She wasn't a heavenly angel, because she was kind of me, but maybe me-who-I-wanted-to-be, wished-I-was.
She was tall, in that way that mothers are tall, to their children.
I have walked, walk, will walk along a cliff, it is my life.
Pacing me, along the cliff of my life is a dark cloud, a void, a portal to nothing.
The Neverending Story, The Wind In The Door, they described that dark, so I knew I wasn't the only one who saw it, others saw it.
They saw it, they Named it, they fought it.
Artax was lost to it, no matter how loud Atreyu screamed his name.
Sporos, stupid little Sporos, someone gave their life for you (me), because you (I) played too close to the edge and almost fell (don't do that).
That angel was my Meg, my Progo, my Empress (my mother), and she was me.
She brushed the hair from my eyes.
She put her hand on my shoulder.
She was warm, and reminded me that the dark was too cold.
She was cool, and reminded me that the dark was too hot.
Somehow, because of her, I kept turning away.
I'll keep turning away.
But I'll always need her help.
