Demon Stories: Vol. 2

Beau: Time Story, 1947, Over English Waters

Beau

Time Story

1947, Over English Waters

As I breathe in the curious air of the sun washed sea, it almost feels new again. Seagulls cry out nearby, and I feel as if I am almost one of them. There is no longing, no worst things. Only an air of mystery, as if I've never seen it all before. My hands grasp nothing, there are only clouds below and the sun over there shining. I fall down, out of the clouds, and there is the sea black and gloomy. The tops of the clouds are white, clear and fair. Down here, it could rain. The sea knows it. But I twirl up again, scanning for a horizon when there is none, and this gives me a calm unlike any other.

Sometimes I think of it, all those glooms. It is hard to think here, such is the beauty. It is hard to long, but I do long for to feel a bit of long hair. I think of the past lovers, the still curious ones without any pain. I used to think I could get this feeling from them, this child-like way, take their newness into me and be solved of it all. But it grates at you still.

I want to take each one of them up here. I want to hold their arms, show them what I know to be true. Up here at least, there is not a problem to be had. I can see why a human would see this as paradise. You wouldn't worry here, there is nothing to worry about. It will never storm. There is nobody to interfere with you. Not even a bird to caw or make trouble. It is solitude, pure and well.

Some of my fellows have found this place before. I've never heard a word about it from them, but I can tell when they've been here from their hearts. They long to be here, for this is what death must be like. The same feeling of solitude, no worries. At least, that's what we dream it to be like on our darkest days. Complete freedom at last.

Let's not be disturbed by such thoughts. That's why we come here, isn't it? To never think, just look over the endless clouds and wait for a better day. And yet, we can't touch this perfection. It is not like the heaven we've imagined. We can't sit on the clouds. They are not made of fairy floss. They are cold and wet, reminding us of what we've left behind, what is down there all along underneath this false paradise. It is not a dream.

When one has been here too long, the thoughts return. Oh, the newness of coming back is always grand. You forget what its like, how you feel when you come here. But it doesn't last.

Nothing ever lasts. There is no forever.

So I'll descend again. I'll fly with the seagulls to land. They always show me the way, as my heart shows me the way back here time and again.