The eternal child was dying.

A long time ago when the blessed one convened the might of angels – the rage of paradise gleamed sharp from the Universe’s eye. In eons an age of reckoning comes, it comes and it stays for a moment in infinity, and its splendour rains down like limited grace upon the ones who hoards faith.

Such a moment of reckoning had come once, much before the start of time, in a sea of expanse of nothingness, far more transcendental than for the human mind to reckon with – and the rage of angels had rocked the universe, snuggled in the cradle of depleting grace.

Then, a long time ago, the blessed one had asked, ‘Who of you can commit the act of sacrifice. No, not piety and kindness, and love and mercy – I ask for sacrifice today, for the balance has to come a full circle – the angels, you, touched by my hand, sculpted in my immaculate image, I have set ye all free in life and death, and crowned you with the eternal glory – to create the miracle in hope and faith, and in that ye all have been blest.

Immortality will be your reward.

Now, I ask for a sacrifice. I ask for the bravest amongst you to stand up and reckon with your destiny, who will bear the burden of ‘the curse’. And just so you know you brave one, whoever you are; your blessing will be your curse.

You shall have to bear the curse of Immortality.’

The blessed one had then, roved his immortal smiling eye upon the hoard of angels – up and down he looked upon the sea of miracle workers who spanned into infinity, the blessed one’s own miracle army of hope; he had waited for the bravest of them all, lead by the arch angels, down to the frailest sprite who roamed to touch hearts with tenderness – he waited for the prodigal son, the bravest angel to rise and wear the crown of thorns offered by the hands of the blessed one.

A lull that deafened the oceans with its roar ran amok the vacuum between time and timelessness; a long wait that tested the tenacity of eternity, and the curse that came wrapped around its sinuous spirals, the blessed one, still smiling, unperturbed he’d said, ‘Rise son, the brave one, for your pain in sacrifice will bring the gift of hope in eternity for the ones who sit steady in hope, for another time, a revived chance, a soul removed from mortality; and, for the ones who will not fear of distance and separation, and will known the gracious nature of love, and how it spans even time.

I can sense you and, I can order you to own up in your valor, but I will give you the gift of choice, and wait for you to tremble and rise and be coronated, my cursed angel of the unrequited.’

The angels sat still, each lost in its own personal vanity of being the bringer of grace, and being served with the quick gratification shining through the gratitude in the eyes of the receivers of their grace.

It was hard, even for the angels to willingly choose the doom of a cursed unrequited – languishing through eternity and still holding on the tender threads of hope – in a revival.

Even divinity had yet to learn about sacrifice.

But divinity’s nature encompasses the element of surprise. Quick, and throbbing like a loaded gun, a spark shoots from the distance and carries the light far, even as far as lighting up the endless skies.

That’s how he lighted up, as he diffidently raised his little frail arm, hidden behind the towering frames of stalwarts, a frail child of five – the keeper of innocence that touched the hearts of mortals with the reminder of who the kingdom of heaven belongs to.

As he stepped up to his chance to be touched by blessed one himself, he took two quick, unsure steps towards his mysterious destiny – when, he felt a tug on his shoulder and turned around to see a pair of blue green eyes – filled with the reserves of natural innocence, framed by an angelic mop of golden hair – sun’s rays entangled with them to shoot sparks of light in a distance and fill up the skies with the promise of innocence to come.

The little boy, he looked deep into the eyes of his eternal mate, a five year old angel girl, his partner in his miracle of innocence, and spoke to her wordlessly, like angels do, ‘No, I must. We always knew. We even waited. This was our destiny... you must not stop me...’

The girl, silent like a starry night, she nodded her head quietly, wordlessly she said, ‘No... .’

The little boy smiled and caught a weeping willow of a tear that threatened to fall from her eye and let it settle on the tip of his finger, ‘ Think of all those who will shed some of these, it’s for them. And what will little kids like us do if not live off in hope of better times to come – an eternal playtime, in our very own eternal playground? You must not cry nor worry – for promises will live because I will bear their burden. You must wait for me, while you spread the innocence. I’ll be seeing you, again, in our eternal play ground. Just you and me...’

And with that the little boy, impatient as five year old’s are, he set his shoulder free from the frail, but innocent grip of his eternal play mate. He turned back around once more to give her that pleasing wink, that secret promise in a wink that said, ‘I’ll be seeing you... soon.’

With that he ran and kept running till he jumped over patches of time and wait, and fell breathlessly by the feet of the blessed one.

And he whistled, as he hungrily, greedily stared up at the crown of thorns – little lust in little eyes, the play obsession of the curious rabbits – just leaving his Alice bereft and wanting, so unrequited in her play time for they hadn’t played enough – yet.

He grabbed at the crown – as the blessed one smiled – then guffawed, loud and pristine like burst of lava, he said, ‘Look ye hoard of angels – my brave one had arrived!’

Then, the blessed one set the crown on the still soft head of the five year old – the thorns, not waiting for a moment of respite, and digging deep into the fleshless-ness – and drawing a sigh and some red; the little boy, his eyes suddenly grew dimmer and his heart filled with the ghost like moaning, the whisper of the unrequited heart, crying out in silent tears and counting moments after moments to draw an end to an eternal wait – of being fulfilled from unfulfilled.

The little boy blindly turned around, unaware that the curse had already changed him, had him imprisoned between worlds, in those spaces and gaps where two hearts waited in a limbo to meet again – the graveyard of soul mates opened up like a yawning and the darkness blinded all for him.

But the little boy, still steady on his feet, he trembled with the age of unrequited upon his shoulders, he turned to look around once again at the blurry faces of all those who looked upon at him with unreserved awe – he searched for a tiny face with rays of sun for hairs but he could barely strain any harder...

Just like a child – he began crawling away, to his destiny, as the Blessed one spoke in his head, a message, only for the ears of the Brave One.

‘You are the savior of soul mates, eternal child. You bring them grace and hope. And that’s why my kingdom will always belong first to you. Don’t worry; You’ll be seeing her, again.’

**********

And so he waits – so endlessly – ripping off pieces of him and planting them in the souls of those who walk the abandoned road of hope, for love to be requited. He sews and patches himself all over who cry bitterly, as their loves lie in a limbo, their eyes search; he willingly embraces their darkness and gives them a bit of his light.

Sometimes he patches up Romeo and Juliet, in another age he sewed the hearts of Jack and Rose.

He sings an eternal requiem, to innocence sometimes – sometimes he longs for an eternal playground and for the one who waits for him there.

In such times he carves some mirage called destiny, sometimes blows up imaginary yellow balloons – he searches for meaning in the whites of snow – sometimes he derives hope in the listless eyes of a stranger, waiting for another stranger to complete – two rebellious destinies – and stitches them back together – he dreams about the muse, snuggling in an embrace called life – he sings a swan song, he weaves up magical tales called Rose for a little girl, waiting – like ripples in water, he laps gently in the darkness of his destiny, as he gently pushes a string of words, out of his mouth as he watches a lone lover cry, and whispers promises of his meeting again – the lover, with his girl who made wreaths – he blindly dates his destiny – forgotten frolic of his old childhood returning to him like a symphony of dreams – he sits there awed, by the miracle called life – and the greater miracle of the curtain call, of death over life – and the promise that lies in between somewhere.

Across the fences, the little boy, a weak shy guy, his sings his requiem called love – his mind filling with the lovesickness of the beauty and the beast – and their transcendental love – in a chair of agony he breathes in short spurts as he goes on stitching, patches of hope for a lonely sleeping beauty, consoling the bereaved soullessness of the princess and the dragon, some paradise found, some lost – but eternity still going on.

He promised the reunion in the wake of his curse – behind blue eyes, he sees the hole called you – and he fills it with himself – giving relentlessly, like children do – what dreams may come, a beginning, an end – a tale in the mirror, he reads in unrequited eyes, undoubtedly, he is the kid who’s seen too much, reds and violets, the dark angel – he seeks out a Hansel for a forgetful Gretel – in the marshes he lays himself down for some old remembrances – he waits, and walks, a stair way to heaven – and he sells his soul a little more, so the unrequited never lose hope.

**********

And today the darkness grew a tad too loud, and as his eternal light seeped out of his open wounds, his lost selves patched up on innumerable hearts – sewing them together – on the fragile thread of faith that discounts forever, he calls out to the Blessed one, frail, his voice still booms across the universe like a prayer, his anthem, a requiem to his innocence sold.

He mumbles his plea and his eye close with the dream for an eternal playground with a little girl waiting.

‘For a moment can I go and play?’

‘Immortality is long enough, chance is on your side son,’ the whisper comes across time.

‘Ask and ye shall receive....’

Posted Originally at: http://supriya.blogliterati.com