Evening draws nigh. Darkness descends. Outside, a robust late spring rain cleanses, washing the landscape, the fresh trees, the city street’s, folks passing by. Fresh, cool air. I love this time of year. The evenings are tepid, neither cold nor hot. Just right. Comfortable, you know?
I haven’t written for a long, long time. What excuse can I give, should I give? I have no excuse other than confessing the frailty of my soul, the weakness of my being, my utter, bloody humanity. Yet, tonight’s writing is a good sign. Evidence, that at least a man such as I can come back from the brink. From the brink of destruction, from the brink of despair, the brink of desperation and rise from the ashes.
Something within me is singing, resonating, shining with a glimmer of hope, hope realized, come true even. Is this God? I’d like to think it so. What else, what other power outside or within, could resurrect a disintegrated spirit? If there is a God, then certainly this is it.