hated it. I hated how reasonable he sounded. I hated how much compassion he had. I hated him. And yet, I missed him. I had nearly forgotten the sound of his voice. I had nearly forgotten his eyes, as I saw them. My hate made me humble. I could barely let myself see him. I wanted to turn away, but my pride wouldn’t allow it. Pride. A horrible sin indeed.

“Are they so above me?” I hissed out, much like the serpent I am. “Why do you not care for your first children? Why not care for your angels who are pure of will?” Though I hated it, I was drawn to him. I took a seat beside him. We only seemed to like answering one another’s questions with questions. Our conflict will never be resolved. I’ve always had little hope for that happening. In some way, I suppose I want him to apologize. On the other hand, I suppose he thinks that I should apologize. I was never good with apologies.

“Why do you hate them so? To hate these people is to hate a part of you,” he said, sounding more contemplative than anything. I studied the wood of the pew. I knew he wasn’t looking at me. I knew where his eyes were settled. I looked up at the cross. Was that the only thing he could offer these people? Someone to act as a sacrifice for their greed?

“There is no hope for them. You forgive them too easily. They sin regardless of your mercy. And yet you love them. They kill your son and you love them still. They claim that you don’t exist. They accept science over faith. They deem you as magic, nothing more. How could you possibly see anything in them?” I turned to gauge his expression. He was smiling. He was never a man of many words. Always slow to answer, but wittily of course.

“You generalize in a very unforgiving way, my dear child. They change. Perfection is not what I created in them. That very imperfection is beautiful. The fact that they bend and change and mold themselves into better things with the tools I give them is why I love them. They are dynamic. Life in motion,” he said, his smile growing a bit. The dimples deepened on his face. How likeable he is. His very face shows his beautiful personality.

“They have changed for the worse,” I said dully. I had nothing to really snap out. Again, he stopped and considered his words slowly. The door to the church opened. The priest smiled over at the pair of us and waved without unease. He had seen me here before. If he had seen my companion here, it had not been in my company. My counterpart returned the smile and the gesture. I nodded in acknowledgement. I was nowhere near as cheery as the two. I never have been. Disgruntled is how I usually feel. And, quite aptly, it fits me.

“No. They change with the time. Though some of their choices are poor, some of their choices are good. There is and always will be a counterpoint for everything, friend. We could argue these points all afternoon. However, I would rather revel in this celebration. It is not often that I get to spend my Easters with you anymore,” he said and again, he smiled contently. I stayed silent. I listened to the sound of our breathing for a while. It began to get tiresome.

“Why will you not have me back?” I asked, unable to stop myself. He looked over at me, his eyes sad, suddenly, and a frown across his face. He closed his eyes for a short time, as if there were too many things running in his field of vision for him to think otherwise. I suppose I sounded selfish to him. But who, really, despite his beloved son, had not? It seemed rather petty to judge us all by our prayers.

“It is not that I will not have you back, my son. It is that you will not let me have you.” With a sigh of defeat, I stood and left him there. I knew that he wanted my company. I knew that this was a special day for him. As it was, though, I did not feel like celebrating the triumph of his son. Though the human race knows of God, they do not much respect him. They scurry about, with odd beliefs in Easter bunnies and bells. God has very little to do with the celebration of Easter anymore.

I suppose it is a bit negative, to think the way I do. Raining on every single person’s parade. But that is why I am here. To be negative. To question. For I am, and always will be, at odds with my creator. For I am the fallen angel, the morning star, Satan if you will. I am the adversary. I am forsaken.