Who's the Father?

As I take a nap in the attic in my mother's teak rocking chair, I'm filled with terror at the solipsistic theory that the world and galaxy exist firmly within my own mind and nowhere else, frail like the complex web of a spider, the black widow which is rapidly poisoning and constructing -- at the same rate as human beings -- rivers, dams, subways, canals, pipelines.

Lucifer, our lord and savior, asks me a question: "How can your consciousness create a world with so many different people on it, so many different details and beliefs and ideologies, life lessons and opportunities for enlightenment and terror, confusion, delusion, frustration, greed, and lust, et cetera?"

The sole consciousness remaining in our megaverse feels like it's contained in my cranium's fragile brains, while the sole narrative experienced by it -- the ancient gods' beautiful, bittersweet world -- continues to bore and deceive.

My distant ancestors from the island of Yevrópa (Єυρώπα) often preferred to be rural peasants and rednecks instead of highly-educated, sophisticated urbanites or proletariat. But here we are now.

I've procreated and helped conceive four kids so far. Because of this, I will father millions of families -- my posterity and raison d'être. After the death of my consciousness, my grandchildren, my descendants, shall succeed in perpetuating all of my gothic genetics, my DNA, carrying my consciousness into a future that only I can witness and comprehend.

Octopus-like aliens from distant planets are pulling my brains in opposing directions by breeding in different, albeit similar, ways. I witness my gray matter, arteries, translucent veins stretched all over the night sky of some remote, rural steppeland of Yevrópa. Within my children exists my prolific posterity -- literally everything that really matters -- the meaning and purpose of life. Within your temporal politics and decaying cultures exist the banalities of evil and violence, but also potential blueprints for the way your civilizations may be structured and renewed.

I can see my intestines creating detailed maps in the sky above me. They connect to my thoughts and neurons in the vacuum of space -- this unconscious universe.

....

I wake up in Bath, England in the year 2666.

My mother asks me if I'm feeling any better while carrying a cup of milky, sweetened Masala chai tea in her left hand. I'm too obsessed and consumed by the traumas and mistakes of my past, not to mention the things said in the heat of the moment, some of which were said more out of automatic irony and anxiety than anything else. Things said in imitation of film and television dialogues, yet occasionally so poorly placed contextually as to elicit awkward silence or repulsion. Or probably both. I no longer think I can trust my mother.

I'm sorry.

MARS

Another trip to the dusty red neighboring planet of war -- Mars? Why not? Considering the air is so polluted, that might actually be tempting. I reside in a claustrophobic apartment building, a giant beehive. There are no trees, no vegetation. Nothing anymore.

The heat is deadly. Dumbed down and euphemized Christian nationalism and (right-wing) authoritarianism are rife and rampant everywhere. How can we survive like this? Why do they always find ways to justify and rationalize all the evil, crimes, and chaos of Israel?

"Lord, have mercy on us," my mother, Sena, yells. "I despair at never knowing the pleasure of being Israel's daughter."

"Is Mars winning the current battle in the Jupiter-Mars conflict?"

"I don't care. I'm more interested in what's happening on our Mother, our planet. I'm crying for Persia. I'm crying for Israel."