Every day, my Facebook feed is filled with more than a dozen posts related to Jesus and Christianity. The posts tell me that I can’t do anything right in the world without him, that he chooses the outcomes of sports, and that, if I’m feeling down or struggling, I just need to pray. Hey, that’s great, if you believe such things. However, not everyone does.
I sometimes sit and think about the heat death of the universe. In 10100 years, or a googol, I won’t be here to see it, but I think about all that will be lost when that happens. All the evidence pointing toward our existence will be gone. Documents about what we tried to do here, our triumphs and tragedies will disappear. Whatever living things that are left will be gone. Our only possible salvation would be the existence of the multiverse. If the multiverse were real, we might have a chance to survive elsewhere. Yet, it is highly unlikely.
I never meant to be a pirate. I just wanted to watch my shows and play my games as I had always done.
September through December are difficult times for me personally. The end of October and beginning of November are the worst. For thirty-four years, I’ve kept the demons at bay by ignoring them, but they are always close by, pushing for relevance in my life. One year ago, I began to confront them. One by one, they are having less relevance in my life and I am moving a little bit forward each day to find the better me.
There has been a lot of fear mongering about the caravan of people headed toward the United States. President Donald Trump has whipped people into a frenzy about how dangerous this group is while providing little evidence.
My mother worked for twenty-seven years at the Middletown Psychiatric Center. Most of her career was on the geriatric units. Over the years, I got to know a few of the patients. I always liked talking with Adalaide, even if she didn’t talk much. Just as I entered my teenage years, she passed away. I wrote this poem about her a decade later, sometime between 1993 and 1995.
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