Asunder


"This morning I awoke to visions of fire and steel. These nightmares come more often now that I have seen my beloved France eaten away in years of war.”
From the Journal of Guy Josselyne, February 19, Army Camp near Vaucouleurs


Forewords: I do remember, (bare with me), dreams of God, I had long ago, when fascinations of hell and heaven still pondered my mind with and at the same level as the mundane myth and fairytale. I could only imagine. Not to say these thoughts provoked the next, but gave my mind a perspective to what I was seeing. Dreams of God are bound to mean something, right?

It was only recently though, when I stood at my church, happy, smiling, full of joy, (probably an adult joy, one I’m not proud of ,compared with the children) My colleague and I were examining the class they left for us to teach the children. Something about Serving God. (Samuel 2:18) I couldn’t help but ask exactly how they expected the kids to serve God, my God, the one I had already had resentment and unrelenting hostility towards. Not for any decent reason, but from my own mind, as God himself intended, had come the means to despise my creator.


Despise the author of a book as a character, yet the author can be to blame, he should not be part of the story.


As my mind raged, my body could only ask, “How exactly are they supposed to serve?” My colleague was probably more positive; I had a pretty good idea why. “Through dreams,” he said, “with whatever dreams of God they have”.
Maybe this was inconsistent now, but then it sparked a wonder.

“Have you dreamt of God?”

“Yes, prophecy and work given to me.”

The nerve and calm behind it, I can’t help, and couldn’t back then, help but answer, “O, in mine, God is a real jerk.”


It was true. I had had a dream with God as a jerk, but why had a dream come to me like this?

A second example I can explain with ease. I felt inclined to ask a friend whether she thought dreams were our future. She did not. I still do.

I later told her maybe dreams are the dead speaking back. She must have thought little of it, but in ignorance of her interest dwindling, I asked what it meant to dream of the living.


It was her, I had dreamt of her. I would be the last thing she saw.


She said, “Then you want to kill them”.


She was a sweet voice of churning honey and yet the blood still did not stop.


To recall something else, maybe my life did decide to come forth in a secondary version. As if everyone’s life can be fulfilled or demonstrated in a second style. Like god switching to an epic all of a sudden, when he usually tends to write in prose.

How then can I explain to you what my style is? God knows it, but I don’t even get yours. What’s the bloody point?

Then, as a shadow haunted my dreams for the certain of screams and horrors, my life is demonstrated in dreams. I have become unstuck in time, some would say. Why be the bastard to say that something is not there, or worse to say something is not real. Everything can be real, the question is if it should be.




It was a shadow, but I still was sent reeling out of my room, that one night.


I dreamt of a girl, I did not know her, but I certainly loved her. And what was the sneer of that one second, and the counter of my actions? For I was to be her death, maybe I still am. And for her, I certainly was the last thing she would see. I would kill the mistress of my dreams. In fact, I don’t even know now. Will I ever find that “one”?

Nope. I doubt it. I still hold to the fact that all life is analogy. It would just defeat the purpose, for those who know the context.


All my soul is on the pages now, not these, but the rest.


(Dwell with me). Over the course of the book I may have confused myself. What was I saying? Did I have my doubts? Of course, everyone does, and if they match yours, amazing. Did I distrust my God? Nope, still don’t, regardless of a new religion I invented (Rynosuken Larianism). I wouldn’t follow it, no one will, I lost the pen already.

The dreams are real, they must mean something. And I deny nothing that you might believe. But what I believe is there, I just don’t feel like the little bastard to say something does not exist, I leave that to the businessmen and ambition seekers.

I like to think that God is an author, (my new religion) and when he wrote us, like I did this story, he put his soul down on the pages, on me, and couldn’t get it back.

Dang, I don’t care for it back, that might just be my problem. My problem is on this page, that’s why I’m writing it, maybe it’ll ware off. I’m not a believer though. But this book… in all senses.


Yours are the senses I seek.


Its just life and none can deny it.


“I am the voice and the counter

Who is the fast and what is the banter

Far in east

I am still the least.”