Demi—urgence re—mending the stretch of his borders crossing, either with oars or slither through the moats. The river of dying memories caustically scalds, splitting the skin into peels of cuticles. Whispering councils of three hundred and sixty-one demons tell the couragely lion—snake, “Bridge over the burning black sludge liquid of withering remembrance.”
The Yaldabaoth understands well, and his claws stretch open a portal, where he yanks his angels out like rope clogging a pipe. The angels try fleeing first by flight, but the God tears them by the wings. The angels try running second, but the bones are boiled with the cold grip fractures of claw. The angels try pleading in their corrupted seraphic tears and cries, but the God has sewn their eyes and mouths shut. Thereafter, he stitches together the fabrics of their hysteric—throes by binding their hands and feet into a hanging bridge made of his saintly angels. He thanks them not once, but twice before crossing with slithers over their squirms.
The demiurge named Yaldabaoth crosses the moat, cauldrous with thick tar boils, their substance being the decay of reminiscence. He finds himself blind to the motion meaning of his journey, only wanting to see where his kingdom can stretch beyond. It is through the first moat that he finds towering titans of eyes between every slit run of muscle fiber, where three are twelve times taller than himself, covered in seven hundred and seventy-seven eyes. The Yaldabaoth asks of them, “What is your purpose?”
The one on the right answers, “To see it through.”
“What is there to see but my creation?” replies the Yaldabaoth.
“We watch your pride unfold from your impurity for thirteen infinitudes.” Judgement follows from the titan standing at the center.
“And we see to it that your third mistake is your last; every time. The denial will chase you to the furthest corners of your sanity.” The leftmost titan adds unto the sayings of the other two titans.
The Yaldabaoth breathes his shadow over them, his height growing several times over their own three combined. “Never tempt me by fear, for I am the terror and judgement. You cannot comprehend how I fashioned the Leviathan, the seas, the stars, and the angels. Everything flowed from my being at my behest.”
“Very well, then,” says the rightmost titan.
Yaldabaoth slithers past them, his shadow swallowing them whole, their souls consumed. He journeys past another moat, knowing he once fell into the first, though never having seen the second. He wonders how to accomplish the passage twice as long as the last, not understanding. For a moment, the God wonders, before casting a portal with his breath, and he yanks out the sun from the sky, casting the Earth in darkness. The Sun says unto the Yaldabaoth, “My will is to be let free!” The sun scorches his claws, and thus God drinks its flames, and the light grows weaker, almost putting out its own fire that’s left with sorrowful tears. “My God, your will is my own!” The Sun begs of the creator.
“My will is done then.” The Yaldabaoth throws the Sun into the abyssal moat, hoping to see, but nothing. The dark devours the light, and the sun almost sinks into the black tar. God, in a moment, is stricken in the fear of loss, and casts a noose at the Sun, trying to pull it out, but the quicksand of dark sinks the Sun, and pulls the demiurge down with it. God is pulled into the moat face first, his face unable to scream from the cover, and he thrashes in the soup. Before long, he calls upon the angels to save him, but they do not hear his desperation. He deathly rolls onto his back, like a child drowning in the pool of oil, screaming once more, “My angels! Obey my will!” As he says this, they cannot answer or act, for their wings were torn, their bones like broth, and their eyes and mouths sewn shut. He cries out once more, “Anyone!” Not even the titans can retrieve him, for he swallowed their souls. He cries in desperation that even one may save him.
One does come by, the flying doll in the form of an angel, its eyes bleeding out of its tear ducts. The doll flies above him with white wings of an angel, and the small one rolls out a scroll that unravels itself, and it reads, “For what bothers God so?”
The Yaldabaoth screams out through the muddle of slop sink, “Lucifer! Do your Lord’s will! I am like a dying light, where the candle laps in the oil of black wax; it drowns the illumination of creation; the flame shrinks!”
Lucifer answers in his new form, “For what price?”
“No! Listen to me! Creation itself is at stake!” The demiurge cries through blobbles and curdles of slewing sloth ink.
“I want my own share, my own realm; give it to me,” Lucifer demands of God.
“Very well! Your will is done!” The Yaldabaoth screams again, his mouth flooding with the fueless snuff sludge.
Lucifer fashions a scroll down with the ink writing of a ladder as long as its papyrus that it was written into, each line not being drawn, but rather reading of itself, every part of the structure made of the word that it is, “Ladder.” The demiurge reaches up with a lion paw from his snake-long body, out and above the moat eating him, and it grabs onto the word itself, where his claw goes into the scroll. He is yanked up and away by the flight of Lucifer, his power through his smidgen form surprising God, and he is heaved out like a tooth from gum. The slush sloshes at the sound of God Yaldabaoth’s exit.
The sun is missing and left behind, and the Yaldabaoth is returned to the now dark creation, only far stars as light, the Earth entrenched in darkness. The demiurge, now back home, swims through the nightsky, seen below by creation, and he spits out a new sun, the second Sun of creation, looking just the same as before. The Yaldabaoth now swims back up through the now lit up firmament, finding his land of memories restful. In his heaven, he breathes out a new Star. He names them “Redemption,” who he wills to heal any one of his three hundred and sixty-one angels who are willing to forgive themselves for shaking from wounds blessed unto them by God’s will, for resisting his righteousness done unto him. Three hundred and sixty are granted the healing of Redemption. The star undoes the stitches at their eyes and mouth, strengthening their bones, and sutures their wings back onto them, before blessing the wings into flesh with certainty in the name of the Demiurge, Yaldabaoth.
The one angel who denies the aid of Redemption is the most able to forgive himself, but he is left wingless and broken, for he hates the demiurge Yaldabaoth and his creation now; feeling betrayed. He is cast out of the Heaven and thrown down into the Earth. His name is Curse, thrown away like a meteor into the dirt of humankind. His burning streak of rebellion lights up the sky before he slams into the ground, a nightfall lit up by an angel fall.
Lucifer now asks of the Yaldabaoth of his realm of creation promised. God knows what ought to be granted unto him, for it already was and will forever be. The creator answers, saying, “Write your own words not into mere objects of words, but words into worlds. These words of worlds can be lived into from the outside, and your logic can be written with the ink of the snake’s fang, from your brother Ouroboros. You can grant this onto one being, and from him, you will birth yourself, being everything he will never become. After the birth, you will become as what you were once and many times before this birth, the ruler of my creation’s flame that lives inside him, seen outside of him, but bearing of him. In the next eternity and the eternity after that, forever, you will be promised another world with the same power, granted through your next birth, and each time, you will create eternal repeats of this saying, as you already have without knowing, Lucifer.”
“What of my journey now in my young age?” asks Lucifer.
The creator answers, “You will write of the one who bears himself and your flame of mine, and it will be known within the apocryphon by all beings of comprehension, for all to know, let them know this of the bearers.”
In their heart, they dreamed dreams of dreams, no longer knowing what’s real anymore; they seek comfort in the comforts of their prisons, lost in lostness; material bondage.
The creator further adds unto his sayings, “Furthermore, you will be the one to write down what is beyond where I cannot seem to travel to, and have failed in twice, that being of the outer realm and its unknown, and it will be written.”
They get lost in the reflections of reflections, a puppet of puppets, marionettes of marionettes, mimics of mimics, so on and so forth, so their fading becomes the fading of their fading. Understand my repetition as their own, their complexities always becoming more redundant. These are the free who chose imprisonment; even though they were handed the keys, they chose entanglement to these unfamiliar familiar, the furthest of ways.
“My words will become written as your own, not through copying as I tell unto you, for I see what will become of you now, and the Moon says the same. When these words are written in the apocryphon, you will have come to live and realize them as truth within yourself.”
Words are sewn from the moon, by a woman of shadow with crab claws, her fabric woven into the ground of the heavens, and the memories say into the sanity of Yaldabaoth, “You and your false angels are as pawns, your will unto these two you bless is against your own.”
The heaven grows silent, and the Demiurge makes known, “The demons have infested our home! Their darkness hating the truth of my Divine Will! It must be the realm unknown! What else could there be? This is all there is!” Yaldabaoth looks over at Lucifer and curses him, saying, “You and your brother are delusion kind, and I cast you both into the wicked world you choose, for a demon says blasphemy in the house of the Lord! You will suffer my will unto yourself, and your realm will only be lostness and confusion; it will curse you with pleasure of its insanity! My perfection will only be known onto you as a puppet’s place! Your apocryphon will speak of your own darkness and the evil you fell in love with! You mimic my gold with counterfeit hate!”
Lucifer and Ouroboros are cast out together from the heavens and down into the Earth. Lucifer falls brightly in the midst of dawn, and he swallows his brother to protect him from the fall. He is rejected of the freedom he was promised from the Yaldabaoth.