The Golden Dawn and The Throne
In the days before humanity, love was fucking easy.
The beginning of creation was brought about by masturbation. After the divine manifested itself into the first deity — it sought to create others like it. That is why the very first being’s name is the complete one, because they always finish. Sex was great. The goddess with a thousand vaginas had a thousand lovers, also the dei-forms such as ‘the golden’ and ‘serpentine’ bore new minerals and elements from the mess they left after shagging in the oceans. But the gods and their kinds grew bored of endless desire, and so came the love of the soul, a new truth to discover and enjoy.
How the immortals enjoyed it.
And then came man — and everything went to shit.
Mortality it would seem is the ultimate cunt. Its very definition intensifies all things. For a never-dying being, love is gentle, for a creature whose grip weakens from the minute it is able to hold onto reality… love is powerful. It is the mightiest being — infectious and inspiring and inconvenient and what is more, an experience no immortal could ever have.
For that reason, the two lovers chose to be born.
Reincarnation is simple enough; incarnation is not.
The Nazarene was a complex case and look how that ended.
One fell from the sky and drowned in a river whereas the other was born from leaves on the winds of time. They missed each other by a decade, but eventually, after their trials and lessons, found each other.
Like two stars in the night sky, looking out across the ever expanding void, they caught each other’s gaze and instantly felt the pull of gravity drawing them together.
Matt Saar was on stage reciting a crafted piece about time and how it’s totally meaningless, when his gaze turned and locked onto her. The girl with the golden hair sat floating amongst the crowd, her eyes peering through him and into the truth. And then suddenly for him, time grew damp with purpose, as if the rains of realisation were sticking to its skin, and suddenly it all made sense. So distracted was he that he tripped on his words and nearly lost the whole performance.
She was beautiful — yes, on the outside, but deeper than that. Her eyes lit the room with her passion and enthusiasm for life. After his slot had ended, when he was sat amongst the others of the room, he could feel her breath pouring out of her body and into the air around him. He knew he knew her but he didn’t know how.
But Matt Saar was a bit of a dick. Snagged on a lifetime of suppressing his true self, he was reluctant to approach her, afraid of reaching out to someone so radiant. Luckily for him, Rory Bell’s curiosity got the better of her and that night the two of them talked.
Over the weeks they exchanged messages, more and more until finally Matt asked her out. She said no. He asked her again a week later. Her reply was the same.
And so Matt drifted back off into the world, assuming the woman he had found did not think of him like he thought of her. This was completely untrue of course but remember — Matt was a bit of a dick.
After a few weeks, the poet fell into a relationship with another avatar, Narcissus. Neither one realised who the other was still (the price paid for incarnation). Had Matt known he had been called a narcissist by the physical embodiment of narcissism then he would have enjoyed the irony, however his memory blindness led him to flee that shit show and not look back. Who wants to be swallowed by a black hole?
When he ran, he ran straight into Rory again and they began talking like they did before. This time it felt different so when Matt asked her out, she said yes.
Both believed they were finally in the right place at the right time, but the gods and dei-forms have never been one to get the balance between optimism and reality quite right. Their love would be a short song, for passion knows tragedy like a child knows its own shadow.
What would follow would eventually kill them both.
What they don’t tell you is, in order to live in the mortal world, you have to experience a fair load of trauma. It seems to be a requirement for having to exist in a world of nonsensical rules and unpredictable interactions. It shapes.
For Rory that meant loss; for Matt that meant being defective.
Imagine, after all that, to finally meet and yet carry so much more than just expectation (which is great enough). When alone they were an endless song, their notes of laughter layered with lyrics of deep conversation, and a pulse so passionate they couldn’t keep their hands off of each other.
Rory struggled being out together. She hated it but it dominated their relationship more and more. She wanted everyone to see them as they were when alone, but the struggle was real. Matt had been fine to start with, but his insecurities had grown more and more with every text telling him he wasn’t a priority, couldn’t be considered in her week, and every action of anxiety that left him feeling alone in their relationship. They met to talk but didn’t talk, because when they were together — none of it ever mattered.
They lay on the bed, him face down, her naked body pressed into him as she straddled his back.
“Put your arms by your side. And then pull up.” she said.
Matt attempted the yoga position with very little success.
“You can do it.” praised Rory as she watched Matt imitate the shape of a dolphin. She laughed.
“Do you feel it in your middle?”
Her hands pressed into his spine gently to indicate where the stretch worked. Matt could feel nothing.
“I’m not doing it right.”
“You are… Try again. Up!”
“I feel it a little bit.” replied Matt.
“Really, just a little bit?”
“Oh, that good of an exercise?”
He loved how she turned words with her tongue and set them free. They laughed again as she lay completely on top of him. Their bodies pressed into each other and her lips affectionately grazing the back of his neck.
“I could feel it more in my thoracic.”
She hugged his whole body with hers.
“Now that’s a nice yoga stretch.” he said.
“It’s comfy.” she added.
“Yeah, but I can’t sleep on my front.”
That night they fucked in four different positions, constantly turning like a Rubik’s cube, aligning every colour perfectly.
They lay on the bed, her face down, his naked body pressed into her as they both came.
And like any other night, they fell asleep wrapped in each other. Despite this moment and the ones before it, there had been growing tension between the two of them. Rory had been distant, struggling with the emotional drain of living as a mortal, dealing with troubles and problems, and she took it out on Matt. This was the first time in awhile they had been close and tender, for leading up to that night, Rory had withdrawn affection, hidden herself from him, been unable to listen when he needed to be heard, made him feel like he was constantly going to lose her because it was all too much for her to think about. All he had wanted to know was when he would see her, but even that seemed too much. For Matt, rejection was a hot knife, and in his blindness he blamed himself — that he was causing the distance. He had no understanding and so built a story around it, one fed by past experience and the pain of lacking worth. This moment was not enough to quell the chaos, and in the early morning, he woke to find her getting ready to leave.
“What’s up?” he said sleepily.
“I just need to go.”
“What? What’s the matter?”
“I can’t. I just need to go. It’s not you”
For Matt though, it was him. The realisation that again she was distant from him, that despite how close they had felt hours before, again she was pulling away from him, with not a single word as to why — this he absorbed. It was him. She couldn’t be around him. She didn’t feel safe around him like he did her.
And so he sunk.
Words were set on fire and thrown around the room, adding more chaos to the mix. He walked her halfway home at 3am — her hug was lacking any affection for him, not that he felt he deserved it.
When he returned home it was nearly time for him to wake up for work and so he stayed awake, staring at the wall, and came to the realisation that he couldn’t handle it. The disconnection of a connection that felt so celestial. It was like taking away someone’s hearing or sight after having a ground breaking procedure to cure them of their deprivation.
His thumbs navigated the phone and he text her, ending their relationship.
In the shattering of their relationship, Rory woke up. She remembered her past life and name and what it all meant. What he meant. What they had gone through to manifest and find each other.
Futility, is a poem. The demons that haunt the world also haunt the living gods, and in an act of disregard, Matt slept with someone else. Hiding in the folds of friendship with another, hiding from his pain and making more for many others.
In the shattering of their relationship, Matt ran. He ran and he ran and he ran, as far as he could. No matter Rory’s reach, nor what she tried to repair their relationship, he kept his walls up.
They would fall into conversation. They would fall into bed.
He was desperate to be with her, but no matter the language of his heart, its dreams and wants, his worse version had taken control and was intent on not being vulnerable again.
And then, Aurora sang a song. The morning song.
Its melody lifted the thick fog from his brow, cut away the silhouette of inhibitions and let free his inner self.
Matt woke up.
But it was too late. Aurora now looked to herself. Tired from fighting with no ally or trying to prove her wants, she had retreated away. What The Metatron has feared all along, being rejected again, disconnection, loss had manifested itself — and this time it was his own creation.
The silence that followed was torture. If he were to prove himself worthy of her love, worthy of a second (even third) chance, then he had to respect her wishes. No matter how much he longed to talk to her, hold her, kiss her forehead and brush the golden strands of her hair out of her face.
Every time my phone goes off
I wonder - is it you?
I wake from my hope
soulless as chipped marble
drowning in air
I can no longer feel; all I can do is feel
sadness floats upon my eyes
I wish it to carry my heart
down the mountain and to the sea
place this phone in its negative space
let its chime replace palpitations
(instead of causing them)
The Angel of the Veil spent days lamenting, writing verse after verse about his pain.
Was this what was planned?