Scattered Dreams & Dragonflies

Memento exortum

I open my eyes, finding myself walking in a straight line. My eyes noticed the familiar environment: an alleyway in my childhood church. Here, I learned many things about my religion, my love for God, my calling for music and worship, the pitfalls of human imperfection, and man's wicked mind and hypocrisy focused solely on appearance. Many good, many bad, but this was neither here nor there. Those memories, regardless of the scenario, were true in every sense. This was, in fact, the very essence and appearance of the church building of my childhood, and as such, I recognized it as a place I routinely used to visit.

The familiar path took me through the alley on one side, all the way through the main open chapel and into a door just next to the main entrance. There, a man waited for me, his back turned to the door. He turned around at the sound of the old creaky wooden door. In his eyes, visible anger, disdain, and disappointment—a feeling estranged to me at that particular time—nevertheless, I found myself reciprocating the sentiment for some reason. In the following moments, we engaged in a heated discussion. Words flew like bullets in every direction as both of us went at each other, our words muzzled. I could remember sheer yelling; however, no words were actually articulated by us. The more we yelled, the blurrier my vision became, until, from a third person's point of view, the older man and I were out of sight.

I came out from the blurriness to find myself exiting the room. The discussion was but an afterthought as my focus shifted to my new environment. I was outside the church, and in my direct line of vision was the parking lot I had visited so many years routinely. However, this time around, it was different. In it, a familiar group within the congregation was standing outside. They all stood idle, looking in different directions, as the sun covered them from above without a single cloud in sight. Even if by normal circumstances the situation was considered odd, I was, at that point in time, unaffected. My eyes, however, shifted to a bench next to me. On it was a small wooden box. I sat down next to it, opening it slowly. I saw an array of figures that I could not begin to describe. There were pieces of paper, shapeshifting in different ways, multicolored spiraling lights adorned the sides as I stared deeply into the box. In my mind, I saw them as mementos of my childhood, happy pieces of my mind I for some reason had next to me. In my life, I adored keeping things that meant something at a point in time, milestones etched in time as they lived rent-free in my mind as long as I would allow it. I believe holding on to certain things helps in a way to cement a certain memory or milestone, regard less of its relevancy and meaning. Seeing this memento could bring upon remembering any moment of that point in time, adding value to it as time passes us by.

My eyes lingered on the box for a good amount of time. That was until my attention was brought upwards. In my direct line of sight, I saw a small bed. Its basic frame was made of wood, its sheets a solid cloudlike white. On top of the bed were two things: a fuchsia-colored camera and a solid black folding knife. Instinctively, I grabbed the camera. It was one of those old disposable ones that could be bought for taking pictures back in the day. I remember you would have to take them into convenience stores to develop the pictures. I slowly pulled the camera to one of my eyes. As I did, my eyesight morphed into that of the lens I saw through. In the next moments, things continued on; my hands were free, but my eyes only saw through the lens of the no longer held camera.

Putting the knife in my pocket, I saw the older man I had argued with prior, staring at me from the church entrance. His look was as intense and penetrating as a few moments prior. In his hands, however, was something he did not have the last time. He held a gun as his stare slowly evolved into movement. The man was fast approaching me, and without time to react, I heard a shooting sound. I immediately reached for my head—no pain or scrape—but I could feel an intense coldness as the humid wetness in my head slowly seeped into the feeling in my hand. With my eyes wide open, only focused on the man, I sat down on the floor, defeated. The man stood over me, pointing the gun once more. Surely at this distance he would not miss. Without a word from either him or me, I covered my face, looking at the ground, awaiting a sound that would never come.