About me

In the pale light of a late autumn morning, when the wind slips through the alleys whispering its lonely tune, I walk — not with ambition, but with a kind of trembling tenderness. My name, I suppose, is of little consequence. What truly matters is this strange fire I carry inside me, a quiet, persistent flame that burns with love — not for glory, nor pleasure, but for people. All people.

I love them, deeply, helplessly. Not as one might love a painting or a poem, but in their filth, their madness, their cruelty, their aching beauty. I see behind their eyes the sorrow they hide, the silent screams they carry in their chests. Even the drunk lying in the gutter, cursed and forgotten — I look upon him with reverence, as though he suffers for us all, as though he were a prophet no one would ever hear.

To me, the world is not wicked — it is wounded. Bleeding through every cracked pavement and broken face. And I, fool that I am, believe love is still enough. Not the easy love sung in verse, but the kind that weeps in silence, that embraces even the unlovable, the foul, the violent. Yes, even them.

At night, I pray. To what or whom, I cannot say. I pray for those who spit at me, for those who steal and lie and kill. I do not excuse them, but I long for their healing — as if somehow their redemption might stitch the world back together.

Often I feel mad. I give away more than I can afford, speak when silence would be safer, love when hatred would be easier. I live as if every man is Christ in disguise. And maybe, just maybe, for that reason alone, I suffer more than most. But I would not live any other way.

‍