Reality is beautiful. There’s dishes from the night in the sink, an ashtray on the kitchen counter, all evidences of two people who finally lived, instead of existing, after a long, long time, scattered all over the house. Your shirt comes down my knees, almost. I wear that to make breakfast, despite my own closet spilling clothes onto bedroom floor. Because your shirt is real. You stretch and follow me shirtless into the kitchen, even though your clothes are freshly washed and folded in your closet. Because skin, skin is real. We make breakfast, touching in one small way or another. We laugh. The cereal gets soggy. We really don’t care. Reality is beautiful.
A loss in one part of the world is no smaller than a loss in any other. Every life snatched, is a loss. Every life taken, is an outrage. Every justification provided is a lie.
Watching the news is so painful, but this is what is happening. This is the world we live in. And not only is it tragic, but also frustrating to be unable to help in any way.
Pray for London. Pray for Syria. Pray for the Rohinhya. For all those who are suffering in Somalia, Sudan, Nigeria… If you can do anything to help, anything to protect, please do. If you cannot, please pray.
I don’t mind the Devil
He lies, he spits venom
Drinks too much
Sometimes he sets my home on fire
But he’s honest, doing everything in his power to
Lead me astray
Still, we’re okay, the Devil and I
With him, I know where I stand
It’s a process, but
It’s these crooked halos I don’t understand
All the good people around me, whose rot I can smell
a page of reality away
What kind of God’s golden children are they
The purity doesn’t fit, their wings are all wrong
I read the Devil was an angel
It makes sense why he left
Even I can see that he didn’t belong
The Devil and I
Better the Devil we know… (very well).
Some men do not carry your heart safely in their chest. They keep it in their pocket, shuffling their daily things around it. Sometimes they leave it lying somewhere. Other times, they forget and jam a pack and a lighter on top of it, and remember many cigarettes later. And you don’t care. Because no matter how bruised it gets, you’re happy knowing that they’re still there to carry it at all.
At least it hasn’t fallen out of their hands. Yet.