The Death to Be Free

I have gone to see Kopoth. It—a history. But, first, how daily a life—here.

Some parts of city cope with armies. Some cope with rebels. Then there are many parts which make back and forth, a current similarly to an ocean stream from which I heard of but never saw. Outside of city? I am not confident. When I was younger, much younger, it was possible to leave city, even to other cities, cities with names long overlooked, but it was not possible during long time. I assume that it could is possible. But why you would like to? The knowledge where you are—it is safe. Where does not know where you—is dangerous. Why ask a candle of a life to blow itself out more quickly than differently would happen?

My beloved Fanta and I should believe, however, that if should travel far enough in any direction the barrier would be, the line of crossing, and then will be other country on the other hand. A green grass. High streams. Smiling people. Happy children. Sweet dreams. It should be so. Otherwise we can lay down and die also similarly to a dog.

But it is difficult to know for certain. Anybody, who leaves, does not come back. Either they are free or they are dead. Those who are still, would not be here if they were brave enough to leave. My beloved Fanta and I, nevertheless, we have the plan. But it—not a today’s history.

Some people really try to leave, and we really know that happens with them. On the North across the river—the army so nobody tries to go there. There are some bridges, some old and one, the oldest, maintained with cables and a wire, one for trains which never run but if you take the North, you will enter into a mouth of a lion. What fool makes a thing is similar to this?

From that I saw and heard, to go the West should head in burning ground of desert. To go the East or the South—in more green, as a matter of fact, areas and trees. Rebels, various groups with moving unions, operate those outputs on the East and the South. So the West—a unique route, in the theory that is possible to go. But who would like to leave that way? Trade in the ground of war for the exhausted ground of death? So people risk on the East and the South. They—not histories with the happy terminations. Today I can show you as they stop.

Rebels, the biggest group, Black Angels, do not want that people have left. They should fill in their own categories. To be their own disciples or people to make their bidding. Women. That they want the woman for—something, that I shall not speak. But should leave to be disloyal, to be the non-believer. If they can use you then you can live some time. But if they cannot solve whether they love your sight, either your voice, or your words, then they take you that they name the cherub, uninitiated, to the Purgatory. It—where they make their pious decision. 

I know a way back I were the child, enter and see that proceeds. Now you can see cherubs whom they bring to altar. You see Black Angels in their garb on the left in places. And going from the center—the Archangel. One by one cherubs arrive to territory of a stage. If Black Angels give the big finger downward, they live. The big finger upward, they die. You would think, that it will be other way. For the first victim or two they think, that any way it should be a mistake. The Archangel holds the jesustick to their head. Then the decision. Black smoke makes forth. And then breaking up of the an echo by the weapon in Purgatory. A cherub falls down not to make move again.

It—only one thing which we know: Black Angels. Only one of many things. The some people it is better, but many it is worse. Regardless, today’s history is full of a pain and sufferings. I feel pity to these cherubs. But I am happy, that I look from above and is alive to come back to my beloved Fanta. If it—that we know—why we would not risk what we do not know? It—our plan. We shall show one to you if only we have chance.

~ by temor on February 24, 2007.