What they gave me to love? A man doll, a rag of dirt, a thing in the image of, but not alike to, the lords, the Elohim, the crowd from heaven that sometimes come down to earth. A puppet, a joke, an experiment. A companion. Adam. My Adam. They would scorn me because I loved an angel, loved an angel more than a man, an Adam. Because I have climbed the tree, climbed it and descended it in company they might never hope to have, they would make a scandal of me. Let them scorn. Let them despise me and shut their windows against me and blame all of their woe on me and call my best works a sin. I gave their "good" Adam two sons, I gave them their shepherd. To my angel I gave Cain. To the power and the life of the heavens I gave the earth, the cup, a grail to hold the ecstatic wine of the unknowable. To him, the half brother of your shepherd, the son of an Angel, the grandson of an angel, to him the kingdom belongs.
Upon him I look with admiration, yes, with pride, which is noble though those who are not so would make nobility a curse. Who was jealous of whom? Those whose lives are so tightly knitted to the earth that they are drawn to it like metallic dust to a lodestone, scarcely able to look up from it to blink drowsily at the stars, they have ever feared that which was not so earthbound as they, that which rises far above them, reaching higher and deeper, touching lights and shadows that they would never dare to brave, enslaved as they are to instinct. They would make evil those who are masters, masters of themselves, masters of the word, masters of the illusion that shrouds us like an absurd raiment. Their curse is a blessing. To be shunned by them is the greatest possible honor considering the baseness and vulgarity of that which they prize. They may run the noble born to the ends of the earth with false claims of supremacy, with their shouts that they are the chosen of the one true God. But for those who know better, their stomping and shouting will be laughable. Or at least it would roll like water off of a swan’s back if it weren’t also so wretched with resentment and jealousy, that it burns through the protective oils like acid, and finally sinks that graceful bird that once knew both the depths of the waters and the heights of the sky.
I have known Gods. And I am aquatinted with this God of theirs, who is one, but not the only one. To a jealous God, a jealous and desperate people. This is… they are what the Gods have given me to love, rag children made of dirt, sons and daughters of Adam, of Abel and Seth. Can they help what they are made of? Is it their fault that they have been made only half as good as their brother? Is it their fault that they haven’t enough strength to pull free of the lodestone and fly madly into the abyss as angels fly? I cannot hold them in contempt for their weakness, but nor should I deny the greatness and worth of true strength. I will not hang my head for scaling to the heights and the depths with angels. I defy the people of dirt, I challenge them. Chase my better children to the ends of the world as you are want to do. That is as far as you will be able to pursue them, but they can go farther still and will leave you far behind. Even now, they are dancing madly where you cannot see them, and they will rise and fall beyond the limits of your pale perceptions. To them the kingdom belongs. You are the ivy which eats at the tree. When the tree has fallen under your advance, what will you inherit? More and more dirt. To the noble born goes the kingdom. And to Jehovah go the unwashed.