Chazaqiel, Angel of Fog
I awaken and the sensation is much like drowning. My body, buoyant and pulsing in the low light, is tethered to the fallow earth. I reach out as if the sky were made of rungs, but the air resists me in all the ways possible without touch. My wings are damp with sweat and sculpted in repose, but both are lies as I’ve earned neither. Who is it that gives deception as gifts? I hate it here, this place that is somewhere in the middle. Where can I go if I am denied flight? How can I stay if I am denied presence? These questions fill the night air, crowding my wings and obscuring the light. But I know I am not the fog, but I also know that I am.