A Private Winter

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Suffering is an emblem of learning, a quiet recital of lessons earned. It is an omen of what is yet to come—a corridor lined with designer scars not yet seen, stitched together by faith. To have faith, you must trust. And to trust, you must accept whatever ride you’re on—the wounds, the scars, the ribbons of pain that slip in whether the doors are open or closed, leaving their marks behind.
You must learn to value your scars, assign them a worth, rather than dwell on their constant intrusion. Keep moving forward. Stop worrying. Let it go. Run wild. Let out your loudest roller-coaster scream. Breathe.
Find the root of the wound. With your best scissors in hand, cut it clean—then sew it back together. Yes, easier said than done. I know. But you are shaping blessings. Tomorrow, you will be healed. One day, you’ll tell the story—how you overcame it all, how the Man Upstairs had a hand in it.
Life lessons.

Dear Kairo!

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Hello sunshine! How’s your day shaping up? All is groovy down here in the boonies, flexing high like a butterfly.

Last night, riding on a motorcycle through the darkened roads, I watched the pesky insects hoovering around like maggots and quietly settle on the ashes, as though they themselves were igniting the festival into motion. There was no light, no candles, no band, no food or drinks; so, what’s the dillio? They gathered in circles, hand in hand, leaping like pigeons startled into flight, arriving with cadence all at once in a rhythm of their own only they understood and communicated, shaking their bums bums like an Hollywood mistress.

Their presence announced itself boldly—sensual, curvaceous, celestial forms pressing forward, magically scintillating in the air, bright and restless, breasts padded by the night air, eyes shaped with a strange and gorgeous intent, hips rotating like vinyl on a dusty turntable, scratching time in a groove not even the hipster DJ could crack, smooth, deliberate, and hypnotic under the low glow of the night, lips muscular and musical, carrying the emblem of an innocence that somehow still breathed. Mesmerized, I watched from afar, aching with envy for a moment that wasn’t mine; dang it! It was impossible not to notice them. They were alluring.

Above and around us, the fuming malaria mosquitoes hovered like hungry beasts, ready to devour their prey, drawn to the frenzy, to the mayhem of heat and movement. They buzzed their way down, descending without mercy, feeding on the chaos of the night, turning the air thick with their hum. Yeah, I felt the heat burning my forehead—I woke up long enough to see a giant mosquito standing on its feet and reading me my rights. The nerve! It was feasting on me, like Dracula, sucking on my blood cocktail with a fugitive force and I was one to stay still, listening to my own heartbeat fade into its mouth. Surreal. It was a night alive—unsettling, vivid, unforgettable—a dream however, I felt compelled to share with you, someone.

Yours legally and emotionally,
Eloi Ahoy

Chansing Joy

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Every morning, she laced her shoes before the sun rose. Not because she loved running—she didn’t—but because she believed joy was something you caught only if you chased it hard enough. She ran through quiet streets, past shuttered cafes and sleepy trees, through graveyards of dead flowers, her breath fogging the air. In her mind, joy was always ahead of her, just out of reach, daring her to try harder.
She had learned this belief early. Work harder. Be better. Don’t stop. If you build it they will come. Joy, she was told, was the reward waiting at the finish line.
But the finish line kept moving, crossing the streets at moments notice, unchecked.
One morning, halfway through her usual route, her foot caught on a cracked sidewalk. She stumbled and fell, scraping her hands and tearing her favorite leggings. The run was over. Frustrated and embarrassed, she sat on the curb, fighting tears. The sun was fully up now, spilling gold across the street.
That’s when she noticed the music. She heard that delicious tune piercing through.
An old man across the road was sweeping his storefront, humming softly—off-key, unapologetic, completely absorbed without a care. A little girl skipped past him, pausing to spin in a circle just because she could. A breeze lifted the leaves, and for a moment the whole street seemed to sigh, like a quiet star cresting the mountains.
She realized something strange: none of them were chasing anything.
They were here. There.
She walked home slowly that day. She noticed the warmth of her coffee mug, the comfort of her shower, the way her muscles relaxed once she stopped pushing them, chilled and breathe. The world hadn’t changed—but her attention had. She has become more aware of her surroundings, her existence.
Over the next weeks, she still worked hard. She still dreamed. But she stopped sprinting through her days as if happiness were late and she had to catch it. She let herself rest, took it all in. She laughed without earning it. She danced in her kitchen while dinner burned a little. She sang her lungs out to the moon and back. She chatted softly to the plants soaking up the sunset.
And joy?
It didn’t run anymore; why would it?
It met her in quiet mornings.
It sat beside her in moments of gratitude, in the silence of prayers.
It showed up when she wasn’t looking—soft, steady, and real, it sang her lullabies, told her stories.
She learned that joy isn’t something you chase down and conquer. It isn’t a vibe or a chore.
Joy is something you notice when you finally stop running long enough to let it catch you. It is gratitude without effort, the felling of being alive in a way that feels meaningful. Joy is the quiet light that rises within you.