God Is Everywhere

From my Blue Book. (all articles here in Pen and Ink are my original works. Feel free to copy and paste, but please do give credit to me. I believe I've earned it.)

Allow me now, to wrench you out abruptly from the busy and wretched world you're currently living in, and immerse you in a world of wonder that only a mother and her child can share.

Close your eyes for a moment, and picture yourself walking along the park. You see a middle-aged lady sitting on a bench, silently watching someone running towards her. You see that it's a little girl, runnning hard, only stopping abruptly to catch her breath before calling out:

"Mommy, mommy, look what I've got!" extending her left hand to show a wilted flower.

The mother who was sitting on the bench, smiles warmly at her daughter.

"What? what is it?"

"It's God mommy. You said God is in everything around us. Everything beautiful has God in it, remember?" said the girl, in all the innocence that only a child can muster.

The mother still smiling at her child asks patiently, "Yes, honey. Now, what is it that you've got?"

"It's a flower mommy.I saw it in the park and it was so beautiful that I thought God was in it and I thought that you might want to see God and so I picked one," her face aglow in the retelling of her story. "But when I got here, it wilted," suddenly frowning. "Now it's ugly," the child now sporting clearly a disappointed look and throwing down the flower on the ground. "I guess that means God isn't here in this flower anymore. I'm sorry mommy. Next time, I'll run faster so that God won't have time to run away from the flower," the child ended sadly, as again only a child in all her sadness can muster.

Slowly, the mother got up and gently placed her arm on the child.

"That's okay honey. You don't need to run that fast to show me God. See now, I think God is still here in this flower you have," picking up the flower that the child threw down the ground and motioning for her daughter to look .

"Really? But I thought you said God was only in things beautiful around us..." asked the perplexed child.

"Oh, did I?" said the mother with surprise. "I guess what i meant to say was that God is in all things beautiful around us because to God, everything is beautiful."

"Even in this wilted flower mommy?"

And the mother, speaking with all the love and patience that only a mother could show, said:

"Yes, honey. Even in this wilted flower."

Dying a good death

There's an emotion we all have which we can never define.
It's not elation, depression, nor simple idiotic normalcy.
It's just an emotion of unexplainable, err, depth.

To demonstrate the depths of this depthness I'm talking about, imagine if you will,  a  well of water so deep that even if you drop a stone in it, you won't hear the sound of the stone dropping on the water, ever. I feel bigger than reality, bigger than a god. I feel as if I could reach down in this depth, reach out, and bring forth a fountain of so much inspiration I can feed every struggling writer alive today. (struggling writer defined as: a writer so bereft of words even lady muse won't visit them)

The power to write, I'm happy to say, is mine again.
No, let me rephrase that.
The power to express myself, is mine again.

After six years of languishing in expiration hell (the complete opposite of the paradise of inspiration), I find myself again gifted with words. My gift being given back by no less than my better whole. She who has given so much to save me from myself, she who has done the "surpassing", not surprisingly, has given me back my soul.

Well, not so much as given me back my soul, but given me a new one. Hers.
And heaven and hell will have no greater fury if I will not appreciate that.
For all of my reminiscence, and my desire to bring back those "wonder years", I have always known deep in my heart that the more wondeful years are ahead of me, not behind me. That the moment I'm wishing for is here.

Truly, fate has me by the neck. Even now, I can feel its shackles holding me back. I've always said it's immaterial to believe in free will whilst believing in destiny. I still believe that. But knowing now how inconsequential we are to fate controlling our lives, I am inclined to at least fight against it, every step of the way.

An image of Tristan appears in my mind, fighting that grizzly bear he spared during his youth, and an indian's voice speaks: 'twas a good death.

Tristan died fighting.
And so will I.