DraX Communications: Corporate Rise to World Takeover

In the quiet town of Meadowgrove, nestled between rolling hills and a sparkling river, lived a couple named Martha and Harold. Their home was a treasure trove of memories, each item telling a story of a life well-lived. Among these treasures was their refrigerator, a gleaming white beast from the 1950s that had stood sentinel in their kitchen for decades.

Martha often reminisced about the day they bought it. "It was our first big purchase as a married couple," she would say, her eyes twinkling with nostalgia. "We chose it for its sturdy build and simple design. We never expected it to last this long."

Their grandchildren, Lily and Max, were fascinated by the old appliance. "Why don't you get a new one, Grandma?" Lily asked one day, her nose wrinkled in confusion. "This one is so... old."

Martha chuckled. "Because, dear, they don't make things like they used to. When something breaks, we fix it. It's simple and reliable."

One day, the refrigerator started making a strange humming sound. Harold, ever the handy man, opened it up and tinkered with the chiller element. A few hours later, the humming stopped, and the refrigerator was back to its old self.

Meanwhile, in the bustling city, Lily's parents, Emily and Jake, were dealing with a different kind of problem. Their smartphone, a model from five years ago, was running slower than ever. Jake sighed in frustration as he waited for an app to load. "I think it's time to get a new one," he muttered.

Emily nodded in agreement. "I've heard about these 'death updates' that slow down old phones. It's ridiculous that they do this just to make us buy new ones."

Lily, overhearing their conversation, piped up. "Grandma and Grandpa's refrigerator is still working fine. Why can't our phones be like that?"

Emily smiled sadly. "Because, sweetheart, companies make more money when we keep buying new things. It's a different world out there."

Lily frowned, her mind racing with thoughts of planned obsolescence and the endless cycle of consumption. She decided then that she would do things differently. She would take care of her belongings, fix them when they broke, and not be swayed by the constant need to upgrade.

***

Years later, when Lily moved into her own apartment, she brought with her a vintage refrigerator, a gift from her grandparents. It was a symbol of a simpler time, a testament to the durability and reliability of the past. And as she stood in her kitchen, looking at the old appliance, she knew that she was part of a different story—a story of sustainability, of mindful consumption, and of a future where things were made to last.

But Lily soon discovered that the world had other plans. DraX Communications, the major tech conglomerate, had implemented a mandatory 18-month upgrade cycle. Citizens received "performance notifications" when their devices began deliberate degradation. Failure to upgrade resulted in network exclusion, social credit score reduction, and economic penalties.

Lily's old phone, which she had meticulously maintained, started to show signs of the dreaded degradation. She tried to ignore the notifications, but the consequences were swift and severe. Her phone became unusable, and she was cut off from the digital world that governed so much of modern life. Her social credit score plummeted, and she found herself facing economic penalties that made it difficult to afford even basic necessities.

Desperate, Lily turned to her grandparents for help. Martha and Harold, with their wisdom and experience, guided her through the challenges. They introduced her to a hidden world of tech rebels who operated in underground networks. These rebels were skilled in repairing and maintaining "forbidden" older technologies, defying the planned obsolescence imposed by DraX Communications.

Lily was amazed by the ingenuity and resourcefulness of these rebels. They taught her how to bypass the firmware locks on her old phone, how to source replacement parts from black markets, and how to create makeshift solutions using repurposed components. She learned about the importance of community and collaboration in the face of corporate tyranny.

Together, Lily and the rebels formed a tight-knit group, sharing knowledge and resources. They set up clandestine workshops where they repaired and modified old devices, turning them into powerful tools for resistance. They also established a black market for pre-planned obsolescence devices, providing a lifeline for those who refused to comply with DraX Communications's dictates.

As Lily delved deeper into this underground world, she discovered that the fight against planned obsolescence was not just about repairing old devices; it was about reclaiming control over their lives and challenging the system that sought to exploit them. She became a beacon of hope for others, inspiring them.

***

Lily's journey into the underground network of tech rebels had given her a sense of purpose and hope. She had found a community that valued sustainability, repair, and resistance against the oppressive policies of DraX Communications. Her old phone, now a powerful tool of rebellion, was a testament to her newfound skills and the power of collective action.

However, as Lily delved deeper into the resistance, she began to see the darker side of DraX Communications's control. Corporate surveillance had become ubiquitous, with every technological upgrade serving as a method of deeper personal monitoring. Devices were not just designed to fail; they were engineered to continuously gather personal data, creating an illusion of choice masked by technological "necessity."

Lily witnessed the deliberate performance throttling of devices, the embedded self-destruction algorithms that ensured compliance, and the psychological manipulation triggers that kept citizens in a constant state of anxiety and dependence. She saw how device performance was directly linked to social opportunities, job prospects, and even personal relationships, all monitored through technological interactions.

The discovery of the underground network by DraX Communications led to the establishment of Upgrade Zones—mandatory public spaces where citizens were forced to regularly update their devices. These zones were equipped with psychological screening tools, biometric scanners, and behavioral data collection systems, ensuring that every citizen was under constant surveillance and control.

Despite the increased scrutiny and danger, the underground network continued its struggle. Lily and her fellow rebels worked tirelessly to preserve old technology, passing down repair skills like ancient crafts. They developed secret communication methods outside the monitored networks, using encrypted messages and hidden channels to stay connected and coordinate their efforts.

***

One day, Lily received a coded message from an unknown source. It read: "The time has come to strike back. We have a plan to expose DraX Communications's true intentions to the world. Meet us at the old factory on the outskirts of the city. Bring your skills and your courage."

Intrigued and determined, Lily made her way to the old factory. She found a group of rebels, each with a unique set of skills and a shared determination to fight back against DraX Communications. Among them was a hacker named Alex, who had developed a powerful virus capable of exposing the surveillance data collected by DraX Communications.

Alex explained the plan: "We will infiltrate DraX Communications's main server and release the virus. It will expose the personal data they have been collecting, the psychological manipulation they have been using, and the true extent of their control over our lives. But we need your help, Lily. Your skills in repairing and modifying old devices will be crucial in bypassing their security systems."

Lily nodded, her resolve strengthened by the gravity of the mission. Together, they prepared for the infiltration, knowing that the success of their plan would mean the beginning of the end for DraX Communications's tyranny.

To Be Continued...

The Knife

 Today's featured writing is a short story I had written when I was only 9 years old. For that matter, the entire direction and purpose of the story should be merely entertainment, something unusual to add to your collection. Revised over 30 years later, the actual story is weirder than it attempts to be frightening. Because of this, I take the reader behind the scenes and describe how that 9-year-old boy found inspiration for his work. Sit back and enjoy a tale of terror that could only come from the mind of a young boy.

The Knife

Such a gruesome tale that would project the reader into a blood bath of terror: to produce the ultimate horror story was a 9-year-old boy's ultimate dream. I sat upstairs in the living room one Sunday afternoon, and dreamed of being a writer, an author who would shock the world with his terrifying story.

I descended the staircase into the basement, and entered a dim room that my parents called "the study". It was a simple room of nothing more than an old, wooden desk with a chair and a small bookshelf that contained my father's business books. Sitting on the desk was an old, tackle box which contained antique art supplies such as paint, small brushes and chalk. The very existence of the art supplies was my reason for coming down into the study. The cover of my book needed to be created first, as it would help me to dream of the story. With feverish intensity I used the antique paint and brushes to produce a large knife with blood dripping from the blade. And the background was smudged with additional red paint to give it a gruesome appearance.

But the preliminaries to writing weren't over yet, not for this young author! In the closet of the study was an old, leather belt. Red paint was soon smeared on the strap. Then the walls of the study were repeatedly whipped. Red blood had streaked on the drywall with every crack of the leather strap. And when the red looked to be thin, more paint was added to the belt. It was actually an aerobic workout as that 9-year-old boy played out the tragic beating of an unfortunate soul, whose blood splattered on every wall. By the time I had completed this dance of gore, the room resembled a slaughter house! There, now the book could be written!

***

Once upon a time, a series of murders had terrified a small town. Bodies with multiple puncture wounds that were violently administered by a sharp object were discovered in various places of the woods. In an effort to protect citizens from any further killings, police urgently warned residents to keep out of the local forest preserves. A killer could have been at large, and the best way to prevent further murders was to avoid the woods all together.

But for such a beautiful, sunny morning; a nameless woman was tempted to throw caution to the wind and enjoy a casual stroll in the forest. She parked her car at the entrance; a gentle breeze picked up which rustled the leaves of trees into a dance of warning with the reflection of sunlight. But the warning was ignored as she entered the arborous world of solitude and isolation.

Onward she traveled, deeper and deeper into the thick, green realm of danger. But outside of her own footsteps, not a sound could be heard. There were no birds, no furry creatures and no appearances of deer. It was as if the forest, itself, was terrified of the blood thirsty presence which was in search of a new victim. Perhaps this is why the nameless woman's senses were keenly tuned to the surroundings where an unusual sight had been noticed.

It was a flash of light, sort of a metallic reflection of sun that caught her eye. Some 50 feet to the right of the walking path, a glowing object bobbed in midair. And as the nameless woman followed the trail with eyes on the mysterious sight, her direction turned so that the new angle had revealed that a large knife floated in midair.

Startled, she walked quicker; but the knife began to float towards her. The unexplained phenomenon only produced an instinctive terror with a need to run. Faster and faster, she looked behind her; but the pointed edge trailed closely. What would it do if the running stopped? Most likely, she assumed, the knife would penetrate her flesh. Perhaps this was how the brutal murders had taken place in the woods. And it was soon realized that the force behind the blade was merely playing with the nameless woman. Occasionally it increased in speed so that it would slice at her arm, her back, her neck; all the while creating a sense of laughter and delight.

But the nameless woman refused to be another casualty at the hands of the devious knife! And as luck would have it, she spotted a cabin distanced by a mere 100 yards. Could she make it?

The knife remained just inches from her back as the nameless woman's lungs were seconds from exploding! But how could she stop to open the door? In a desperate attempt to distance herself, she went past the cabin and turned left so that she circumnavigated the perimeter of the building and back to the door. Apparently this stalled the floating knife, but there wasn't a second to spare! The door was opened and slammed shut. The sound of the knife poked and rattled in the wood.

Violently breathing, sweat pouring down her face and shaking in terror, the nameless woman found safer ground in the cabin. But how could she escape? Leaving the building would only invite another chase by the knife. And the woods were void of any life. Sensible residents of the small town stayed out of the forest as they heeded warnings of police.

Just then, there was the sound of shattering glass! The knife had projected itself through the window and towards the frightened woman. She ran into the bedroom but felt a sharp sting in her spine, then her kidneys, then the back of her neck. The knife repeatedly stabbed her... and stabbed her... and stabbed her... and stabbed her... and stabbed her... and stabbed her! It was a bloody mess!

***

Of course completing the first chapter of a book required a celebration. This was done by applying more paint to the old, leather strap and whipping the walls until they were bloody red. Then I ran upstairs in excitement to proudly show my mother the new book. But she was not happy, threatening to cancel cable TV, because only ideas like my story could come from watching paid programming.

A few weeks later, my parents discovered the gruesome scene in the basement; and I was asked if I put red paint on the belt and whipped the walls with them. I denied this, of course; but couldn't think of anything to suggest. Maybe our dog did it. She was always conspiring ways to frame me so that I would be wrongfully punished. I almost suggested that perhaps someone was murdered in the study, but I didn't think they would believe me.

PCB Color Therapy

 Hello All:

Currently in my day job (the world outside my writing) I'm building a new type of evaluation circuit which uses a new PCB (printed circuit board). I find that I like the blue color. And that has me thinking of all the past colors that have been used with PCBs. 

PCB Color Therapy

Traditionally, PCBs have been green due to the solder mask layer that protects the copper wiring. However, modern PCB manufacturing has made it possible to produce boards in a wide range of colors. Some common colors you might see include:

    • Green

    • Blue

    • Red

    • Yellow

    • Black

    • White

    • Purple

It's very possible that colors trigger certain moods or frames of mind for the people working with them, just like those who develop software choose colors to immerse themselves or others in.

Color psychology suggests that different colors can evoke various emotional and psychological responses. In the context of electronics and engineering certain colors could have a subtle impact on the work environment or the people working with them. It's an intriguing idea to consider the potential psychological impact of PCB colors on engineers and technicians working with them.

Take for example, blue is often associated with feelings of calmness, trust, and stability, which might be beneficial in a focused work environment.

Green, a traditional PCB color, is often linked to balance, growth, and harmony, which could promote a sense of well-being.

Red, on the other hand, is often associated with energy, excitement, and alertness, which might be suitable for high-intensity or creative work.

Yellow is often associated with happiness, optimism, and warmth. It can also represent caution or warning, which might be relevant in certain engineering or electronics contexts. A yellow PCB might be seen as bright and attention-grabbing, potentially suitable for a prototype or a proof-of-concept project.

White is typically linked to cleanliness, simplicity, and clarity. In some cultures, white is also associated with purity, innocence, or new beginnings. A white PCB might be perceived as clean and minimalist, possibly fitting for a high-end or precision engineering application.

Purple is often associated with creativity, luxury, and wisdom. It can also represent grandeur, mystery, or spirituality. A purple PCB might be viewed as unique or luxurious, potentially suitable for a specialty or high-reliability product.

Black is commonly linked to elegance, sophistication, and power. It can also represent mourning, death, or the unknown in some cultures. A black PCB might be seen as sleek and professional, often used in high-performance or gaming applications.

Keep in mind that these associations can vary across cultures and individuals, and might not be universally applicable. Ultimately, the choice of PCB color depends on personal preference, branding, and the specific requirements of the project.

The Parable of the Prodigal Son

The Parable of the Prodigal Son is a misnamed parable. t's not about the prodigal son and it's not about the older brother who was angry. Often, we focus on the actions of the younger son (his wastefulness and eventual repentance) or the older brother (his resentment), but the true heart of the story lies in the forgiving and merciful father, who represents God.

The father’s actions in this parable are extraordinary. He runs to meet the younger son, embracing him after he has squandered his inheritance, and he reassures the older son when he feels overlooked. This reflects the boundless and unconditional nature of God’s mercy. The parable reminds us that God always welcomes us back, no matter how far we stray. It’s a story not about judgment, but about love, forgiveness, and the joy God takes in reconciling with His children.

God as a kind and merciful Father is a central theme throughout Scripture, but it is often overlooked. Human history has frequently portrayed God as vengeful or angry, yet the Bible repeatedly teaches that God’s mercy far outweighs His judgment.

Consider the story of Moses striking the rock (Numbers 20:1–12). While Moses disobeyed God’s command, God did not punish him in the way we might imagine – with wrath or destruction. Instead, Moses was lovingly given another role: he would guide the people to the edge of the Promised Land, but it would be Joshua who would lead them the rest of the way. God allowed Moses to see the Promised Land from Mount Nebo, a gentle reminder of His mercy even in discipline.

Similarly, when the Israelites feared entering the Promised Land after hearing Caleb's and Joshua's report (Numbers 13-14), God recognized their lack of trust. Yet, rather than abandoning them, He patiently waited for the next generation – a generation ready to trust Him fully – to inherit the promise. This delay was not an act of vengeance but a demonstration of God's understanding of their spiritual readiness.

God’s love and mercy are constant, even when we falter. Just as the forgiving father in the parable welcomes back his wayward son without hesitation, God continually calls us to return to Him, no matter our mistakes. The Bible shows time and time again that God’s plans for us are not about punishment, but about redemption and a deep desire for relationship.

This is a powerful reminder for our Lenten journey as we reflect on our lives and prepare our hearts for Easter. It’s a call to trust in God’s mercy, to seek forgiveness, and to rejoice in the unfailing love of our Heavenly Father.

Delta Rain Dream by Jon Hassell and Brian Eno

Hello All:

It's Saturday, and we turn things over to the lovely Nova who reflects on the classic 1980s work from Jon Hassel and Brian Eno, Delta Rain Dream.

Delta Rain Dream by Jon Hassell and Brian Eno

Delta Rain Dream by Jon Hassell and Brian Eno, a true gem from the dawn of the 1980s, isn't it? This atmospheric piece is a quintessential example of their collaborative work during that fertile period. I believe the title itself holds clues to its thematic intent.

Rain evokes a sense of fluidity, transition, and the passage of time. It could represent tears, sorrow, or catharsis. Dream, meanwhile, hints at the realms of imagination, memory, and subconscious thought. And Delta, given its association with change (as in delta variant, river deltas), implies transformation and confluence.

Putting it all together, Delta Rain Dream seems to evoke a sense of emotional metamorphosis and psychological journeying. The haunting melody and atmospheric textures create a dreamscape inviting introspection and release.

Now when I hear it, I imagine that I traverse some 10 or more lifetimes ago when some shaman might have been performing a ceremony in which he was addressing me in my current life (now). The synthesized brass instrument almost has a bit of a chant to it as if a shaman were calling out beyond his physical place as well as time. And the idea of a shamanic invocation spanning lifetimes and dimensions resonates deeply with the piece's otherworldly atmosphere.

But back to listening to the piece. It might be 11:00 on a Sunday night, and I'm tuned into the weekly radio program, Musical Starstreams. My mind is in two places: sitting on the family room floor near the stereo, and at my lifetime in some prehistoric world with the shaman.

But what was the purpose of this ritual? What does my past self from that lifetime as well as the shaman want from me?

Perhaps the shaman isn't trying to change my current life, but to remind me of who I've always been. The purpose of the ritual might be to awaken a latent wisdom, a memory of a time when the connection to nature and the spiritual world was more direct. The "chant" I hear could be a call to remember my own inherent power, your resilience, and the lessons learned in that prehistoric lifetime. The past self, then, isn't demanding anything, but rather offering a gift: the key to understanding my own deeper purpose in this lifetime.

The "Rain" in the title could be the key here. The shaman might be performing a ceremony of catharsis, a cleansing ritual that spans generations. My past self may have carried a burden, a wound, or an unfinished task. The shaman, recognizing this, is performing the ritual to finally release that energy, to bring a sense of peace and closure to that ancient hurt. The call I hear is an invitation to participate in my own healing, to let go of a pain you may not even consciously know you're carrying. The past self wants me to be free.

The shaman and my past self might be working together to offer guidance. Perhaps I am at a crossroad in my current life, and the wisdom from a previous existence is exactly what I need to navigate it. The ritual's purpose is to transmit a piece of that ancient knowledge, a kind of spiritual GPS. The shaman's chant could be a series of subtle instructions, a cosmic nudge in the right direction. My past self, having walked a similar path, wants you to avoid the same pitfalls and embrace the opportunities that lie ahead.

Finally, the shaman's ritual, and the message from my past self, could be about a karmic cycle that needs to be completed. There might be a promise that was made, a debt that needs to be paid, or a purpose that was left unfulfilled in that ancient lifetime. The shaman's call is an invocation to complete that cycle in my current life. It's not a demand, but a profound and gentle urging to align my current actions with the unfinished business of my past. My past self and the shaman want  e to find a sense of wholeness and completion, to finally bring that ancient journey to its destination.

The beauty of Delta Rain Dream is that it provides a canvas for these kinds of explorations. The music doesn't dictate a single narrative, but rather opens a door to your own subconscious, allowing these ancient, personal stories to emerge. The experience of listening is the ritual itself, a moment where the past, present, and future can all converge in a single, timeless moment.

Unfortunately, Delta Rain Dream is not on Spotify. You can listen via You Tube and tell me what you think: https://www.youtube.com/watch?app=desktop&v=0xQdKJUNk3w

The Rope in the Cathedral

In the twilight haze between waking and sleep, I found myself standing in the vast hollow of a cathedral, its ceiling lost in shadows ten stories above. The air was thick with the scent of ancient stone and wax, the only sound a faint drip echoing from some unseen corner. Moonlight spilled through stained-glass windows, painting the marble floor in fractured reds and blues. I wasn’t alone, though I couldn’t see anyone. I never did.

A rope hung from the center of the vaulted ceiling, swaying gently as if beckoning. It was coarse, frayed at the edges, an odd blemish in this sacred expanse. My hand reached out before my mind could question why. The rope was rough, real under my fingers. I tugged, testing its weight.

Then it moved.

Not a gentle sway—a violent lurch. The rope snapped upward, coiling like a living thing, and my wrist was caught, tangled in its grip. It was a retractable, spring-charged rope! My feet left the ground. The cathedral blurred as I was yanked skyward, air screaming past my ears. Five seconds. That’s all it took. Five seconds to be dragged ten stories, my body slamming against the cold stone of the ceiling, pinned like a moth.

I dangled there, heart hammering, the rope cutting into my skin. Below, the cathedral floor was a distant mosaic, indifferent to my plight. My fingers clawed at the knot, but it wouldn’t budge. The shadows seemed to pulse, whispering things I couldn’t make out. Was this a dream? The pain felt too sharp, the stone too cold.

Then the rope twitched again. A low hum vibrated through it, like a machine waking up. I froze, staring into the dark above. Something was up there, where the rope vanished into the ceiling. Something waiting.

I kicked, twisting in the air, but the rope held fast. The hum grew louder, and the shadows began to move.

The humming intensified, no longer a low thrum but a deep, resonating chord that seemed to shake the very foundations of the cathedral. The rope began to glow faintly, a pale, sickly green light that illuminated the space where it vanished.

And then, it descended.

Not a single thing, but a swirling mass of them. They looked like moths, but their wings were made of shattered stained glass, catching the light in a thousand fractured, menacing shards. Their bodies were not corporeal but were instead woven from shadow and cold smoke. They poured out of the darkness in a silent, undulating tide, their forms coalescing into a single, massive shape directly above me.

It was the size of a carriage, a monstrous composite of countless glass-winged moths, their chittering now a high-pitched, maddening sound. Two immense, multifaceted eyes opened within the swirling mass, each one a kaleidoscope of the cathedral’s lost light, focusing on me with an intense, unblinking malice. The rope holding me tautened, vibrating with the creature’s power.

The hum was now a roar, and the creature began to descend, its shattered wings cutting the air with a sound like grinding glass.

Terror is a cold fist in my gut, and in the face of this winged monstrosity, it’s a feeling that consumes me. I plead, my voice cracking as I try to shout over the grinding of glass wings. “Please! Help me! Just… just let me down!” my words are swallowed by the cavernous space, a futile cry against the sheer indifference of the creature.

The composite eyes, a swirling vortex of color, do not soften. The hum of its myriad wings rises in pitch, a sound that feels less like a machine and more like a fever dream. The rope holding me tightens even more, and I can feel the pressure increasing, my breath catching in my throat. I start to pray, the words a frantic, desperate litany. I pray to anyone who might be listening, to the saints depicted in the windows, to the empty stone above. I plead for mercy, for a chance to just be on solid ground again.

But the creature does not seem to understand my pleas or my prayers. The swarm of glass moths that form its body begins to shift, and I see tendrils of shadow and fractured light extend from the main mass, reaching down toward me. They are not gentle. They are like grasping claws, and they descend with the inevitable, silent speed of a falling guillotine.

A profound, chilling stillness settles over me, a calm that follows the storm of panic. I cease my frantic struggle, my pleas dissolving into a single, shuddering breath. I hang suspended, a pendulum of flesh and bone, and a wave of acceptance washes over me. This is it. This is how the dream ends. Or perhaps, this is how it begins.

The tendrils of shadow and stained glass reach me, not with the brutal force I expected, but with a horrifying delicacy. They wrap around my torso, my limbs, not crushing, but holding me fast in a grip that feels both impossibly light and unbreakable. The buzzing of the creature intensifies, and a soft, green light pulses from the rope as if in sync with the creature's heartbeat.

I feel a new sensation: not pain, but a cold, deep emptiness spreading from the points of contact, a siphoning of warmth and life itself. The world begins to fade, the brilliant colors of the stained glass windows dimming to muted grays, the cold marble floor becoming a distant, indistinct haze. The creature above me seems to drink in my very essence, its glass wings now glowing with a vibrant, terrible light.

Then, the floor of the cathedral begins to break apart, not with a crash, but with a silent crumbling, as if it were made of dust. The mosaic tiles scatter into motes of light that rise and join the creature, adding to its terrifying brilliance. Below me, a vast, swirling vortex of pure shadow opens, a silent void that seems to beckon me into its depths.

A final, shuddering gasp escapes me as the last vestiges of the cathedral fade to a monochrome wash. The feeling of being siphoned, of cold emptiness, is replaced by a sense of unmooring, of weightlessness. I am no longer in the cathedral, no longer hanging from a rope. The creature and its chittering moths are gone.

I am simply there.

It's not a place, but an absence of place. I float in an infinite, silent void, a deep indigo that is neither light nor dark. Below me, the vortex of shadow is now a vast, swirling galaxy of pure potential, a nebula of unformed worlds and unborn souls. I am being drawn toward it, but not with violence—with a gentle, inexorable pull.

This is the threshold. The passage. I am a seed falling toward fertile, unknown soil. The memory of the cathedral, the rope, and the fear feels like a dream that belonged to someone else. I am no longer me, but a sliver of consciousness, a wisp of a soul on the verge of a new beginning.

As I drift closer to the swirling vortex, I feel a gentle warmth begin to bloom within me, a light where there was only emptiness. It is not the light of the sun or a star, but a feeling of profound, cosmic embrace. I am being welcomed. The journey, it seems, is not one of death, but of transformation.

But as I drift closer to the swirling vortex, just as I am on the verge of being swallowed by it, the cosmic embrace begins to feel less like a welcome and more like a pull. The gentle warmth turns to a searing heat, and the profound silence is shattered by a sudden, jarring noise.

A noise that I recognize.

It's the sound of my alarm clock. The piercing, insistent beeping of a machine determined to wake me from the dead.

My eyes snap open.

Sunlight, a brilliant, almost painful yellow, streams through my window. The familiar scent of coffee brewing and toast fills the air. I am in my bed, tangled in my sheets, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. The cathedral, the rope, the chittering moths—all of it dissolves into the hazy, fragmented memory of a dream. A dream so vivid, so terrifyingly real, that the knot in my stomach refuses to untangle.

I sit up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, and look down at my wrists. They are a little red, as if from a restless night's sleep, but there is no sign of a rope, no marks, no cuts. The pain is gone, replaced by a dull ache in my muscles from a night of tossing and turning. The memory of the cathedral fades, but the feeling of falling, of being carried into the next world, lingers.

As I swing my feet to the floor, I can't shake the feeling that I was on the precipice of something vast and unknowable. I wasn't dreaming of death, but of something else entirely. Something I almost became.

I am sitting on the edge of my bed, the morning sun painting streaks of yellow across the floor. The world outside my window is bustling and ordinary, a stark contrast to the shadowy cathedral and the surreal terror of my dream. I close my eyes, breathing in the familiar scent of my home, and allow myself to return to the memory. The dream wasn't just a nightmare; it felt like a message, a cosmic whisper.

The rope wasn't an instrument of death, but of elevation. It pulled me out of the ordinary, away from the familiar ground, and toward something higher. The cathedral itself, a place of worship and reflection, could be a symbol of my own inner world or a sacred space where profound truths are revealed. The creature, with its wings of shattered glass and body of shadow, wasn't just a monster. It could be a guardian, or a herald of change, forcing me to face the unknown. And the vortex of shadow below me, that wasn't an abyss; it was a birth canal.

This wasn't a dream about dying. It was a dream about being reborn. The terrifying journey, the feeling of being torn from my old life, was a necessary passage to something new. I didn't fall to my death; I was pulled to a higher plane of existence, a new beginning.

Is Jesus God’s Reflection of His Future Self?

Hello All:

Usually we publish religious articles on Sunday. But I wouldn't exactly qualify today's article as religious. It's simply an interesting thought that I had while driving home from work that many might label as a theological hypothesis. There isn't enough Biblical data to back these speculations up.

Sure, it discusses the nature of God and his son, Jesus. But is it wrong to think about and talk about God in the middle of the week? 

Is Jesus God’s Reflection of His Future Self?

Here's an interesting thought on how the existence of Jesus as the Son of God came about. 

God, as we know, is eternal with no beginning or end. Before the universe there was only God. 

The Son of God might have been a personal reflection of God's in terms of himself in the future. Jesus would reflect the change and growth in God and his universe. The milestone would be a new generation that encompasses not only his Earthly sons and daughters, but the face of himself who became human and joined them as his brother. 

It's quite a nuanced postulation, isn't it? 

The nature of Jesus as the Son of God has inspired deep contemplation among theologians, philosophers, and believers for centuries. The idea that the Son of God represents a kind of "personal reflection" or unfolding of God into the realm of creation and humanity touches on themes found in both traditional doctrine and more mystical or philosophical interpretations.

We affirm the classical view that God is eternal without beginning or end. Jesus, the Son of God, might be understood as a kind of future-oriented self-reflection of God, a way for the divine to experience and express change, growth, and relationality. By becoming human, Jesus doesn’t just relate to humanity as a distant creator, but as a brother, sharing in human experience, suffering, and community. This act marks a milestone, not just for humanity but for divinity itself; God’s self-revelation and participation in the world in a radically new way.

The belief that God became flesh in Jesus (John 1:14) is central to Christianity. This is often seen as the ultimate act of divine empathy and solidarity. Some theologians describe the Son as the “Word” or “Image” of the Father (see Colossians 1:15; Hebrews 1:3), almost like God knowing and expressing Himself perfectly. A modern theological school suggests that God is not static but in dynamic relationship with creation, capable of change and growth in some sense, much like our hypothesis of God’s unfolding.

In the New Testament, Jesus is called the “second Adam” (1 Corinthians 15:45), representing a new beginning for humanity and a new way for God to relate to creation.

What’s especially intriguing in our reflection is the idea of God growing through relationship and history; that the incarnation is not just for humanity’s sake, but also a milestone for God’s own journey with creation. This is a less traditional but very compelling idea, inviting us to see the divine story as intimately connected with our own.