Dear…
God…
Dear God, I am thankful for life…
I wonder if the vagrants pray and stop before their prayers are verses. Do they stop when they realise that perhaps their prayers will not change how they are drenched by the rain and dried by the sun? Strangers would still hurry without paying them any mind though a few might drop a gray or a blue note or a morsel.
Two were murdered recently. Even those who possess nothing but the rags on their backs and their knowledge are at risk of facing consequences that stem from the memories and experiences of trauma that has not been holistically addressed and often manifests in violence. I wonder if they were grateful to go. I wonder if they truly believed that some paradise awaited them. But here, where many enjoy heaven though they cannot escape the symptoms of our hell, is there any hope to continue enjoying abundance after death? Is there any joy in the life of a vagrant? Is their existence hell or simply an escape from the demands of life the rest of us endure?