Things that scared me, things that inspired me and things that proved his existence. When I reflected on all my near-death experiences and the overwhelming beauty bestowed upon me, I still had a question about the others. Those suffering writers who don't notice the tiny red-headed bird outside their window. Those who never wanted anything to do with this earth and all its trials and tribulations, and yet love harnessing their computer to their aortic valve.
Those who don't pray because they don't think HE listens. I say a prayer for them. Hiding behind agony, shrieking with blood-curling passion about anger and pride--I wait and listen for a drop of humor--a double entendre and I come to a wall. The voice I hear jumping around on the Internet sorrowfully depicts their unforgiving pain. I see it on the news and I read about it in the paper. The cynical writers who have a roof over their heads, food in their gut, two legs, two arms and a boatload of hate zooming out of their world weary souls. You make me sad, but I'll get over it. Will they?
