All life's beautiful mysteries converge in psychedelic array for me at this particular time of my life. I suppose that our past is always clearing the bush for a present, for a future. Every heartbreak and every loss leans in to remind me that nothing is permanent. Loss, in one form or another, awaits every celebration. You have only to browse the dusty family albums in the thrift store for evidence.
Maybe I have acted rashly, with abandon, regarding matters relating to others' well being. I regret having ever hurt anyone else in my pursuit of some precarious paradise.
For the last decade I have isolated myself from most social activity swirling around me. A pandemic sealed the deal. I was almost fashionable. Losing Jamaica and Angel left me alone to figure out who I am and why I am. Obviously that's not a task that you complete. I'm embarrassed to tell you that I've gotten good at lonely.
Oh, there are invitations. Some of them involve a touch of pity and charity. That's alright. It's always very sweet to have someone thinking of you. If I haven't been out and out happy, I've been tranquil. Peaceful.
Now, an angel shows up. I'm reminded of laughter and beauty and all other things holy.
My definition of angel and heaven and ghosts and magic won't match yours. I know that. I know what I believe, though, and I believe in luck.
Give us peace on earth and end this dreadful, dreadful war.
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