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The Lost Saint

Angelas
classifications: Dark / Philosophical / Dramatic

Yes..more quasi-religious philosophizing stuff from me! This story seems to go along with one of my previous stories, Dream of the Garden, which is in my Oeuvre. It was inspired by a dream I had last year and now finally decided to share in writing. As it is a dream story, I had much trouble describing the sensations and the logic present within the dream. Physics, feelings, and thoughts aren't simple and straightforward for me in dreamland. They are jumbled and full of other meanings that I can't quite wrap my head around. Suggestions for making sense of it all are quite welcome!

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I began my journey looking in the library of eternity. All knowledge, from all times, is kept in its halls. Here I searched for my answers to the question of the Saint. The library was old and had the look of a gothic building, with high vaulted ceilings, red carpeting, and stained glass windows. The light of Heaven filtered through them sending color into my eyes. Despite this filtered beauty, the room was cut off from that Light eternal, existing as its very own piece in oblivion. Everywhere I looked, I saw paintings of the Saints, each writhing in their own personal agony.

Ahead of me was Saint Sebastion, his skin pierced by countless arrows. His body was writhing, alive in the painting. I could see his pain and the motion of his dying form. There he bled in my vision and died before my eyes. All around were paintings of the Saints, each dying a death in their own unique drama. Each painting seemed alive, a window into history. Gazing into each one presented the viewer with a glimpse into the individual small and precious life that ended with the ecstasy that only a Saint could achieve in death. As I looked, I could not find him, my Saint, the forgotten one, the answer to my question. The thought, the voice, echoed again.

Crucified before Christ.

With each window of bleeding torture and screaming agony, the question plagued me again and again. I could not find the one I sought. Then suddenly he was there, like a needle in my mind.

His body was crucified without nails or a cross on an outcropping of granite rock. There he lie underneath the blue sky, his form left open and fragile like Prometheus to the vulture's beak.

Crucified before Christ.

There was no blood in this vision, only the sense of his deep, unsurmountable pain. The kind not merely physical, but like an overwhelming ocean that leaves you bared upon craggy cliffs. He was alone there, his body naked and rippling with muscles straining against death. My vision froze with the heavy implication and again the question, the unanswerable, plaguing question! Who was he? Why was he before Christ?

My mind screamed again with the question, the vision faded and I was again where God, Eternity, had placed me.

I smelled the dirt and felt the glaring heat of the desert in my eyes. The world bustled around me as the market place filled with people. I was wearing matronly rags, my hands that of a person that had passed many years of weaving and working. This place was warm, and yet, a great cold sadness fell upon me. The people in the market continued their daily routine all around, the merchant gathered his wares, the children played in the street. There were people walking with no knowledge of what lay ahead in the future, only with the purpose of coming and going from one point to another. On and on they went, and yet here I was. I knew the future and I was saddened. It was a future that had been decreed, but why, why did it have to be my son? It all felt like a play, a grand performance where I was the part of a mother who knew her son was going to die, that he had to die. It was fate, it was destiny, it was the will of Eternity. I felt I should not complain, it was a holy design, one that I was only a piece of.

There I was again, standing on Golgotha, the place of bones. The play had reached its climax. The screams of torture filled my ears and I almost denied that one of those voices was my son's as they nailed him to the cross. I had loved him knowing he would die like this. I had lived with the knowledge my child would meet this awful fate. And then, I played the part like I was meant to. The sun began to set, the whole world filled with the orange hues of dying twilight. I looked up into his eyes, his frail body hanging there, but all I could see was shadow and blood. I could not see the distance up the cross, only the crimson blood of life that ran down his face like tears from his crown of thorns. I wanted to cry, and yet I could not because I knew. I wanted to touch his face, but I could not reach it.

Suddenly the wind and the shadows raised in a torrent and again my soul was cast to Eternity.

The dream, the journey, ended with the question repeating again in my mind.

...crucified before Christ...

Nice, but confusing

Wanderer (September 5th, 2003, 8:39 am)

It's masterfully told. The story creates intens haunting images, but the last part is a bit confusing to me (even after a couple reads), i can't quite figure it out.

Nice, but confusing

Angelas (September 15th, 2003, 2:12 pm)

yes...I'm confused by it myself ..but I'm still trying to figure out how to change this story to make it ..make more sense? LOL That's why it's so hard to write in dream logic^_^ Thanks for commenting!

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