The blackness that swims before my eyes try to lure from that awakened and weakened state to that place where I am king, to that land of dreams where nothing can touch me.
The rumbling of thunder in the distance in an otherwise cloudless sky is symptomatic of the battle that has been going on in my head since last Friday. I am an unwilling spectator between Malaria with its minions fever and headache on one side, and my immune system and the drugs I had sent to ally with it on the other. Doctors will tell you that anti malarial drugs will make you drowsy, but I like to think of it as my body just demanding to do its work without my histrionic imagination being the worrier and the backseat passenger telling it how it is supposed to do its job. But what do I know? I am only one person with a keyboard and an histrionic imagination.
But I try to resist the pull to that that place where nothing can touch me, that place where I am God. Sleep is supposed to be the solace of the poor man (or maybe the sick man in my own case). It is a place where he is in control, where he can play by his own rules at least. But again as doctors have diagnosed, and I daresay I have learnt from experience, not even the theatre of dreams (Pun not intended) can stop fevers and hallucinations, two minions of malaria who can invade that land where you are God and leave their sickly taint on everything you create. Much like the Christian God who left the perfect garden he had created for a few hours and before he came back the people he placed in charge of the garden had taken a “forbidden fruit” break and tainted the perfect garden with their unwanted knowledge. I will not retreat to the land of dreams where I am God and nothing can touch me. I will stay and fight malaria at the bodily level, because the pristine land where I am the king of all I survey must not be allowed to witness such taint. I will not be like the Christian God and allow that to happen. Would I want to swap places with the Christian God, I think not, because it is not good for man to be God.
It is not good for man to be God alright. I like to imagine my dreams like apprentices trying to actualize themselves and myself as the benevolent boss helping them along. And since I have been told by every motivational speaker this side of the sun that nobody can visualize my dreams like I can, I can’t delegate my job as boss to anybody, in order words I rule that land like a tyrant god. But then not even a tyrant cuts it as king, like that super Machine in the Matrix film series who created an utopia but whose subjects kept rebelling against it, and then he changed it to a dystopia and his subjects still kept rebelling against it. It is not easy to be God alright it seems the human mind is attuned to searching for a God just so that it can undermine him. A case of “Yeah I think he is God, and that is why I shouldn’t listen to him.” I will not succumb to sleep I fear that malaria like that Morpheus character will come into my dreams offering them rubbish red pills that will turn them into my nightmares.
It is not alright for man to be god, like that aspirant who has of late taken to riding on motorbikes and eating two cobs of corn at a time, I mean which god does that expect one that fancies himself as something the people will just kick about? I wonder how alright it is for man to be God? I mean you are seeing them grovelling and spreading out their palm fronds, or ( like my primary school Bible Knowledge teacher who had an histrionic imagination of his own once said) spreading their wrappers and forgetting to wear panties under them, before you and yet knowing they are going to undermine you and embrace that idiot snake who is going pass them red pills and “forbidden fruit breaks.” but again what do I know? After all I am only a malaria wracked entity with a keyboard and a histrionic imagination.