Grace; the Fall From
You hit a lot of things on the way down.
Space Junk, we call it. Trash and debris. Wasted thoughts and no man's treasure. Put and left there to cut at you as you fall. Its frightening, exhilarating. Like skydiving, but without a parachute. Grace has become more than a state of being to us, it's a name, a protest, a curse. We hate it, because we want it; who wouldn't want to fly? Us, we say. But we're lying. There isn't one of us who wouldn't sell their soul to the devil just to float back up, to be healed, to be forgiven, to be loved, but that's sort of the point isn't it? Everyone falls, we have saints and angels down here with us, but the halos have lost their luster, and bright white feathers have been made into pillows and comforters, greasy with the stains of human skin. Everyone falls eventually, and there are no ladders here, not a rope or handhold. The only way out is to dig, but that just makes you dirty. Nothing grows here; there isn't enough light, and we don't have any worms, at least not the good kind. You hit a a lot of things on the way down, but none of them is rain. You grow to hate the word; Grace, it is pain just to form your lips around the contours of it's sound. What they have, what we don't. Everyone falls, everyone. The word is something mean, and cruel, and sad. Grace is not just a word; it's a seed. It grows up up up. Into a tree. The tree flowers, pink and white. The flowers fruit. The fruit rots, and falls. Everyone falls, even you.