I feel as though I'm stuck in a whirlpool, being taken around and around and around. Up is not out. Down is not out. Neither is left nor right, nor any other way. And the scenery doesn't change, and my emotional landscape stays the same, all arid rock and scraggly trees, sand and the haze of heat, fencing me in on every side. If I accept that angels exist, and that one time, they fell from heaven, then this is what I expect they would have felt - chained to an earth which changes, but where the situation stays the same, where the wondrous beauty and power of their wings is gone, lost in broken feathers and in the stubs of shoulder blades where they used to be. Chased by silence, they're kept company by loneliness across the spinning earth, knowing that there is no future that they can return to.
I imagine they walked till their feet bled, unused to touching the harsh ground. I imagine they grew tired and collapsed under the savage sun, unused to a harsh reality. I imagine they despaired when they tried to beat their wings and found that they had none to move. I imagine they threw themselves off cliffs rather than live half the life they used to live. I imagine they regretted their fall as soon as they left the clouds.