Today I live the memories of yesterday, dreaming today of tomorrow, carrying forward everything I learned from the people, once strangers, now friends, who extended their graces, shaped me and made me who I am. I move through the present shaped by every moment that came before me—by kindness offered, lessons learned the hard way and phrases wrotten, love given freely, and love lost.
Each experience left a mark, and together they form the foundation I stand on now.

I believe God is present in every step of my journey, guiding me through moments I understood and moments I didn’t. Nothing is wasted—every lesson, every trial, every blessing is part of His greater plan for my life, His blessings.

I walk in the present with gratitude, knowing I am sustained by His grace and strengthened by the prayers, love, and wisdom of those He placed along my path. I honor the past not by staying there, but by allowing it to guide me as I grow, reminding me where I came from and why I keep going. It is a dance.

It has been an interesting few days—one of those where you feel like reaching out to Mother Teresa to ask if she had a direct line to the Man Upstairs. I tried… but she didn’t answer, ignored me like a polar bear in the artic—perhaps, if I only played her favorite song she would at least wink at me.

As I look toward tomorrow, I do so with gratitude and intention, knowing that who I become next will be built from everything I have carried forward, and everything I choose to believe in. I place my trust in Him, swear on my pinky, confident that He goes before me, cleaning all the road debries, parking all the cars, emptying the sidewalks and pitiful roadmarks, preparing what I cannot yet see and sitting on the driver’s seat, shaping me into who He created me to be. That is faith, my friend, with all its extended warranties.

Yours legally and emotionally,
Eloi Ahoy

In the middle of nowhere, a house beams like the crypt of a spiderweb—fragile geometry holding its secrets fast. Its walls are veined with silk and shadow; broken windows and crooked beams grin through the stench of a lightning strike, sharp and burning and alive. Ozone and laughter tangle in the air, as if the storm itself had learned how to smile, crackling like trapped thunder and promising that whatever enters will never leave unchanged. The windows watch. The roof listens. Nothing around it dares to breathe.