Asking that it be done. In tragedy there is pain leading to triumph and if you have the skill of writing for a Greek audience, comedy. None appreciate pain in the midst of joy as the sophist put it but those who would be fed by the attention paid their gloom. Twas dancing upon the sofa madly when sadly Santa up the chimney made it leaving nothing but fading dreams and the unresolved conflicts of a childhood promises unfulfilled. How dark and perpetual those things which dampen and darken the precious requiring a defense of pity, victimization and Hollywood humor bent upon raising the dead of days lest prosperous.

Where in the grasp of maturity do we find our lost hope better passion then believing upon the miracles of possibility? What crossroads and devils bedazzled must we folly to comprehend humor, delight and the gifts unrelenting, paid for by the love of someone simply watching, correcting and empowering this wonderful life. How tender the moment of our passing in reflection to make special each pain, victory or breath given to sustain the poor and forgotten. Reason ponders itself and folly supports a myriad of misunderstandings that tend to the entitled heart of a youth believing himself complex or simple. Where are the rules of compassion inked? Where is this dream painted upon rock or sand that we may demand of maker some ease of passing and prescient insight to tribulation? A player not the game. A dreamer not the author. An oversight of adoration in the respected products of God.

Looking East, not for morrow or signal of reduction in pain’s harbor, I North to find the answer to riddles lightly made that gather to my character the aspects most becoming. Delivered from the casual causality of marches and prefecture. Limelight wanders searching for the self facing moments of fame, glory and meism. This too passes as love calls a heart to fight for the battles worth plunder, a time worth investing a day worth the blood we would spend to its wonder. Flowers, trees bout our heads follow windows of morning writing a day that would herald the splendor and reward of tomorrow. Longing for the order select, the challenge direct and the wind swept corridors of GodSpeed I follow the light of night’s safety awaiting the calamitous day’s arrival. With laughter not of my own but provision from angels transfigured to deliver this saint from the depths of life’s grievance.

There’s work to do in the gloom and blue transferring power from one to two, into the nebulous dark I launch the search of fear’s penetration. Seek not the hopeless intolerant dwell voiced in the Fallen’s misgivings. The ship shall not sink nor sky fall nor harbor reject your mooring and dawn will delight after peaceful plaintiff night spent in the court of God’s listening. These are the days of Wonder, of tragedy and that overwhelming beacon guiding us into courageous laughter in the face of it. These are the sharpening trials of normalcy preparing each heart for the redeeming power of Grace and the opportunity to make miracles from the mud that surrounds. Befallen glum a place that would enslave us in madness and consistent discontent truly the fertile ground of yesteryear’s difficulty reaching into this day to steal delight. What then shall we answer this palsy? With what fortitude may we gaze upon possibility’s reason forgoing the evidence of failure’s promised? This is the universal glue that staples tomorrow to each glorious unfolding morn, the Love of Christ for each of us born again to live in joy without care for loss. This is the Good Stuff in the box of calamity. This is Love.