Ben Godby writes mysteriously thrilling pseudo-scientific weird western adventure fantasy tales. He lives in
Ottawa, Ontario, with a girl, two dogs, and a cat, and blogs at bengodby.com.
You have a plethora of clever explanations—an exorbitant array of affections for the effects you suppose to observe. You have devised a society of oracles, wisefolk and diviners that exist in a constant state of prediction among the labyrinth of self-obfuscated threads that pervade your state of Never Arriving (that keep you from ever knowing). And since your imaginary visionscapes never broker directly with reality, but rather set up embassies with its bagmen, suffer its kidnappers and hunt its insurrections among the retarded citizenry, you
are constantly devising new measures which will allow you to unite the timespheres and make the future the past, and kill yourself happy.
Unfortunately these are all enormous illusions, and even the meagrest child—especially the runt and the victim of crib-death, the sufferers of infanticide and those who, not so lucky, dream whole lifetimes of the knotted finality/circularity of a noose—knows more than thou wilt. But worse still you have not taken it upon yourself to locate the nexus of your frustration, but prefer to assume it is the cause of the unknown, rather than the malign influence of the causeless known.
For it is we that rip, strike, piss and shit across the convoluted architectures of your cities and from thence down the highways to the villages and towns; and we who upheave everything, from the rotten telluric core of the Earth to its myriad and all-salted waters and the peaks that scrape so high (how they beg to defy gravity and escape the planet’s clutches). For it is we who drag you down to hell for every dollar won, death dealt, victory owned, slaughter just barely avoided; for every single good thing we will stomp your heart to ceaseless beating so it bursts.
We are your dreams, and with every waking we are your nightmares.