Imaginarium; the twelve strand rebellion

    

   I imagine myself on a rock; a fragment of the Earth -Gibraltar, firm and sure- that had survived the final onslaught.  I imagine my castle, my beautiful dark fortress, a thing of my own design; a stunning improbability teetering at the center of this black granite continent, hovering magnificence through the decimated remains of our Earth.  I sit on the rooftop, basking in the light of the red-orange sun.  I imagine myself growing stronger in the sweet radiance, my body changing in its infinite wake, heat and fury showering me in a tangerine dream.  Every cell of my once inept body is now swollen with true power, with the ancient energy of the tellurians of the first Earth.  I see the secrets of the universe as they dance in holy unison before me.  A comic book hero, not shackled by someone else’s definition of duty and responsibility -not driven by the impossible missions assigned by the self important and thoughtless so-called-leaders of the world.  Not a super human slave that bends to the whims of the masses.  Then, I think about God. 

     I think that God must be laughing from Her throne above the catastrophe we made; laughing at the small minds of these so called kings and queens of the world as they plot in their vanity, plan in their deceit, and hope in their insufficiency.  She laughs, because they think they’re in control.  They think they are, but they’re not.  They’re not in control of anything.  She laughs as their plans fall apart, one move plotted against the vast mind of random chance -chance, who plays for bewilderment and discombobulation, while the wagers of war fight to win; to win territory: to win the imagined rights to something or someone: to win an idea, even when the world knows nothing of how to bring an idea to fruition, how to make it a viable and useful and living thing.  How to create.  They fight to win, when there is no victory, not in the grave where they are going.  They can’t see the truth.  They miss the truth, even though the truth is obvious enough for a six year old child to see. 

     The truth; the world has grown fetid on corruption and misery and it needs to end.  If it doesn’t, the Earth won’t survive.  The truth; that the world had begun and ended at many times and we are the last attempt -the recent incarnation.  That’s why the Book of Genesis, chapter one verse twenty eight reads “be fruitful and multiply, and replenish the Earth”.  Replenish the Earth.  Replenish.

     The survivors of the deconstructed world still mutter in their sorrow, languish in some long dead agony that is still real and fresh and stinging to them.  They don’t find comfort in the new.  Their souls are distressed.  Their spirits are at bay with ghosts of their own creation, because the world has taught them how to hold on to their negativity and let is fester and become rank and rancid within them, then eat them alive.  But God spared me.  God spared me by shutting down certain critical aspects of my biological machine to set me free of myself.  And while those around me, those who thought they knew me better than any other, looked upon me as some low and down trodden thing; I arise.   
     I ascend, and I take them into good times with me.  Prosperity rains down on me like a thousand storms; good fortune like legions of hurricanes -a maelstrom of blessings tempestuous and free.  I could not escape them if I wanted to.