Nothing comes together the way it seems it should.

The laces of my window are neatly woven expressions of someones vision, but I could not focus on the strands. They warped and weaved among themselves under my gaze until I gave up and looked beyond. In the corners of my vision, I swear they fell back into a perfect semblance of their created form. No matter. Something more interesting was taking place.

Or so I thought.

Grandma wanted to try the trampoline. It wasn’t her turn, a little girl insisted. It wasn’t fair. Grandma made her way nonetheless. Meanwhile a hare was busy sewing together the fabric in the center as the edges gave way. Colour burned brightly in the white sun and soon my window became my world.

I was at someones family barbecue. I have a feeling that I was invited. There were campers and trailers and campfires. People of all ages running about with hot dogs in hand. A white truck sat on the grass, and a name was spelled in bright lettering across the back of the cab. I couldn’t read it.

He held my hand. I felt gold look upon me as He said it was my decision, and I decided. I left. He was with me.

The streets were lined with banners, streamers, balloons and all sorts of celebration decor. I walked with Him hand in hand, watching in curiosity as people packed themselves into front yards and stood, shoulder to shoulder, motionless amid the blinding colours of the streamers. We passed maybe twenty front yards, and the scene only changed in a single one. An enormous clock was set up in the center beside a small tree. Nearly midnight…

I enter your home. He enters with me. A cry comes from a cupboard behind a wall, and I find a grown man cowering and crying.

“I should be happy”, he whimpers. “It’s a new age to celebrate.”

He, who is with me, pours the sulking man a bowl of flaky cereal. The wimpy holds it above his head and exits the house. Suddenly I am to blame. With me, He turns from me. Away from me, He yells. A bottle is in His hand and He drains its contents into his soul and throws at me it’s outer shell. Words fly like pigeons, all sorts of gray and brown, fluttering in discordance while I fought to find the reason behind the ruffled feathers. Sometimes, I knew, there was not a reason to be found.