I hung your piece of time with Jesus in the heart of my home, these two are my pride and joy.  My Jesus is of my own making, a class taken with a pyrography project due, that's the burning of marks into wood with a red-hot poker pen to create an image, the image I chose to replicate was our Saviour on the cross, maybe I, to have a little of the carpenter in me.

You give me the time of day whenever I look to you which is more frequent than I know, it is only when you slow or stop that I miss your presence. From my kitchen table I can almost hear Father Time's heartbeat through the ticks and tocks of your clock while I balance the books, my day job as the bookkeeper.  I occasionally take a break from the reconciliations to watch your second hand at work, she is relentless like the road runner cartoon character but high on crack as she races through the numbers one to twelve to make a minute for me and keep on going until she is on the hour every hour to reach all twenty-four to end the day at the stroke of midnight only to begin anew.

Ballerina tippy toes make my beautiful daughters tall enough to find their reflections in your mirror setting. Below father's face is our bloodline name, my nee name, it has been beamed by light laser into the glass in a styling of black calligraphy ink to complement our family coat of arms which colours a black and amber shield, this protective guard displays a drawing of three deer heads in a downward triangle position, two on top seeking the one below to make the point, all look left in the direction of my Jesus.

Jesus is no longer with us, head hung like a beggar in the streets looking for change. Blood stain hair under a thorny crown falls forward like a veil to hide the human suffering. The light in the eyes gone as lids slowly shut to a secure seal.  I wonder if this son of God was privy to the plan or just another pawn like the rest of us in this game of life.  If we knew our ending, would we ever make the beginning. And yet, John, the disciple who Jesus loved the most, reveals our apocalyptic ending in Revelations, this standalone book to the other four of the NEW Testament is to be believed to hold our fate.  Who is this beloved disciple that puts the fear of God in us with such a dream of destruction and death?  John is Jesus's replacement. Jesus's last words to Mary the Mother of God: Woman, behold your son. Then to the disciple John: Behold your mother.  Why did Jesus entrust the care of his mother to John?  But is that the right question to ask, an assumption was made that John was to take care of Mary when maybe she was to take care of him. Why was John the favourite?  If you were to believe the Da Vinci code theory, he was she, as in Mary Magdalene, Jesus's wife.  One man's theory is another woman's curiosity as Dan Brown's story piques my interest to do a little research into the biblical world and its terminology, for instance did you know “son" can be used to indicate a descendant, male or female or in today's gender-neutral world maybe two in one. 

My brother and I, together, made two magnificent masterpieces in our own right. They may not hang on display in Paris's Louvre like the Mona Lisa, but I much prefer the private showings to the select few who happen to stumble into my kitchen for a cuppa and a catchup.  Most of my visitors here are tangible beings like the village idiot who is far from a fool but has a fondness for the drink, I useta always entertain his nonsense with a smile and a cuppa tea but lately, I hide whenever he comes a knocking because I’m tired of playing the good host and only wish for someone to serve me for a change.

Then there is you, Maryam, my favourite mindfuck, you come and go at your own fruition but always present in spirit like the letter b in the word 'subtle' but subtle you were not in your first coming to me.  And my reaction to you was far from welcoming, apologies for my rudeness but you must understand that society has brainwashed us into believing voices like yours are the doing of the devil. And portrayals on telly don't paint a pretty picture for those in the throes of evil. We have since overcome our initial awkwardness with a little help from our friend lithium who has been reigned in under doctor’s orders to find a happy medium because previous dosages were zoning you out completely and making me a walking zombie.  But we are back now in check with the best balance and feeling better than ever in our beautiful brain. And I say OUR brain because it will always be you and me, together as one, because that's the joy of our disorder known as Bipolar, which once upon a time was seen as a curse worthy of a stalk burning but now a God-given gift for Creation. 

Some may say my choice of Maryam as my partner in crime is the grandeur symptom of Bipolar in play.

‘Go BIG or go the FUCK home’ says I.

That's why I got into bed with the most influential woman in the world, Maryam or as most of you know her, Mary the Mother of God.