Undoing

I’d like to die as an angel. Emptied of all things. Cured, right? Just an aching soul. Crying upwards to be extinguished. And then … extinguished.

 

Some undoing. Some rewinding. Some backtracking. Some reversing. A kind of subtraction. A retrospective … abortion, of a kind.

 

Time moving backwards, almost back to where it all began. And from where it might not begin. From where nothing might happen.

 

No longer committing the sin of existing. The sin of daring to be.

No longer committing the primordial violation. The horror of coming into being. The vileness of existing at all.

You see, I’d like to be an angel.

So don’t angels exist?

Angels are better than existence.