bj draKe is a rugged and worn vessel for the spirit wanderer that lodged itself into his manic consciousness. While toiling through Satan’s playground he manifested as a droopy sac of dry skin and creaky bones, suspended in five liters of black blood waiting to be spilled so the eternal spark that rests within, that small flake of the cosmic unknown, could escape this sad worldly plain and it’s distractions and return to the godhead, unscathed and to await judgment.
“Who were you, my son?” asked a rumbled voice from heavenly skies.
“I was a father, a dad, a daddy.
I was a husband, a companion, a lover.
I was a son, a brother, and an uncle.
I was a Canadian, a valley-kid, a suburbanite.
I was a thinker, a philosopher, a self-guided intellectual.
I was a writer, a poet, a gardener of the imagination.
I was an artist, a painter, and a kid.
I was a runner, a cyclist, and a low-impact weight trainer.
I was a worker, a supervisor, a middle-management pawn.
I was a libertarian, a unionist, a maturing conservative.
I was a friend, an accomplice, and an old acquaintance.
I was a smoker, a joker, and a midnight toker.
I was a patient, a counselor, and a customer.
I was many and many was I.
Too many to list, so simply put …
I was I and I am me.”
“I am sorry, my son,” bellowed the voice of ultimate Authority, “but you have not completed the tasks that YOU signed up for before embarking on this journey into the physical. You must return as life into the unconscious and continue, for you are not yet you, but a weaker version of such.”
And, the rain poured.
… Awoken, groggy, thirty hours after a botched escape, with a small smirk of hope.
The journey of bj draKe is in the beginning notes on a napkin stage of development …
TO BE CONTINUED …