Heaven is action, living, this very moment the freedom to move in it untethered, and those moments yet to come.
Hell is a waiting room, with no doors, fluorescents that flicker in no disconcernable pattern and really bad muzak.
Hell is also the thoughts that dwell there, in that room. Thinking on everything you’ve ever done or could be doing.
Perdition = could be, should be and was.
Hope = will be.
Biker Body Pillow gently scoffs when I say I am psychic. So is his right. Then he turns around and asks me to tell him what is going to happen. It’s pretty cute.
He says I read the secret codes written into the past like a first language, and I am an empath who can see every side to everything ever and therefore a grand predictor of future behaviour. I’ll take the compliment.
This goes doubly so when I am dealing with his girl, we have the same shoe size and I walked in hers.
I pretty much know what she is going to do, and why.
He is hoping for the best and prepping for the worst.
What’s worse…trying and failing with a chance of victory or just leaving it to rot? Leaving it and wondering.
We trade off, BBP and I.
His pessimism is just realism in a Sunday hat. And I float around like a helium balloon, unwary of sharp corners. He keeps me from banging into things.
Reading the past looking for clues is fine, but I have said before, it’s full of old files that restrict your beliefs on what is possible.
I say, what was…not good enough. I want ecstasies and magic and grandeur. I want actual comfort, I want to BE safe with someone, not just feel it but BE it.
I don’t just read the past, I read the signs. I count crows and follow the stars. I keep my mouth shut when my home planet (Mercury) goes retrograde.
“If it was me reading the signs…I don’t send the Eagles guy whose personal motto is Excelsior to a Giants game.” Silver Linings Playbook
I got so focused on counting the days, waiting for the moon to be in the right place, waiting for the crows to pair up again (for joy) I forgot to live for a while there.
Grandpa: Now, on Wednesdays when the mailman brings the TV Guide sometimes the address label is curled up just a little. You’ll be tempted to tear it off. Don’t. You’ll only wind up rippin’ the cover and I don’t like that. And stay outta here.
Sam: Wait, you have a TV?
Grandpa: No. I just like to read the TV Guide. Read the TV Guide, you don’t need a TV.
Reading isn’t living. Neither is watching or waiting.
I have brought shame on my ancestors whose love/actions made me into being. They don’t get to live anymore, except through me.
“This life be over soon, heaven lasts always”. The Color Purple
Time to start living.