feathers in bed

I will never understand the schedule of angels.  Tuesday morning I was awakened by the angel, wrestling with me inside my brain. 

The remedy is simple, if not exactly holistic; take 3mg. of Ativan, then lay in bed and hold him down until we are both unconscious.  When I wake ten hours later, he is gone.  I don’t know why it works, and I don’t know why he leaves.  Maybe he just gets tired of waiting.  Or maybe there is another reason; I’ve never known why he comes in the first place. 

But why come on Tuesday morning?  That is the one day, in my particular schedule, when calling in sick looks suspicious.  I have Mondays and Wednesdays off, so a sick day on Tuesday makes for a neat little three day furlough.  That’s how I think it looks to everybody else, everybody who is at work, wailing and groaning and gnashing teeth.  Then again, I do tend to be a little paranoid. 

There exists an incongruity between my spirit and my flesh, and when I surrender to the angel’s visit, I allow the energy—the electricity, the light—to flood my brain and flush clean the repository of my soul. Thus is my body injured, wounded and spent, but my spirit is renewed. One day, the angel I defeated Monday will defeat me for the last time, and, enfolding me in his wings, will carry me to congruity, once and for all.

So who can know the schedule of angels?  What duties and responsibilities do they carry?  If I truly understood the ethereal creatures, I might realize that angels are utterly unburdened and light of heart.  That’s why we think they have wings.  Truth is they simply do not have weights. 

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