Childhood Writing/The Eternal Sleep

I wrote this back in early high school, but am posting it now; thought it was neat.

I once imagined an old fisherman. His young face weathered by time, his strong back made weak through work, and his dark locks whitened with age. He yearned for a sleep that never seemed to come. Joy had eluded him. When young, he had wanted to become an actor—famous and loved—yet now, his only audience was the open sea, a vast tomb that would one day have his soul. Whenever he lapsed into the “what ifs” of his life, such frivolous thoughts, his leathery face contorted into a scowl. Oh, the dreams he’d once had! His hope came to lie in a world beyond this reality. His old mind—too frail and dense to sail him out of the doldrums of his world—went to dance and sing in the stars. How he longed for that eternal sleep, the passageway to a world that wouldn’t let his dreams just be dreams. So he jumped overboard into the storming sea, finally at peace. Tonight, he would drift among the constellations; tonight, he would be free.

I once imagined an actress. She performed among the stars of this world. Yet she was not happy. She filled her days with ecstasy and alcohol—her remedies for the human condition. Most nights, she’d party until the sun kissed the sky. When she was young, she’d wanted to shine as bright as Lucifer, the angel of light watching her from the heavens. However, at that time, she didn’t know that even angels could fall. Often, she could be found passed out in her trailer—her lonely residence on the deserted island that was her life. Sharks, masquerading as reporters, often circled her island abode, eagerly awaiting the moment she’d awake from her comas and wade into the water—anxious for their share of the kill that society had gifted them. When she wasn’t drowning in alcohol, she was drowning in life. One day, the sharks stayed circling the island until the moon overtook the horizon. But the waters remained still, for the actress had fallen into an eternal slumber, a forever-escape from the darkness of her stardom. Her last plea with death: perhaps, in another life, I could become something simpler, perhaps a fisherman. Tonight, she would captain the moon; tonight, she would be free.

Finally, I imagined an angel. Though truly, he was nothing but a demon, for he was Azrael, the harbinger of death. He traversed the skies on blackened wings, an untouchable figurehead of twisted power, soaring above the world—never seen but always there. The humans bowed before his throne and tossed their forgotten dreams upon his altar. He hated being hated, but it was his duty, so he stuck to his damning post. How funny, he thought, that the most evil of beings should be the most obedient. In his endless loneliness, he lost the will to exist—a dangerous state for a celestial being. Slowly, Azrael faded into the pages of dusty history books. As he beat his powerful wings one last time, he realized that in an eternal-sleep, an existence void of conscious being, a life drained of emotion and pain, one can be neither loved nor hated. Perfection, he thought blissfully. The angel would gain the freedom of nothingness, the freedom to follow his dreams and sail among the stars; finally, he would be rid of his loathsome post. For the first and last time, he smiled. And with that last movement, a single black feather fell lightly to the ground as the angel became no more. By the time it completed its slow descent toward the world below, it was as white as snow, landing gracefully upon the shoulder of a young fisherman.