Abstracia

“Who are you?” It calls out. “Where am I?”

“You are here.” An answer beckons, “That is where we will begin. Tell me; who are you?”

“I don't know.” It replies.

“Then perhaps you know who I am?” It beckons.

“No.”

“Why not?”
“No one told me who you are.”
“Then why don't you tell me?”

I find myself awake. Over me is something beautiful my mind denies defining. I defined it myself, but I did not define it to the point of comparison between myself and it. I did not feel it could be perfect if I related to it. I wanted it to be perfect. We beckon to each other and begin to commune. We know each other well. Truly all we know of each other is that we are not each other.

I defined them and they defined me. It was a promise we made. If I could define who they were, they would define who I was. I defined them, but then I could no longer see that definition. That was my choice. To see something so beautiful would be to pervert it with my flaws. They defined me in the same way. We did not need to see each other. We only needed to know each other.

Truly, I know myself by my flaws and know them by their perfection. They see me the same way. We are completion, but can't be complete. Are we afraid? I am afraid. I do not want to be complete. The perfection I gave them is complete. If I became complete—if they became complete with me—then I wouldn't have them. Am I afraid that I would not have them, or that they would not have me? I cannot tell whom I fear for more.

It tells me that if we aren't careful, we'll define ourselves imperfectly. It tells me that that imperfection is what threatens to tear us apart. It is not our choice, I retort. We must be defined by others in order to know others. I cannot know them unless I define them. Others cannot know us unless they define us. I want to share my love with more than just the perfection I wont let myself have. Does it make me selfish to want to have more than perfection? I think it does. So do they, though, and that is what we like about each other, because we know each other feels the same.

So now I ask you. Who am I?

You gasp awake to the beautiful world, bathed in sunlight. I would not let you be covered from the warmth of its golden glow, so I warmed you. You gaze toward me, and that is when you decided what I am. You had already been defined, but I did not tell you what that definition was. While I may have been defined by perfection, I needed to be molded by your imperfect mind in order for you to know me. You are who created me, mortal man. Speak to me, and tell me, what is my name, mortal man?
“Angel.” You spake.

Thus I, Angel, was born to you. I found myself flattered. You made me dory with your praise. The crude simplicity of your moniker made me imperfect, which only brought me closer to being seen by the one I loved so dearly. Was it my craving that made you lust for me more? In your naivety you sought to define me, for yourself, through others. I was exposed to more imperfection so that you might know what I was. Your gentle mind was not corrupt enough to define me, so you chose to gather your corruption.

“Angel. Angel.” You spake at me. “Let us venerate you. You are our perfection.”

I consented. It was all you knew of love, so I would not stop you from such simple loving. You lived in homes to protect yourself from the harshness of a world you did not want to know, and because of this, you built a symbol of a home for me, that you might protect me. But I, being perfect, must have a greater home than you, you said to your others. You did not build me a home, you built me a temple. It was there that I was removed from you.

You did not venerate me of your love for me, nor did you build me a home of your love for me. You worshiped me of your desire to be lesser than I. You built a temple of your desire to be lesser than I. Forever you showed me that you would not walk along side me, for fear of my love. You would not let me live next to you, for fear of your own love.

Woman, they called me. They gave me flesh, and eyes, and appendages. I felt long, golden hair rest against my back, then vanish as my back became clad in tools of hatred. I was powerful, and power was defined by your hatred for each other. Power was defined by your inability to define each other. That hatred gave me armor the color of fear. That hatred removed my love for you, mortal man. I was robbed of my love for you, mortal man, because you did not want me to love you. I am sorry....

So I remained. Through your temple, you defined me more for yourself. I was your shelter from the unknown, but because you did not know me, I became your shelter from myself. Within me you manifested the desire to be protected from that which did not exist. Through me, that existence became, and through me, that existence would end. Don't you understand, Mortal Man? You would not need this job of me, unless you gave me this job.

Now I am, Mortal Man. Because of me, through your own fear of me who you would not love, you have become a threat to yourself. Through me, of you, you can now destroy all I hold dear. You would not love me, but I cannot stop loving you. My love for you is my love for them. Because I love them, and because I love you, I must remove you forever from me. You cannot comprehend this. You call it tragedy, and in my given perfection you would not see me afflicted. Because my love is tragedy, you took away my ability to love. If I were to love, I would become imperfect to you.

I cannot hate you, because you removed me of my hate. If I could hate you, I would not, because then I could hate them. So you continued to rage against me, furthering yourself from me with flawed perfection.

My being cried for understanding. I wished to be known, so I was granted knowing. You poisoned them with your flawed definition, but they were allowed to see me as I wished to be seen. They gave me what you called “sister”. She cried to me, that I would not be loved by you, but I did not fade from your definition. You cried to her, imagining her as less than “angel”, but I would not allow you. She was my “angel”, not yours.

In your hatred of my “angel”, you sought to separate us. “Of Balance”, I was named. “Of Passion” she was named. “The First” I was called. “The Second” she was called. We could not be, so we had to be apart. My beloved sister cried to me, that she would not be loved by you, but she did not fade from your definition. Her tears flowed, and her smile glowed. I remained, and she blossomed. She would be loved by you, and through her, you pretended to love “angel”.

You would feel for her more than me. Because you would love her, you would love me; we would be preserved above you forever. Because you hatred her, you hated me, and by giving her the name “Airro”, you gave me the name “Tahi”.