You Asked If I Pray

If asked if I believe then I would say yes, I do believe in something. I believe there is something out there. Maybe it’s just energy. Maybe what I believe in is a balance to the unbalanced life we live. Maybe it’s just a need to have something on my side, or maybe this is me talking to myself, which is something that I do often. But again, if asked do I believe in prayers then my answer is yes, I do believe in the power of prayer. This is not so much about my belief in God or the lack thereof. It is not even about religion, let alone an organized religion, or about a man or woman who stands on an altar or at a podium and tells me what to say or how and when. 

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More from Abstract: Brain Spillage

I go down the old streets sometimes, in memory of course, or in dreams, or in pictured flashbacks of times when time was less crucial.
Life was much simpler then. Me, you, us, the world as it was and how it’s changed.
I go through the different locations that were if anything; safe to say these were the birthplaces of my life because to me, it is accurate to say that yes, we are born more than once.

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Stream Of Consciousness: Abstract On, Contact Enabled.

As I see it, we all have our ways of doing things. And me, I write.
I write my thoughts to keep them from gravity. I write to replace thoughts with action and to stop the momentum of my ideas that tend to grow legs and run off into crazy directions. Hence, the anxiety, which is why I write to remove the shame or stigma of being nothing else but normal
(if there is such a thing).

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Between Good and Evil

Over the years, I can say that I have watched good people give themselves away to bad things. I’ve watched people move like moths to a flame and witnessed as they lost to life the same way water loses to a drain. I have seen people with good intentions end up on the street and become something opposite of who they truly are.

On the other hand, I’ve watched as others point and judge and act like a jury to a life they have no understanding for. Then again, I suppose we are all guilty of this, —playing judge and jury, that is.

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How The Hell Do We Get Back Up There?

Be advised, this is not for everyone. The following advice might not apply to you or to anyone outside the realm of rejection or depressive thinking. But for some, this is what I call a relatable substance. Not everyone knows how to get back up after they’ve fallen, nor does everyone believe they have the ability to do so. No one talks much about this.

To be honest, most people will say, “Don’t talk like that,” or they’ll say, “Don’t feel that way,” or “You just have to get back up and get over it,” as if the word “Just” makes everything “That” simple.

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From Bedtime Stories For The Insomniac: A Moment On A Rooftop

I take this up to the roof sometimes. My thoughts, that is. I head up to the roof of a building, which is high above Lexington Avenue.
I look out at a sea of tall buildings and a skyline, which I depend upon. I see this place as my quiet refuge. I take to the roof, which is high above the street and high above the speeding cabs and the pedestrians in masks because, well, everyone is wearing a mask these days. at least, they are supposed to be.

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Morning Prose: My City

I have always been amazed by my City.
I’ve gone through different phases and different circumstances in my life but ah, my City, She has always been good to me.
There have been nights when I took to a rooftop of a building and stood high above the streets and the hustle of the cabs. I looked out at the scene. I looked at the windows of apartment buildings and noticed the lamps in bedrooms and living rooms.

There has always been something interesting to me about the way a television could flicker in a room — the bluish light illuminates against the walls to give the window view a certain glow. The City is filled with millions of windows like this. And the truth is, I love every single one of them.

There are early mornings, like today, for example, I was driving down the Westside Highway alongside the Hudson River before the sunrise. The moon was out. The buildings on the Manhattan side appeared to be resting for the moment. Across the river is New Jersey, who is a friend to me now, although, this wasn’t always the case. The Hudson River moves like a black sheet of glass; the lights from the stagnant ships and barges reflect across the river’s surface. This was my view this morning. Otherwise, the highway was empty because the rest of the world was sleeping.

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This Is My Art

Out of anything I hear most, I often hear people comment, “So you like to write books?” which is something that always follows with the same idea.
“I should tell you my story,” and then people say things like, “I guarantee you it’ll be a bestseller!”
I’m sure it will be. The truth is we all have a story. Each and every one of us has a story to tell; whether dull or wild, unbelievable or uninteresting, we all have a story.

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