I had never met anyone quite like him before, and he called me angel.
And I was beautiful, maybe. I exuded something, certainly, maybe beauty but something you can't quite see so much as sense, that I stretched through time and space, like Anima...or like an angel...
and angels only look backward in shock and horror and they can't do anything.
Because they exist through space and time.
Metaphor or not. The idea means an all-encompassing sense, around you, exceeding words, exuding aura.
It is the aura. Angel is another word for sublime.
Terrifying, wonderful. And you don't know where it comes from.
He's never seen my family, or even my home town. He knows none of my friends, and doesn't feel he has to. He is content with me.
And it simply goes on forever, it is immortal, omnipresent, and needs nothing from you (that is how you envision the sublime--after all, you must subject yourself to something, that way you control how you see it, and therefore what it means).
He is much older than me. He will never experience my death. He does not want me to have children. And why should he, if in his eyes I will never die?
Angel. That is my metaphor. I have no past, I come from no where, no one; I have no future, and will live on after he is dead. I am immortal.
I am angry. I am not a metaphor. I do not want to be a metaphor. I want to be a woman, a lover, a mother. I want to hit you so you see I am real, scream so that you hear my soul. I am not an angel. I am not an angel.
I AM NOT AN ANGEL.
I want a history, I want a future. Do not make me immortal, I do not want to live forever like this.
Not like this.