A day.

The herd,
unconscious of their reverences,
bless the countryside along its way.
Commanded by a shepherd
of ill temperament,
it races after irate gestures
join his shouts.
As I approach it,
what was once a chaotic formation
rapidly turns into lines of dispersed sheep and goats,
staring at me
from both sides of the road.
They aren't unlike a Red Sea,
split by the staff of God,
yet fear reflects in
their trembling bodies,
denoting the sight
of an impious figure.
I'm not Moses, but Baphomet.
I grin to myself
as the incessant genuflections
bathe the marrow of my spirit.
Was it terror that moved them aside?
No; it was veneration.
I'm the Goat of Mendes,
and they know it.
They recognize me as their leader,
even if that man
tried to claim them for his own.

But I was gone amidst past centuries...

Yes, I understand it now.
They aren't fleeing,
for so this is my new enthronement.
Imperial trumpets turning
into an amalgam
of different-pitched bleats;
ornate, scarlet tapestry
becoming tall pasture,
hiding the hooves of every attendant;
the walls of the imagined
royal chamber
disintegrating before
this pastoral scenery...
a fitting throne room
for a returning monarch.
Before long, my smile
breaks into joyful laughter.
“Is there something wrong with you?”
A disturbance awakens me
from my reverie.
It's the shepherd.
Afraid of an argument arising,
I answer his question with an excuse
and head straight home.
As I depart,
leaving my regal duties behind,
I hear cries reverberating
against the landscape.
“Traitor!”.
I cover my ears while running away.

I'm sitting down.
My back rests on the front wall
near the main entrance.
Tilting my head upwards,
I drift over the boundless nothingness.
The clouds,
heavenly silk,
exposed emptiness,
undressing it, shaming it
for its very nature:
one color that covers
every part of the world,
showing the true condition
of the Sky.
Anything else that disrupts this stillness
feels somewhat unreal.
Shades of multiple colors
glowing over lit cities,
the gentle breeze,
swaying lily fields,
the jet night and the Moon,
painted atop quiet lakes...
There is nothing else,
and the realization
brings sorrow deep
over my mind.
Even the overarching azure
confirms my fears further.
I remember how this shade of blue represents sadness in my culture,
as if my forefathers
sensed the same
dismay I do.
A deafening sound jolts me awake.
A fighter jet hangs low,
soaring through the ocean above.
Flight practices.
They have been daily occurrences during the last few months.
My country is at war.
Every nation on my continents
is involved in this conflict.
What we thought
was just a passing trend
soon became the current
status quo.
They called it reviving
the greatness of past ages,
and we laughed,
thinking that people
would ignore something so stupid.
We had it coming.
We could have stopped them,
but we believed that the town itself could salt those grounds;
the same grounds
where the seeds of animosity
sprouted into pine trees,
whose roots ravaged
everything in their path.
Is my country fighting for justice
or simply seeking atonement?
Not like it matters.
I loathe our situation;
I hate this world I was brought to.
That is why my dreams
are my only reason to live.
In them,
I can be anything.
Anything else
from a being a powerless fool.
Yesterday,
I was Baphomet.
Today,
I'm going to be a distinct being.
And tomorrow,
I'll travel to faraway lands.
I know fantasies are sand
that the water of existence
crumbles under its ceaseless tide...
Even so,
they are what keeps me alive.
Dreaming is my only alternative,
since I lack the courage
to sever ties with life.
Despite my emotions,
reality manifests within my body
as my growling stomach
urges me to eat.
I rise to my feet,
enter my house,
and make lunch.
After having eaten,
I slump over an armchair in the lounge, book in hand.
I read for hours until supper time.
Right after dinner,
I read for one more hour
and head to sleep.
My thoughts wander for some minutes
until my consciousness fades.










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