Oh yes, I do believe in him, God that is. Though he was never thought of as someone that I could talk to, or someone I could relate with, he or she, whatever it is, was more like a never-ending puzzle that eluded my comprehension. Some kind of serpent in space, whose movements weave to a type of melody, a rhythm of sorts, and these patterns were visible in the world around us, manifesting itself as something we know to be true in harmony and reality, a type of resonance that hits the very pith.

I have felt life and death around me, especially during Autumn in the country side, where the presence of God was never more apparent. I'd spend time with the trees, laying next to the maples, watching them shed their leaves in their slow descent.
There was something very religious about witnessing a leaf’s death.

And when the wind picks up and the sun slowly sets, the rouge around me becomes calm and peaceful. It was a slow and gentle fall, and the motion had an obvious rhythm to it. Everything eclipses and soon darkness chills the soft hues of the molten and the coldness follows. And the stars beam down on you and cast a spell. The small chimes of light were vibrating ever so slightly, just noticeable to the eye, locking in my attention for hours as I tried to decipher its meaning, trying to realise its signature, those fingerprints.

But that's about as far as I'd like to walk with him.

It was as if my relationship with God could be likened to a spoilt rich kid who gets a ferrari for his birthday and says “Thanks Dad!" only to speed off at one hundred kilometres an hour, drinking, snorting cocaine, living the life of the prodigal son.

I was decadent.

This lack of piety stems from my obvious indifference to discipline. My simple up bringing although humble, never involved any sort of tough discipline. I was more of an ADHD kid who got bored of capturing butterflies and decided it was more fun breaking stuff.

My brother on the other hand was never really an innovator or a talker as such, he'd just tag along, watch me get into a bit of mischief and eventually participate whenever he felt the need. He was much mellower than me, though we both shared a similar type of apathy.

My apathy was geared towards the lack of consideration for the feelings of the people around me. His apathy was more related to a general lack of interest.

His indifference was furious though. He was careless for the environment, the variables, the laws of nature. He could never ever feel any normal sorta pain or pleasure. Something was deeply wrong with him.

He thrived for the extremes.

When he smirked, everything became focussed on his eyes, where a small glimmer becomes alive, and you knew then and there, that things were about to get dangerous. A warning sign of sorts, a thrill. It was the only thing that made me realise there was something secretly breeding inside of him, a nuclear fission, resuscitating him from his solitary state and statuesque gaze.

But Bill was a controller of people’s emotions, he knew how to take moods away and bring them back again. He denied and he gave, perfectly, like a roller coaster.

Sometimes, I always felt that Bill was a very patient man at times. Always leaning back, chewing on wheat, reserving his energy so that he can fight a good war.

I always felt a little nervous around him too, there was always this constant pressure to please him. It just didn’t feel right when he wasn’t in the mood. It called for patience.
But when he did, there was something very exhilarating -- his input was by no means amazing or distinguished, but there was something subliminal and suave going on, it was if he was setting the stage, he had a sixth sense for knowing when the devil had just entered the building

When I really thought about it, Bill didn’t really have any admirable characteristics. I mean the guy wasn’t qualified in anything, he wasn’t skilled or knowledgeable either, but he was relaxed in everything he did. I guess people interpreted this as a level of cool pretentiousness, and maybe Bill deep-down inside was really trying to rub that sort of impression on people, but something tells me that he wasn’t smart enough to pull something like that off. It was probably just the way he was naturally engineered, and the environment wrapt itself around him like so.

And there was something very comforting about having him around; he was a very crucial part of any event, good or bad. His presence was a very genuine thing, something reliable and fitting, something that was very true. Don’t get me wrong though, I was never the one to play the young admirer, he had more than enough detestable qualities to keep me from his mould, but he was by no means goofy.

The strange thing is though, our conservative neighbourhood usually consisted of well kept homely children, generations upon generations lived under the same house hold rules and dogma – something that did not suit Bill or I well.

But we were lucky -- we had limited parental supervision, there was an absolute trust, it was the enabler that began our trek to become rebels.

These long green hills were never going to keep us in anyway.  The farm fences, the green pastures, they were never ending. Every bit of human energy was spread out, humanity itself became inaudible and intangible. It was reclusive. And although some would dream of running through the wheat fields, experiencing the glory of the sun and basking in it, I always felt it was a lonely island more than a paradise.

I could never relate. My upbringing was unfortunate in that sense.

During my younger days, my brother and I would have our usual meal and then go where our minds lead us. You could probably say that we were surveying every inch of country, trying to discover new and alien things that would save us from the obvious dullness that surrounds us. It was a frantic search in that sense, our thirst for adventure was furious and often violent. We walked for hours, sometimes only returning home in the morning, our shoes scorched and muddy.

I’d often carry a stick with me, brandishing it everywhere, in expectation of something dangerous. I deeply desired a thrill, though we were only exposed to a few semi-poisonous snakes that were practically extinct from the shotgun wielding farmers.

My brother, on the other hand, would smoke cigarettes, he smoked a lot, I’d say most of his body’s energy and movement was catered towards handling the butt. He soon made it his art.

During the summer, he’d often go shirtless and although there were plenty of mosquitos, he’d never get bitten, his skin was flawless, the pigmentation absorbed the sun well. He had the body of an athlete. We both did. Though he was a more peculiar specimen granted he never really was athletic, he somehow managed to maintain a good physique. The smouldering heat often suited us, it felt a bit more alive and less numb than the winter. We often took refuge in the nearby lake. Daring and diving off the ledge soon became our favourite game. There was a fifteen meter cliff facing north, a strange geological formation containing different hues of orange. The grass and the trees didn’t dare to go near its cleanliness. It provided a smooth dry platform to jump.

We became more artful divers as we took on more risk, competing for immortality via  extravagant tumbles of our own invention.

To better myself, I’d meticulously take note and watch him dive and mimic his movements and style. His muscles and bones were much more harmonious than mine. I was weaker and underdeveloped, and my younger body was continuously learning to co-ordinate itself with quick growth.
Bill’s pace and rigidity in the air and thundering descent was sometimes intimidating. No matter how many times I would try to craft something new, I was always following his trail.

Though, my overall enthusiasm could weigh up against his extra experience.

But he was always slightly better when it mattered, and he was perfectly comfortable with that, always enough energy for a close win.

In that sense, he never suffered the humiliation of defeat, but he never lived to see fame either, he was pretty content with getting away with the minimal.

The game would end at dusk, and we’d spend the remainder floating on our backs, trying to keep still, listening to the dark murky waters, hoping that it’d settle and everything would become silent -- one of the rare occasions where Bill would cease smoking.
For some reason I secretly hoped that something would happen underneath, but to no avail, we often found ourselves back at the dinner table by eight o’clock with a re-heated dinner greeted with a fake smile.

Mother, the meticulous house queen, was stoic in her housework, and I must admit, despite having to eat everything she served day in day out the food was pleasant.

You could say her insecurities could be attributed to the fact that she will eventually end up alone knowing we’d leave the nest and be worlds away from the country. This was fate for her, it was reality, and as things became more certain and as we slowly grew up to be the young men that we were, she occupied herself with a type of lunacy and love, holding on to some distant hope that we will see her grey, even if that meant living relinquished youths. Her own loneliness surrounded her and haunted her. She was never a complete human being. She yearned for a connection, the constant tapping of feet ensured restlessness. For silence was never golden in the country side, it only sought to stretch time, inflict misery and thought, it haunted my mother till the day she died. And it was the lonely jitter of her eyes and the thought of time that made me feel guilty the day I left. I may have been lost in the haze of drugs and flashing lights, the music and the women, but surely there was a brief silence amidst all the chaos, something that disconnected me from the world I was in and into a world which was haunted by darkness. It was brief but intense.

As I quickly take a sip and focus into emptiness, escaping the nightmares, I have become numb, with my slow unfeeling and fuzziness.