Cry of an Angel Clad in Clothes...

Cry of an Angel Clad in Clothes,

or Sufferings of a Human with an Angel instead of a Soul

To whom and why am I writing these lines? Most likely to myself. Abiding in a holy place for years, just twice have I been recognised, and only by the people with the Soul that is, by God’s will, free from the mind. A human mind is a stumbling stone, perhaps, an entire cliff facing the Soul. One cannot go around or leap over it. To climb up over sharp stones, scraping your nails until they bleed and falling down the slippery ledges, sweet from the mind; then to get up anew, having regained spiritual strength, and crawl again... is not for everyone. For it’s so lovely, cosy, sweet, and warm at the cliff’s foot. The mind, of frail clothes, creates illusions of anything you wish for. So long as you keep wishing. Wishing for earthly love with a blazing hearth, for children to prolong your clan, for wealth, for fame – it’s all the same. So long as you keep wishing. Wishing, wishing, and it will all be given. In one illusion or another, it matters not, so long as you keep wishing. Wishing! Wishing for the earthly...

“But it’s so hard!” cry many people. No, it’s not. So many times I’ve put the clothes on. I roamed an endless road with just a staff, feeding the flesh with only what I found. I was a king and ruled for long over the countless peoples. And every time the clothing was too tight, it hampered me and hindered me from living. It shook with fear and got sick, and, like all others’, at first, it wished for much until I tamed it. That wild beast, of which all clothes are woven, fears just its master, just the Soul. But many fear the Soul more than the beast; the Soul that hinders their lives just like the clothing hinders mine. I cannot understand such people. To trade all of Eternity for only just one instant? What is the point here? To suffer in the arms of the beast’s skin, to serve the clothes decaying day by day. Is life in this? Life is infinite! It has no suffering, it does not tear, for it’s impossible to wear out the Soul. The clothing has no Home; there’s just a closet where it is kept for only a short while. Only the Soul has a true Home. And it’s the Soul that, yearning for Eternity, begets this sense of Home, for which man searches his entire life.

Rigden Djappo

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