Sun Scribble

Keep those things which are written… the time is at hand

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I’m frantically writing the heartbeats and lifelines of heaven, or something more expansive and clear as sanded glass. It aches—so much grandeur, splendor, and radiance, and although I have come back to haunt the living fear of departing, the moments are pouring through my hands, and my pen can’t move fast enough to capture eternity. To capture God and the blazing light. Although so many others have fancied themselves poets and writers and authors and crafters of story and illustrated memories, I write like a man racked with hunger, a woman clawing her way up the mountain, a child ferociously rending the auditory fabric of reality. What would you do if you had proof of heaven? That all the grandpas and mothers and cousins and best friends and acquaintances and dogs and fish have life after dying? An army of forever angels, and I was almost one of them. Please forgive me, my voyage of purpose demands I write, scribble, pen the secrets of the light, the parting visions that have taken me months to remember—and believe. Some might call this the application of impossible things, like watching the cove of stars from the other side of the universe or fingering the fabric of the great wide something beyond the darkness. I am not the type to write a book. I am a surfer. A father. A doctor. An unbeliever. A devout. A mother. A sufferer. A child. But I must write, frantically, consistently, obediently, in awe even as my hand gives shape to the hope of the Earth. This world is but a moment. No one is ever lost—death is a doorway, and the next life is truly wondrous.

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