She is tall, taller than any human, even the tallest of them all. She took off her cloth blinders, and her gaze is brilliant. She possesses a multicolored Iris, sometimes a hot, molten gold sometimes azure sometimes a clear grey and predominantly a stormy black. She is dignified and graceful, her long gown formless and wide at the bottom, covering her legs. She always looks like she is floating through the air. On one of her hands she bears the heavy burden of her precious scales.
She stands watching the masses, looking at them with her tireless, sharp, frustrated eyes, trying to un tangle the horrid mess that can be the existence of man. Man has been overrun by his nature, she does not understand the hopeless desperation that she sees, the confusion, isolation, apathy and greed. The strong build their towers, sheltering themselves and keeping out the weak, yet even in their towers the struggle continues, the fight unending. Ripping each other apart in their struggle for that elusive dominance.
She does not understand it, that vicious struggle, she only sees how fragile their existence is, how hollow they make it, fighting for recognition when what they really hunger for is identity, longevity and control. She does not understand their determination to break each other just to be on top. On top of what? Brokenness and pain. She does not understand this myopic escapism. A people tooled and gifted with the capacity to build and add value, yet they focus on destruction through envy and exclusivity. She does not understand the paradox of a people that crave community, thrive in community, yet can be so prejudiced and hostile to one another.
The paradoxes of man’s actions and inner desires always plague her. Man craves peace, yet he creates implements of war, desires love but is hostile towards vulnerability, wants security yet he destroys the fundamentals of community with pride and selfishness.
With her piercing sometimes cruel gaze, she peers at the man, a medusa of sorts, with the hunger to turn the unjust to stone, yet they never catch her gaze, they stay wary of her. She leans in and stares into the very heart of a man, discerning the depths of his soul, she frowns, shakes her head and adds a number to his file which she then stores within her voluminous gown, awaiting action by her human agents, not perfect!
She holds up her long pure white gown, it is sometimes black, a deep, matchless black, elegant and uncompromisingly pure. She NEVER does creams, or greys, or browns. There is no in between for her.
She continues gliding into the masses, looking into their eyes, her frustration at her un attended files and ever growing list of the unjust, un pure and corrupt growing ever deeper, she continues to look though, compelled by her very own nature to not stop. Her frustration reaches fever pitch, she starts to shriek not perfect! not perfect! not perfect! At her un seeing and deaf audience. They cannot see or hear her, and for some, even if they had the ability to access the vision to see her, they would prefer their known blindness.
What is wrong with the human race, they exhibit a blindness like she has not seen, a people easily seduced by broken, innate, temporary vessels. A people taken in by their pleasures. She fears for them, fears that they will not stand when they are finally overrun by the forces beyond the door. Even the ones that can see are too cowardly to act, preferring their escapist broken bubbles of safety, completely out of touch with the reality at hand.
She is angry now, those are her only two feelings, anger and frustration. The third. . . satisfaction, has long been forgotten. Dissatisfaction has a death grip on her. She pulls at her scales, gliding between the masses openly unhinged by the despair of those she cannot help, frustrated at her own incapacity to touch the realm of men.
Her own nature starts to feel tedious to her, why does she even bother any more, why not retreat to her high tower of justice, passing judgement from a distance. This proximity to the masses only amplifies her feelings of impotence, seeing, knowing, judging, yet still having to rely on her broken human servants, men and women who are no longer erudite, clear vessels but willingly impugned creatures, creatures that sell her mercy for a price.
She watches them sell away on earth, on her high tower the bonds of justice are severely eroded. The door of life is almost unhinged, held together by the kind, righteous, bold and outspoken. She watches them like a helicopter parent, appreciating the practical and loving the stubborn. She desperately tries to shield them from corruption, holding hope that their depleted ranks will be filled. For now, they are few, yet their task is heavy. The almost open door heightens her fear, leading her to keep on coming back to the land of men, to keep on trying to enforce justice even through her hopeless agents.
She knows what lies beyond the door, and fears that the realm of men will not survive an assault from such darkness. A darkness that will amplify their weaknesses and destroy them from within. So she continues her daily journeys among men, all while dragging her precious, ever heavier scales behind her.
