James Hackett

“Is it you?”- Cassie

On a lonely, melancholy and lazy Friday evening the splish- splash of puddles and irrefutable presence of rain hit the city of Port of Spain. Torrential rains came down off of galvanize rooftops with the ping pong of steel, and streamed down windowpanes, bringing everything to a sluggish pitch.

The car skidded to a halt and she checked the mirror, adjusting her lip gloss with one deft swish of finger. She gave herself a quick once over in the mirror before blowing it a playful kiss. Her keys jingled in left hand as she climbed the steps of her grandmother’s home in Woodbrook.
She expected to hear comment over the tightness and shortness of her skirt but as the front door eased open and she found Grandmama asleep in front of the television, her defences flagged down.

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“Got more whips than a runaway slave…”- -Laughing all the way to the Bank- 50 Cent

I live my life in pursuit of truth.
It is my deepest longing, yet as all others, the truth is no friend of those who seek it.
We could go around the semantics for hours. Truth is merely a cousin to facts and most facts, especially in human nature are arbitrary.
For me, truth may never be enough but it would have to do. Or would it?

I have been afforded with a gift to see deeper.

This gift however burdensome came in the form of these vivid dreams. It wasn’t uncommon to wake having felt as though I had never slept at all. The trade off was that from time to time I could help someone. My advice had weight.

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