Angels

Angels

I hear the angels of identity speak, their words caroming off a mirror which is so vast in its expanse that it may very well be infinite. The sound would be best characterized as pure and perfect harmony. The harmonic intervals are a series of spheres contained in one another, the distance between any two spheres being some constant ratio; a mathematical constant whose elegance I cannot begin to fathom. The sound is ineluctable: a composite function of sonic movement which circles back on itself, subjugating its own previous form in its asymptotic approach of perfection. The experience is best described as the endless ascension of a spiraling staircase whose circumference is constantly increasing and whose apogee is only approachable. The light projected from the angelic source is so focused and bright that the verisimilitude of its message, the information transmitted by this energy, is undeniable under any set of circumstances one can imagine. The act of spreading wings is characterized by movement which is both eternal in scope, and yet accomplished in the passing of an instant.

Our eyes meet and what I see is hardly graspable: circles within circles within circles; a never ending series of inscription and circumscription tracing out a pattern so sublime in the that I can’t exactly be sure of what it is that I am seeing. The pupil of the eye is an infinitely deep abyss of pure energy in which one could easily get lost forever, and I find myself diverting my gaze to avoid getting lost in the abyss. Though I am cognizant of the possibility of losing myself in a space without definable time or dimension eternally, the thought is nothing but an extrapolation of the possibilities by my finite mind and I can’t be sure of what awaits me upon crossing the angelic threshold that lies before me.

Though I can’t be certain of it, the halo which floats atop the head seems to form a perfect circle, actualizing the perfect order of what appears to me to be a totally random series. The ring encapsulates a continuum of colors which periodically repeats itself only by transforming itself. It is as if information from the starting point, or the center, expands outward through some isomorphic act whose rules defy logical expression.

The hands are folded upon each other such as one finds in the act of prayer. So that is what I am hearing: a prayer of the angels. Though I hear their utterances, the language in which they speak is ineffable and completely defies linguistic classification.

I feel light, nearly weightless, actually. The whole experience feels like an exaggerated dream. It is a dream which gets its very substance through an act of self-reflection. It is the mind grasping the totality of the mind itself: an act of transcendence which produces the catalyst for the very act itself, represented by a fractal geometry which is everywhere and nowhere identical at the same time.

The whole experience which I have attempted to describe and document here is riddled with paradoxical descriptions. I am aware of this. Yet, this is the only way I can describe the encounter, this experience of divinity.