Marmaduke and God's strangling tentacles of time.

The Devil’s Hand
It is hard to be a rational man with no trouble in his heart. All this scientific certainty and all these politics feel like a façade of idealism painting over the pain of the beaten wife, aborted babies, men killing each other for the hope of a dozen virgins and a heaven or some country’s dream for freedom. You have to make a choice. Either you’re with us, or you’re with reality.
It is the history of life that makes me think any idealism is a dream, yet it is this precise flow of time that never leaves us without hope. It drives us, walking on a line of past looking at the feet of our now, and to want to implore the future is open for anything, while we make inquiries of the past, are forgetting our feet that carry us and really try to determine our future with these dreams.
We observe, probe, extrapulate the past. We mark, memorize and mesmerize our young by the failure of our race. We emancipate ourselves from any responsibility of it. We laugh, scold, and make a nervous tick motion of the head to the left, when we are uncomfortable at how relevant those problems from the past are to us now. We love, revel, and learn in the now. We read, write, and think here. We appropriate, confess, materialize in the present. We smell, taste, hear, see and feel now.
But the future – there we dream hope and dread. We simply anticipate and cannot do any other way.
It is somehow all black and void. Like a big something, really no something of nothing or of another else.
The difficulty is we let ourselves be completed guided by this force we take for granted, like sleepwalking children being led by the devil’s hand. This time thing is beautiful in our dreams and it is like Augustine said, only because the reality of time is beyond the reality of our sleep.
These million’s of representations have made it a form of worship, the sun dial, the grandfather clock chiming with the church tower’s, the pocket watch and the gentleman’s Rollex, the satellites in the sky and the light mirrors in the physic labs. It’s all to sleep with more precise dreams, and obviously it comes crashing down when the system crashes. Wall street wails like the devil lost his war when Jesus died, people are in darkness and lose all their money, but the poor in Africa know no difference.
Time is a devil we can’t live without, as long as we make it one.
Time consciousness cracks like breaking knees, twigs in the face of the reality of the ambiguous. A house of joker cards tumbling in silent horror, and the devil looks from behind and asked why did you build it anyway?