Visions of the Church from the Futon: Part 2

When I had passed through an unbelievable vision (and trying to liberate my weary mind from nonsense) I came upon another vision, as likely as the first, though I couldn’t remember anything backwards or forwards. In refusing to conjure up some mythical dream from my offensive subconscious, I feel like I should just tell you about the current state of my local surroundings until my fingers finally help me in remembering that which is unrememberable. For instance, the rain, which has pelted the roof of my house for the past 2wo-ish hours is something of a programmed sequence; as if God were calling himself to my attention, not that he needs it, but that what his infinite wisdom has prescribed to be in my best interest, is yet beyond my sight. Pay attention to me and my superior world, which I prepare for you, he says, as if he were talking to a day-old friend he’s known for years, in a way that only I would understand. Not in another language per se, for I am the furthermost from bilingual that a human is allowed to be, while still sustaining existence (for my friend tells me that life is words that are assorted in the color of language and understood as such [and I impose my own view that life could consist of words from multiple language{s} :though the emphasis is there whether I add it or not: >for the plural was there to begin with<:>}]). Furthermore my vision returns via the remnant of quiescent memory. There were again, three mice squatting on the rim of a glass looking into the great of abyss of ebullient drink. They too began micing their way at the drink as if the foamy film were a think to be carefully nibbled (as these mice could walk—just as the others—they were not the same, and not only that, but no proper vision would suffice to detect mice drinking anything). Unfortunately, there was another fall: two mice this time collapsed into the unforgiving lager. The third, dry mouse, considered himself blessed, for immediately (and I use that word without the help of the hurried saint) the two mice began to squabble over the rights of drinking freedom. While the two saturated mice began to wrestle with translucent furry in their eyes, the third began to polish his nails. After having attained a formidable shine on the endmost portion of his paws he returned his stare to his two regrettable friends only to notice that they had driven each other to the bottom of the glass and lay unconscious at the basin. Considering himself the best of friends that any honest mouse could hope for, he decided it proper to rouse them by spilling the beer and the great treasure across the coffee table. This proved to be an adequate solution to the problem at hand, namely the survival of his friends, for as he knelt down by each he took great measures in slapping them in the face and farting loudly to finally disturb them from pungent comatose. When they finally came to, they blamed each other for the squandered bounty in which they had lain. Quickly realizing their folly, they began to attack their third and innocent friend, who had saved them (despite his efforts to make peace during the initial debate). Their friend, feeling betrayed and forlorn over the situation, left them without saying a word (for mice can’t really speak, and it sounded to me more like a frustrated squeal). The sopping mice represent the American Church. After being immersed in that which they seek, Christians often dispute each other over the freedom that they should share (never fully experiencing the joy of their surroundings). God has designed the Church to be a collection of people, so receive God’s grace and stand firm in the faith, overflowing with love for one another.