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The Fuel


I am forgiven, for my past sins and the sins of my Father and those of my ancestors. I am forgiven for the journey that is a struggle and the walk with depression is a constant miracle, away from the devil's plan of total anguish and instant death. This life is forgiven, for anything that I was assaulted for, and for every and any arguments the devils retorts towards God.


The life I am is full of mercy and I am a living being of miraculous grace.


The forgiveness upon me gives me the right at the King's court and this forgiveness encourages the future, and hate is dumbfounded; because the game that hatred plays is more important than the trophy they claim to earn. I am forgiven for everything that accuses me of sins and I am forgiven for the sins the accusers labels upon me. I am forgiven for every instant evil prayers flies out of the devil's mouth out of deceit, greed, racism and injustice, because this forgiveness wreaks havoc on their selfish needs.


Forgiveness is in my best interest and benefits me because the education gives me skills as I walk in joy and fullfilling contentment. I am forgiven because I forgive and strength upholds me and places me at the right hand of God. I love this forgiveness because I breathe in wholeness and love and I even mezmerize the eyes of those who once batters my life. This forgiveness is truth and honesty in the flesh with tangible results that I can touch and marvel as I live with a youthful heart and soul. 


I am forgiven with an evergreen forgiveness, especially given to me, and no one else because I am not just special. I am holy and divine because I forgive. I am not crazy because I am forgiven and there will never be any form of insanity about me, for I am diligent and prodigious and victory is a guaranty. I am forgiven and there is no mark of victim over me, instead a mark of love, greatness and favor on my forehead. There is no defeat over me or my life, because I am forgiven and it is a winning sign.


Just write.

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The Revolution

I stood up from my after-school meditation, because today's practicum via Fox.org gave me a migraine. Hybrid high school wasn't the same after the White Plaque. Coronavirus was so yesterday, because the vaccine worked well and I got my shots just two weeks ago for the four times a year recommended dose. But, the White Plaque truly was something else. It gave me chills for three days, yet milder than the CoVid19. 


Outside felt right just now, so I took my Street Paddle elongated to its five feet maximum length with a rubber bottom. Passive enough for a toy, but as aggressive as the Shaolin Kung-Fu Wooden Stick. I grabbed my granola cubes and pistachios packets and put them inside my shoulder pack. I took my longboard and turned on its anti-gravity button, and shoved the remote in my pocket. I stood on it, and it synchronized with my street paddle. I opened my bedroom door and flew downstairs to bid my farewells for the afternoon.


"Dad, leaving. Need time for myself. I'm going to see, Rambo," I told my Father.


"Don't stay out too late. By 7, the sirens will come on in our zone. It's Denver, and not the country side, so check the time," he said.


Rambo lived with his sister near the old Five-Points, now labeled as Zone 5, where the emancipated orphan youth were allowed to live independently. He never knew what it felt like to wear spray deodorant. I tried it on when I was five, but it wasn't anything special.


Flying by Colfax was like a mall. Everyone had their hoods on and their masks with protective goggles. The White Plaque attacks the cornea and could lead to blindness. Crap for some homeless folks, most became blind and they never received their indigence benefits due to no permanent address.


My stomach growled and my granola cube was out of reach, so I took my pistachio packet  and ripped it apart thenemptied the content into my mouth. I lived in Capitol Hill, because Father was the surgeon for Banner. Since they transformed into a Socialist Hospital, their logo became a blue flag with a red cross in the middle. Father told me that it was our justice.


By the time I got to Rambo's pad, his bike was not there. He must be on a walk somewhere. Emancipated youths won't go far on foot, because they have no vehicle license until they turn 21. Crap kept happening, and it was out of control since the White Plaque. But, Rambo was special. He survived with his sister, because he told me that he had the grit of a slave and a desire like a pirate on alcohol. Rambo will never die, and I will make sure he lives forever. I felt a revolution was brewing inside me....and I needed Rambo. Where could he be?


Just write.

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The fame goes to

I was never meant to be famous. I knew since I was born. But, I was meant to write, and whether I will publish or not, it was never up to me in the first place. It has always been a number of things at play in the universe and at times, I felt at odds with the whole world. I wrote since I could create words and composed sentences, for pure healing. I felt it was the sentence of my life and I may die never becoming a published author, but the process may lead me to a place of health and solace. 


The fame never belonged to me in the first place. It has always been for those who led me to a place of comfort and compassion. The un-named Indonesian lad who offered me Kopi Lewak at the compound at the base of Mt. Bromo in Java, who offered counsel and told me that the whole world was full of assault victims, and I should never be afraid of life. The stranger who told me that I will one day reach my destiny, in whatever form it may be, near the telescope at the wall overlooking Mt. Bromo, where God spoke to me and told me, "Enjoy your sunrise, as if it is your last."


The fame goes to the Ethiopian man who asked me for some sustenance in the middle of Central London, as I handed him a Larabar and he replied, "You deserve a Pulitzer prize," without knowing if I could even write. To the Briton in his tank top who kindly obliged to my request to share a table at a crowded Starbucks, so I could write out my busy thoughts before I dropped into sobs from symptoms of PTSD and Depression. To the Mayan little girl in Mexico, who negotiated on a fair price and convinced me to buy a pair of handkerchiefs to bring to America. Her skills touched my heart. They deserved all of the fame in the world, although the world was never kind to the random strangers who didn't fit into a mold of a model or a billionaire.


The fame goes to my friend Kristin who showed me a rainbow patterned men's brief boxers with a goofy picture of an Afro-Puffed man near the groin area. Her comedy came in a blonde bombshell full of suprises. To Sarah Schantz, the author of FIG, whose craft inspired me to become raw and honest leading me to a steady flow of juices of creativity. The fame belonged to the volunteers at homeless shelters all across the world whose self-less devotion meant confidence in humanity. 


There were plenty of famous people worldwide, if we could look closer, that I never asked for fame, instead I lived it because I was already the apple of God's eyes. That even if I were to die in my sleep, I would die happy, knowing I wrote for 15 minutes in full honesty of my heart. Never regretting the path of how I got here, because it was not entirely my own doing, but through good works and faith, I was led to a peaceful life. 


The fame goes to the millions of artists, carvers, painters, illustrators and designers who worked behind the scenes, enjoying their art unfold without the barrage of media and publicity. Their earnest patience and humility nobled the process of artistic value. Their love without the selfish desire for attention created authenticities grounded to the soil, for their blood, sweat and tears. 


The fame goes to the legions of victims of racism, including myself of the assaults, all across the universe. We deserve a voice to be heard, for every sorrow we endured and every heartaches we overcame. Writing it all down as investigative reports to God.


And so, I will write, not for fame or glory, but to heal and for all fairness in life that I deserved; because of the scars upon my back, my heart, my mind and my soul. It was my destiny.


Novels, short stories, verse or poetry, psalms, lyrics (yes, I sing), or chicken scratch, I was meant to.


The fame goes, to you, O dear reader. 


I love you. Just write. 

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The fire within

There is a fire inside me, burning as if it is a candle lit with a thick enough wick to last a lifetime. At times it flickers from the wrestles in life, but somehow it keeps burning. Without this candle, I would have died, a long suffering death. I tried to put it out once but the wick flares and catches fire spontaneously. I will not fan it out, instead I will feed it.


This fire flares when joy sets in and it feels like adrenaline, and it roars when I am in meditation or in relationship. It consumes me and I don't mind it. It stays in between my chest and it is inside my soul. Without this fire, I don't speak in gratitude. When the fire flames, I enjoy every moment of it, and I savor each passing time, although the world is a wave of doubt. I don't stagger nor put out of passion for life when the fire keeps burning, and when there is a time when it flickers and almost dies, I look for another flame to fire my soul alive.


Fires can die, when the glass ceiling comes close and suffocates the flame and at times, discouragement comes. Yet, I look at the neverending wick I am given and I know I am made with a special light. Untamable but not savage, passionate but not jealous, and sincere but not mild. The fire flames even when no one cares for it, because it doesn't requiere a lighter since it burns from its wick.


Might be a hassle for birthday cakes, but I only need this one flare to keep myself from the storms of life. The fire refines me and gives me a path and a plan. I never ask for its purpose, because I know I am its life. This fire will stay in me, loving me, and keeping me aligned with life's journey. Sometimes, it does become difficult, because this fire is made for more than this body and mind. I can only follow its wisdom to hope for a better tomorrow and I won't be dismayed for it is my help. 


This fire burns eternally and forever more, and through it, I can write my destiny. Just write. 

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