Now with the echoes of the storm

I sat facing the east in supplication and meditation. My soul rose like an eagle, piercing the spiritual realm, its wings unfurling over a sky of clouds alive with unseen forces. When a storm struck, I soared higher, unshaken. Yet in the aimless roam of my ascent, my focus wavered, and I beheld figures—perhaps angels. Their wings were not white but blue, hued like sky and sea, bound together in an embrace neither torn nor severed. Below, my body lay hollow, my soul adrift. I longed to return, but the blue-winged angels recoiled, their voices a command: Go back—you do not belong here. Yet something urged me forward, and I followed them to a place where I met a man—handsome, brown-bodied, with neither horns nor crimson hue. The angels called him Lucifer. I asked if he was the Satan of scripture. They said yes. And then I understood: the angels were blue not from light, but from the storms they had braved, the skies they had seen, the weight of the souls they had carried. Satan stood among childlike creatures who did not walk but hopped through the void, unbound. Then, as if called, they vanished, swallowed by the abyss. I fell. Through sky and storm, through shattering stars that roared like thunder. The world trembled as my soul returned to its vessel—once hollow, now filled with the lessons of the sky. But I was no longer the same. My spirit, though tethered, bore the echoes of the storm.