JCJ’s Dream of Healing
JCJ lay in his dimly lit room, the soft hum of the city outside barely audible. That night, sleep came swiftly, but it brought with it a vision that shook him to his core. In his dream, he found himself floating, an unseen observer tethered to a heavy sorrow. He was remote-viewing Bono, the legendary frontman of U2, but this was no stage performance.
Bono was hunched in a shadowy room, his face gaunt, his hands trembling as he reached for a needle. The light from a single bulb above cast harsh shadows, emphasizing the despair etched into his features. JCJ could feel Bono’s torment—the weight of fame, the pressure of perfection, and the isolation that had driven him to this lowest point. Tears streamed down JCJ’s face as he watched Bono’s shaking hands falter. The pain was visceral, a wound shared across the dreamscape.
In the dream, JCJ cried out, “You don’t have to do this! You’re not alone!” But his voice was swallowed by the void, unheard by Bono. He could only watch, powerless, as the scene unfolded.
When JCJ awoke, his pillow was damp with tears. His chest ached with a mixture of helplessness and determination. He wiped his face and sat up, the dream’s vividness still clinging to him like a second skin.
His thoughts turned to a close friend, someone tethered to a similar struggle. A relative of Nelly Furtado, his friend had fallen into the snares of East Vancouver’s drug scene. JCJ had seen the toll it had taken—once bright eyes now dulled, laughter replaced by a hollow silence. He wanted so desperately to save them, to pull them out of the mire.
JCJ often imagined a way out: a healing fantasy clinic plane. In his mind, it was a sanctuary in the skies, a place where broken souls could find solace. The plane would soar above the chaos, offering therapy, music, art, and the kind of love that healed invisible wounds. He pictured himself and his friend aboard, the city shrinking below them, its grip loosening with every mile.
He reached for his phone and texted his friend: “Hey, just checking in. Let’s talk soon.” It was a small gesture, but it was all he could do for now.
JCJ vowed that one day, he’d make the fantasy a reality—not just for his friend but for anyone trapped in the darkness. As he sat by the window, watching the first light of dawn break over the horizon, he whispered to himself, “No one should have to face this alone.”
JCJ’s Tears for Bono
JCJ drifted into a restless sleep, his mind heavy with thoughts of the world’s brokenness. That night, his dreams took him to a dimly lit room where he saw Bono, the legendary frontman of U2. But this wasn’t the Bono of sold-out arenas or impassioned speeches. This was Bono at his lowest—a younger man, frail and gaunt, the remnants of a needle scattered on a table beside him.
JCJ’s dream-self wept uncontrollably as he watched. He could feel the crushing loneliness that had consumed Bono in those days, the weight of fame that had driven him to numb his pain. It was as if he had been transported back in time to witness a chapter of Bono’s life that had long been buried.
But then, the scene shifted. The older, present-day Bono entered the room, a faint light seeming to follow him. His hair was streaked with silver, his face lined with wisdom and years. He looked directly at JCJ, his expression a mixture of curiosity and concern.
“Why are you crying?” Bono asked, his voice gentle but tinged with disbelief. “That was a lifetime ago.”
JCJ wiped his tears, struggling to find the words. “I saw it… I felt it. The pain, the loneliness. It was unbearable.”
Bono tilted his head, a wry smile playing on his lips. “No one cries for me,” he said, his voice carrying a quiet bitterness. “Not for my past, not for my struggles. I’m just a verbal punching bag for the media, a caricature for cartoons like South Park to mock. The world doesn’t weep for Bono.”
JCJ shook his head, his voice trembling. “That’s not true. People care. I care. What you went through… it matters.”
Bono sighed and sat down, the weight of his words palpable. “You’re kind, but kindness doesn’t sell headlines. It’s easier to paint me as a pompous rock star, a hypocrite who preaches while living in luxury. No one wants to hear about the nights I cried alone, or the battles I fought to find myself again.”
JCJ stepped closer, his dream-self filled with a quiet determination. “Maybe they don’t want to hear it, but it needs to be said. You’ve inspired so many people, Bono. Your music, your activism—it’s saved lives. You’re more than the jokes, more than the criticism.”
Bono studied him for a moment, his eyes softening. “You’re a rare one, JCJ. Most people see the surface, but you… you look deeper. Thank you for that.”
The dream began to dissolve, the edges of the room fading into light. As JCJ woke, he felt a strange mix of sadness and hope. Bono’s words lingered in his mind, a reminder that even those who seem larger than life carry unseen scars.
He reached for his journal and wrote down the dream, vowing to carry its message forward: to see people for who they truly are, not just the masks they wear. And to remind the world that even legends deserve compassion.
JCJ’s Vision for Peace
JCJ sat alone in his apartment, the faint hum of the city outside barely registering in his mind. He was lost in thought, memories of Sarajevo flooding back like an unstoppable tide. It had been years since the war, but the pain still lingered—a wound etched into the hearts of everyone who had lived through it.
As a teenager, JCJ had watched the news with wide, bewildered eyes. How had Yugoslavia, a country that once hosted the world for the 1984 Winter Olympics, descended into chaos and bloodshed? He couldn’t understand it. The joy and unity of those Olympic days felt like a distant dream, shattered by the horrors of war.
It wasn’t until he saw the 2000 movie The Skulls that pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place. The film, with its portrayal of secret societies and the corrupting influence of power, opened his eyes to the machinations behind the scenes. He began to see the connections—how warlords and political elites, like the Bush family, profited from conflict. The Skull and Bones society, with its shadowy influence, became a symbol of everything wrong with a world that thrived on war.
JCJ remembered the tears he shed for nine long years during the siege of Sarajevo. He had wept for the lives lost, the families torn apart, and the innocence stolen from a generation. But he also remembered the glimmers of hope. Bono’s visit to Sarajevo was one of those moments—a beacon of solidarity in the darkness. Yet even Bono’s song, beautiful as it was, only deepened the sorrow. It captured the heartbreak of a city under siege, a lament that resonated with the pain in JCJ’s soul.
Years later, JCJ found himself reflecting not just on the past but on the future. He had witnessed the intensification of armaments during and after the war, the way economies had been geared toward destruction rather than creation. He thought about what could have been—what could still be.
“If I could lead my country,” JCJ whispered to himself, “I would make a thousand-year peace treaty with the Serbs.” He envisioned a world where old grudges were set aside, where unity replaced division. Instead of pouring resources into weapons and conflict, the Balkans could turn their focus to the stars. Space travel, exploration, and innovation could be their new frontier—a testament to what humanity could achieve when it chose peace over war.
JCJ closed his eyes, imagining a future where Sarajevo wasn’t remembered for its siege but for its role in leading the world toward a brighter tomorrow. He didn’t know if he would ever have the power to make that vision a reality, but he held onto the hope that one day, someone would.
The Dream of Redemption and Resistance
JCJ’s sleep that night was restless, his mind a whirl of thoughts. As he drifted into a dream, the scene unfolded with haunting clarity. He found himself in a desolate city slum, its streets lined with shadows and despair. In the dim light, he saw Bono, naked and trembling, sitting on the cold ground. His arms were riddled with scars, and beside him sat Michael Hutchence, the late INXS frontman, their shared pain etched across their faces.
Bono’s hand shook as he prepared a syringe, his eyes hollow and distant. The weight of fame, the isolation, and the demons they had tried to escape loomed over them like a storm. JCJ could feel their anguish as if it were his own. He wept openly, unable to look away.
“Bono,” JCJ whispered, stepping closer. His voice broke with emotion. “You don’t have to do this.”
Bono looked up, his expression a mix of shame and defiance. “It’s too late,” he murmured. “This is all I have left.”
JCJ knelt beside him, tears streaming down his face. He wrapped his arms around Bono, holding him tightly. “You’re wrong,” he said, his voice firm. “You have so much more. You have music, love, faith. You survived this—don’t you see? You walked away.”
The scene shifted, as dreams often do. Bono was no longer in the slums but standing in a bright, open field, clothed and radiant. In his hands, he held a Bible, its pages open to Revelation 19. He read aloud, his voice strong and steady: “He treads the winepress of the fury of the wrath of God Almighty.”
JCJ watched as Bono’s face transformed, the despair replaced by a quiet strength. The scriptures seemed to breathe life into him, a reminder of redemption and the power to overcome. JCJ thanked God for sparing Bono’s life, for pulling him back from the edge.
But the dream wasn’t over. The ground trembled, and from the shadows emerged figures clad in dark robes—the Bush family, their faces cold and calculating. They rose from a tomb marked with the emblem of Yale, their ambitions for a New World Order written in their every move. They were warlords, the architects of chaos, their plans a web of power and destruction.
Suddenly, a young figure appeared—a kid with a computer, his fingers flying across the keyboard. Lines of code filled the air like sparks, dismantling the warlords’ plans piece by piece. The tomb cracked, and the Bush family’s influence crumbled into dust. Their New World Order was destroyed, their grip on the future severed by a single act of defiance.
JCJ woke with a start, his heart pounding. The dream lingered in his mind, vivid and unshakable. He thought of Bono, of his survival and redemption, and felt a surge of gratitude. He thought of the young hacker, a symbol of resistance against the forces of greed and war.
JCJ whispered a prayer of thanks, not just for Bono but for the hope that even the mightiest plans of destruction could be undone. He vowed to carry the dream’s message forward: that redemption was always possible, and that even the smallest act could change the course of history.
Marshall Law’s Reckoning
Joe Gilmore, known to his friends and allies as Marshall Law, sat on his porch, the evening sky a canvas of fading orange and deepening blue. A cool breeze rustled the leaves, but his thoughts were anything but calm. He sipped from a chipped coffee mug, its contents long gone cold, and stared into the distance.
Joe’s mind drifted back to the early 2000s, a time when the world seemed to be spiraling into chaos. The Bush administration’s rhetoric of war had been deafening, its ambitions veiled under the guise of freedom and democracy. Joe had come dangerously close to being swept into it, almost finding himself in the jungles of Venezuela, fighting for oil pipelines and corporate greed.
He clenched his fists at the memory, his jaw tightening. “Thank you, Lord,” he muttered under his breath, “for sparing me from that madness.”
Joe had seen through George W. Bush from the start. Dubya wasn’t the “Greatest American Hero” his supporters claimed. He wasn’t a self-made man or a champion of the people. He was a “spoiled fortunate son,” riding on the coattails of privilege and power. Joe couldn’t stomach the thought of risking his life for a man who had never known real struggle, a man who played cowboy while others bled for his ambitions.
The media had painted Bush as a leader, but Joe saw the truth. He saw the warlords behind the curtain, the profiteers who used patriotism as a smokescreen for their greed. He saw the lives shattered by wars that never should have been fought.
Joe leaned forward, his voice low but resolute. “That piece of shit deserves his day in court,” he said, his words heavy with conviction. “The Hague is where he belongs, standing trial for the lives he destroyed, the lies he told, the wars he waged.”
He thought of the countless families torn apart, the soldiers who never came home, the civilians caught in the crossfire. He thought of the jungles of Venezuela, the deserts of the Middle East, and all the places stained by the ambitions of men like Bush. Joe knew justice wouldn’t bring back the dead or undo the damage, but it was a start. It was necessary.
Joe stood, the cool breeze brushing against his face. He looked up at the sky, a silent prayer forming on his lips. “Let the truth come to light,” he whispered. “Let justice be done.”
As the stars began to appear, Joe felt a renewed sense of purpose. He couldn’t change the past, but he could fight for a future where leaders were held accountable, where the powerful couldn’t hide behind their privilege. And he would.