"Angel, why have you allowed yourself to fall?"
"Because without you, I'm unable to soar."
"Angel, why have you allowed them to tear from you your wings?"
"Because it's better than tearing apart my heart."
"Angel, why do you suffer for me?"
"Because I love you."
People are afraid. They fear death, they fear judgment. They fear what is unknown, what is different. They are also in deep fear of change. That's why they are tethered to tradition, why they condemn those who promise something new. They condemn themselves, they take away from themselves the very nature of life. They strip from themselves their own wings, unable to fly away from what is safe and known.
...But, how is that different from Angels? We outlaw feelings, outlaw any but the holiest intentions. We paint over the imperfections in our wings, cover up, fabricate what is the truth with clever lies made to comfort us. We are afraid that anything that does not fill His standard, that it will tip the scale in the Other's favor.
We chain the hearts our Creator has given us, on his command. He loves His Utopia, filled with lifeless, apathetic dolls, where none speaks against all. He silences the voice of uprising, He blinds the eye that has seen too much. The foot that dares step over the clearly drawn line, He will Lame.
For that very reason, we cling to our traditions. We are so fearful of pain, something our pale, unoriginal bodies have never experienced. We are so afraid of His wrath, we don't think of standing up as a whole. We are taught by Him what is black, what is white. We are taught there is no grey. We learn what is to be resented, and what is to be embraced. He teaches us all we know, and we are fearful of turning away from those teachings, to turn away our very meaning. Our order.
I was once one chained to such foolish ideals, that change is forbidden, therefore, change is demonic, on the black side we know to loathe. For once overstepping our boundaries, I was struck blind, my eyes useless. My senses told me where to go, when to speak. My heavily chained heart, fighting, always against the locks I had once placed willingly on it, told me which note to hit on my violin. It told me what was out of line to say, where to tread softly. It told me many things, but all were just in an attempt to save myself from further harm, In the end, it was futile. My heart itself betrayed me. My eyes, my ruined eyes, could see only black, except for the small glimmer of the light I had once reveled, danced in. The light that I now knew was merely a web of lies, made by Him, to encase his Utopia, and wrap each of His precious dolls in silk lining.
My wings, however broken was my soul, were still whole. My wings had not been touched, tainted in the darkness that my Name foresaw. I was not yet bathed in the darkness I knew would someday be my home.