I hope that through my life’s journey I have prepared well and stored riches in heaven. Did I love God enough? Did I serve him well by my example? Did I give to the least of my brethren? Did I feed the poor? Did I visit the prisons? Did I fight for injustice? Did I walk through life knowing that we all are brother’s in Christ, we are connected? Did I worship as I should? Most likely “No”, I could have done much better, we always can. We just have to try a little harder.
I pray each day that I do become a better person, a little bit better then yesterday, a better version of myself, tomorrow; one He will be proud of.
©️ Angela Aguiar
The universe is a beast, a drunken stupor egotistic horse at a bar. It comes in trays layered in the same aluminium without windows. It carves a hole, plants seeds, waters the lawn while you are still there, at the park looking over, unafraid. It displays this sadistic contorted mind with no sympathy to the wise. It cracks a joke with an appetite of an hungry raccoon. It blisters, pokes, flusters. It perforates your soul with a long pointy needle cruising through your vein like moving x-ray while trying to sing you a song. It wounds but leaves no stain or scar or oil in the engine. It marches unfiltered but possessed. It keeps going anesthetized, gray and bewildered even when untreated. It does not waste an instance nor bow. It rolls relentlessly shoving a story at you, expecting you to buy it cheap. It sends you the most obnoxious heatwave that comes thundering like an unscripted runway train, assuming it to stop on the next station but standing stoic on the corner is, tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow; the wiseass beard bar owner who comes running down the pipe like a protective mother goose to quietly lay it on the table, “Nope. This way please!” Huh?!
I found myself by the computer around three AM, surrounded by boxes and debris, film, camera in one hand, glasses on the other, paper flying, open boxes scattered all over like one bad omelette. The jolly tune was banging louder then my crackled joint but it wasn’t clicking in. My blood high on something would not let up, jetting through my veins like misguided lighting. My voice praising Him, cracking, praising Him, blasted thorough the roof penetrating the neighbors walls and landing at the bottom of an empty pool. Prescriptions weren’t written just yet but emotions were running wild. The clock on the wall left without batteries was yupping anxious words at the turtle but the pointers were gusting briskly before the police could handcuff it. I looked around and it was just I and the stillness, exhausted, screaming at the lunacy to split, to no avail as no one would reply back long enough to leave a message.