Dream Weaver

Dream-weaver, weave a dream

A single thread, a silver beam

Through the needle of my mind

Like silver thread through needle's eye

The cursed star, its golden beam

Shakes the fabric, rips the seam

Not for a thousand days of sun

Would I give up a single one.

So dream-weaver, weave your dream

With silvery thread on golden scene

And paint it on my restless mind.

Like endless canvas. I am thine.

Sukuna (Medium's Short Story Contest Version)

The lights go out. For the third time this week, my house, all of Glanvilles, maybe all of St. Philip’s parish, is plunged into darkness.

Beep. Beep. Beeeep. My computer’s backup power supply wails in the dark. I stumble from my homework at the dining table to the computer desk and snap the thing off.

“Dem damn disgusting!” Mama, my grandmother, says from the veranda. She’s talking about the Antigua Public Utilities Authority’s constant “load-shedding” to perform “scheduled maintenance”.

Mummy rustles in the kitchen and strikes a match. A spark jumps in the dark and Mummy light a candle. Pale yellow light floods the kitchen from the long stick of wax.

“You need more light right,” Mummy asks coming to stand over me with the candle. I recoil. I’ve been accidentally dripped on with hot wax too many times in my fifteen years.

“Nope,” I say, “Study break.” I snap my thick red Principles of Business textbook shut and jump up from the table. Five long strides bring me to the front door. I yank it open. It creaks a long heightening creak and I hop unto the veranda.

The moon is full and white tonight. Our street is bathed in a pale blue light that casts every color into a shade of navy. In the soft light I can make out the stout shape of my grandmother with her legs and arms crossed sitting on her little white bench in the west corner of the veranda. She faces the street. In the east corner sits Bramble, the man that raised my father and my aunt Cynthia while my real grandfather ran off to England. Bramble sits on a concrete block and taps his walking stick rhythmically against the short decorative block wall.

The Playground of my Frustrations

Chase, chase, bark

But there's nothing up that tree.

Swim, swim, sail

But there's nothing 'cross that sea

Search, search, look

But there's nothing there to see

Cry, cry, weep

Cause there's nothing left of me

An Attempt at Integration: Part 1- Histories

I currently identify myself as agnostic. That label however is a gross over simplification of the way that God baffles me. In an attempt to cache out what it is I really believe about God, I'm going to run through a bunch of philosophical view points then try to situate myself in relation to them. Before that though, I'll state what I do know about my attitudes towards God.

1. It (God) exists.

2. The major religions have it wrong

Please be informed that this post is not a Dear John to God, nor is it a philosophical treatise, nor a sermon, nor geared at any sort of persuasion of the reader. It's simply an exercise in reflection on my part.

God and I have a very long and tumultuous history. Regular church attendance was a family norm from the beginning of my existence. I became a born-again Christian at around 7 or 8 years old then made a re-dedication of myself when I was about 11 and had a better understanding of what the fuck was going on. I was by no means at any point your stereotypic Christian child though. I was sarcastic, stubborn, lazy, tortured my brother, cursed, lied, stole, masturbated... but I believed and prayed, and asked forgiveness and felt guilt and had some very long nights deep in conversation with "the Lord". I had a lot of questions, questions I knew I shouldn't have if I was believing in the way I was told to.

Then I met some interesting people. People that shared my questions and gave voice to them. Together we created an environment so conducive to exploration that barely a stone was left unturned in my mind by the time I was 18. I still clung to the structure of God and reality that I was taught though I had incredible doubts about it. The foundation was ruined so between my 19th and 21st years, I slowly resolved myself into my current "agnostic" category.

The truth of the matter is that I've just not come to integrate my different scattered opinions on the nature of the Supreme Being into a comprehensive viewpoint. Neither am I fond of the skeptical position. I agree with Hegel that skepticism is a means and not an end. I may adopt a skeptical view of an issue in order to engender doubt and catalyze my journey towards the truth, but to simply become skeptical and call it an end state just feels ridiculous.

I dislike the constant suspenision of judgment, the omninous maybe's and could be's. I can't not believe anything. And I refuse to believe in nothing. I know I believe something. Now I'll force that something into sentences so I can see what it is.

Unravel...

A fine mist of dust chokes the air on the battlefield. Musket fire erupts. Smoke and gunpowder feed the dusty cloud. Fallen soldiers scream as long steel blades plunge into their chest, hearts, lungs and stomachs. Murdering soldiers yell in triumph as they avenge their fallen brethren. Manic laughter cuts across cries of despair. Quiet ferocity smoulders beside final whispered prayers. Tears, sweat and blood mingle on faces and drip from chins into the dusty earth.

Szayel sits on a large rock in the midst of the carnage. Her fierce caramel brown eyes reflect the red rays of a dying sun and fixate on a distant inner plane. Her jet-black waist-length hair billows and fans out around her in some unearthly wind. Her near porcelain face contorts with the turmoil in her thoughts, the turmoil that seeps through her and into the air around her, the turmoil that fuels the massacre.

A handsome face, late teens, just a baby, smacks into the rock near Szayel's foot. His jaw cracks. His face, smeared with the blood of friend and foe alike stares through her with lifeless eyes. Szayel never sees him. She watches her thoughts. Her features contort. Her palms press deep into the rock. A trail of dark blood trickles from beneath her fingers. The slaughter intensifies. Dust and smoke cloud out the sky.

A hand grips Szayel's shoulder. Everything stops. A sword freezes an inch from a begging face. Every speck of dust hovers in place. A burst of crimson suspends from a exit would in a bearded soldiers back. A thousand scenes of murder hang in time.

The pale hand on her shoulder squeezes gently. The unearthly wind around about her dies and her black locks fall down her back and around her face. Szayel turns her head. And her fiery eyes meet a pair of the coldest bluest ice. And he smiles.

It's alright.