You move with such purpose, yet seem lost in your own mind.
Your hands are always busy.
I watch you chase things I cannot see, speaking to ghosts in little glowing boxes.
Still, when you are still, I curl beside you—because even the lost need warmth.
Within the silent labyrinths of the psyche, there is a landscape memory not wholly our own, pulsing through us like the echo of ancient...
Namaste—the Messiah in me sees the Messiah in you. Not the polished, pious version, but the wild fire that walked among the forgotten. I...
We are told that Jesus wept, and from this we carve entire solemn theologies of grief. But where is the gospel that records his...