Some SIMPLE observations

 

Habakkuk 2:1-2

King James Version

2 I will stand upon my watch, 

and set me upon the tower, 

and will watch to see what he will say unto me, 

and what I shall answer when I am reproved.

2 And the Lord answered me, 

and said, 

Write the vision, 

and make it plain upon tables, 

that he may run that readeth it.

Can't help but notice a few things.

I've got enough mileage in my years to know.

As born again, I am taught by SPIRIT each moment.

Time to tell you some observations.

Here are a few two-liners:

If marketers really wanted us to know what they're selling,

they'd make the print larger.

If lawyers really wanted us to know our rights,

they'd use simple language.

If lawyers really wanted to help us,

they'd charge less.

If the world was fair,

we won't need lawyers.

If doctors really wanted us to be well,

they'd refuse to partner with big pharma.

If the food industry really wanted us to be healthy,

they'd refuse to make so much processed food.

If schools really wanted us to learn,

they'd lead us to the Bible.

If lawmakers really wanted to govern well,

they'd have less laws.

If lawmakers really loved us,

they'd refuse to enrich themselves.

If creditors really wanted us to be able to pay,

they'd charge less interest.

More is not always better.

More can confuse.

Satan wants you "occupied".

So he can occupy.

Born again

is never bored again.

JESUS asked for nothing,

and yet He gave EVERYTHING.

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Image: Clipart Library

TELEGRAMATIC WRITER

 

2 Corinthians 5:17

King James Version

17 Therefore if any man be in Christ, 

he is a new creature: 

old things are passed away; 

behold, 

all things are become new.

I worried for a while.

My writing had morphed.

Where, before, I’d write longer sentences by themselves, or within paragraphs, all of a sudden it’s all changed.

That’s just been a year ago, maybe less.

As my thoughts have expanded, the words have compressed.

That was a very strange thing, for sure.

This piece you’re reading, is but a sample of how it is now for me.

Not that I’m complaining, but what can I do?

My writing merely took on another form.

It’s as if, after hundreds of blog posts, and dozens of blogs, and a few self-published books, my writing said, “Can I show you something else?”

Of course, it didn’t wait for an answer.

It showed me right away.

Short bursts of prose.

Carefully-selected words.

Precision, using the minimum.

They say, “Simplicity is mastery”, but I think in my case, it was “mastering the simple”.

It was not a difficult re-education.

If anything, it was a lovely showing-off of this new writer who took over my soul.

The writing had become faster than ever, more confident, more exact, as if using the precision of line, form, and structure I had learned when I took up Architecture.

Never did a day come that I envied my architect-friends.

How different I had turned out from them.

Not that I mind, for I always was.

When you pursue your father’s dream, you are not on the driver’s seat.

But now that I finally go full blast in my work as a writer, uncategorized, but faithful to my voice – my now telegramatic voice – I can only give myself a warm hug.

I was cut out to be a writer.

I can handle solitude.

I never had writer’s block.

If anything, it was writer’s hemorrhage.

I was bleeding through.

The ideas came in droves, and sometimes, I have to remind myself to sleep, even for short periods of time.

The mind was just so alive!

Even as my writing had become telegramatic, it created different twists all the time.

I think, a true creative writer can be given one word, just one word, and volumes would spring from that one word.

May I be so boastful as to say, I am that kind of writer?

I don’t know why.

I just am.

And I don’t wish to be anyone else.

Words have become my toys, my building blocks to figuring things out.

I write, basically, to share what I've learned.

I write, to figure things out, on my own.

I write, to explore.

I write, figuring out something in my mind, making the whole process progressive, and evolving all the time.

And, I'm always led to a "conclusion".

Even I surprise myself.

I was supposed to have been an architect.

What am I doing as a writer?

Soon as I asked that, of course, the answer was simple.

LOVE.

I love words.

So much so, that each word has become a nugget of gold for me.

That’s why my writing had become telegramatic.

One word can stand on its own.

Love.

Life.

Laughter.

God.

Me. 

You.

Art.

Joy.

All happy words.

Full of God and Spirit.

Maybe that’s really what happened.

I now have a feeling for the divine.

Finally, I am now my own writer.

Unapologetic.

And all because there’s really only one word I meditate on.

GOD.

When you have awe, you have something.

When you have God, you have everything.

(Image source: Oleg Magni)

SENSOR DEFIES the CENSOR

 

1 John 2:15-17

King James Version

15 Love not the world, 

neither the things that are in the world. 

If any man love the world, 

the love of the Father is not in him.

16 For all that is in the world, 

the lust of the flesh, 

and the lust of the eyes, 

and the pride of life, 

is not of the Father, 

but is of the world.

17 And the world passeth away, 

and the lust thereof: 

but he that doeth the will of God 

abideth for ever.

He had come into a world of sameness.

If it had been said once before, “variety is the spice of life”, well, it’s been bitter gourd the past five years.

Hardly a smile was seen.

Faces have become masks.

How the earth has changed.

How happiness has fallen.

How spirits have crashed.

He longed to see his mother’s smile, but they took her away.

She, who would brush the stray locks from his face, was locked elsewhere.

She was a bad influence to him, they said.

She, a mother, most of all, ought to have known better.

It’s just that she’s known that life before – the censure.

Why would she want the same for her son?

What future would he have in it?

It was not only criminal.

It was diabolical.

And she would have none of it.

The state would have none of that nonsense, either.

So, they took her.

Away from her screaming five-year-old.

Who would take care of him now?

Well, the state could.

But they had enough children on their hands.

Same story.

Rogue parents.

Forced separations.

It was the only way to teach both a lesson.

Separate the child from the mother.

They must not think for themselves.

The state was there to think for them.

What would happen to the world if everyone had freedom?

It would be chaos.

Just like five years ago, when the state thought it’s time for change.

People were too free.

The state wasn’t.

They were not a babysitting center.

They had more important things on their mind than look after people’s welfare.

The state wanted to expand its environs.

It needed wealth.

The freedom-loving people would de-rail them.

“Keep them in check,” the Main Man said.

“Cut short the freedom,” his followers rallied.

“Think for them,” others declared.

The general consensus?

Take away ALL freedom.

Let everyone dress the same, think the same, act the same.

Take the light out of those eyes, that’s how.

When you take the spirit, the person’s as good as dead.

That would curb population, too, the extremists gloated.

That’s how SAM had morphed into the world.

Sad, at age five.

SAM may become a beggar.

The proud, and the rebellious, become beggars in the New State.

The new leaders claimed they were undoing the damage from the previous leaders.

If one didn’t curb population, how would people be fed?

How would the state focus on more important matters when people distracted them with all their insatiable needs and wants?

People’s desires are like a large mouth and stomach that can never be fed enough.

In this day and age, after all the wars, the resources have been depleted, chaos abound.

Thus, it was ripe for censure.

Only with deprivation could the world continue.

The state snickered at the thought of the population dying like flies, as they fell off from lack of food, lack of entertainment, lack of joy, lack of respect, lack of life, and lack of spirit.

That was the whole idea, roared the Main Man.

Everything is an exercise in killing the spirit.

Kill the thought, kill the desire, kill the speech, and you kill the spirit.

Man was made to think.

Why else did he have a brain?

Even as many men hardly think, but that’s what the brain was for.

And now that they’ve been deprived of their freedom to think, and make choices, they all suddenly panic.

Where’s the logic in that?

Why was man so useless?

Why does he panic at the last minute?

Why do they always wait for the last minute?

Where, before, they had all the freedom they wanted and needed.

They had all the luxuries and choices, available for the taking.

And when they got all vain, and greedy, the wars came.

All as a result of that insatiable mouth.

Foolish, foolish people.

They deserve all that’s come to them.

But little SAM couldn’t understand that.

He was not rich.

He and his mom, a single parent, didn’t live in stately mansions.

She was a dressmaker, an endangered job, as everything was run with, and through machines.

But she loved the feel of material, the joy of doing art through her designs and stitches, or whatever her customers asked she do.

She was a tactile person, in a cold, strange, unfeeling world.

She and SAM managed with whatever little they had.

One room was all they needed.

A tiny, rented apartment sufficed.

He had begun school, too!

SAM was a chip off his mother’s shoulders, for he was simple and unambitious.

Lack of ambition was not a sin, in his mother’s books.

Over-ambition is.

She was quite content sewing those pretty dresses and quilts, imagining how they’d look good on the people who asked for them, and on the homes that needed them.

She got fair pay, too.

They did not have the heart to deprive her of the money she needed for herself and her boy.

They saw how hard she worked, and they paid fairly.

Sometimes, given the extra cash, they’d even give her more.

And SARAH was most grateful for that.

She and SAM could buy food, and keep the rented apartment.

She’d have money for his school.

Just that she made the mistake of securing his freedom.

A vengeful man caused trouble for her.

She didn’t want his attentions and he decided she’d pay for it.

Hurt and humiliated, he swore she’d pay for it.

So, he reported to the state that she was teaching her son freedom, in defiance of the state.

The kind that could break a state.

The kind that could fuel awareness in the child.

The kind that would open his eyes so he can see through the cloak of darkness and illusion put upon everyone.

The state reacted, and responded, accordingly.

“Take away that woman!” commanded the Main Man.

“Take her away from her boy, and lock her up!”

“There will be NO communication between the two, you hear?”

SAM screamed as they took his mother away.

She was a frail woman, slim of bone and structure, and hardly a violent person.

She didn’t have the strength to fight her captors.

As they took her away, she looked at the man who had done this, the one she had refused.

The one she cringed from.

The one who would be awful to her son, had she married him, for she was a widow.

She looked at him, and for a moment, he thought he saw fire there.

A blazing sort of fire, smoldering in its strength and power.

He was taken aback, as if she had slugged him.

And part of him became afraid.

She wasn’t what she seemed to be, he thought to himself.

Scratching at the men holding him back, SAM finally slumped to the floor as they carted him mom away.

What price, freedom?

Why were they so poor and powerless?

He knew the man liked his mom.

And when the man would visit his mom, on the pretext of having something sewn for his sister, SAM would draw close to his mother.

He was the man of the house, and felt protective of his mother.

Now, they took her away.

As if the sky felt his grief, it started to rain.

And the men took cover, releasing him from their clutches.

SAM scurried for cover, too, as the rain mixed with his tears.

When the rain stopped, he went to the bakery.

His friend at school, Kevin, would be there, helping his dad.

He’ll have to ask them to take him in for the night.

So, he told them what happened and they took pity on the boy.

Even they were victims of all this censure.

They were Jews who ate unleavened bread.

The state appointed theirs state bakery, and were to bake bread with yeast.

It tore Kevin’s dad apart, but what could they do?

If they didn’t comply, they would take over the bakery, and kick the whole family out, maybe even punish them, as an example.

What would an individual’s power be against the state?

This was the New State now, and they called for new rules.

Of course, the state knew the beliefs of Jews.

The LORD of their religion was pleased with unleavened bread for offerings.

The world played a cruel trick on Kevin’s family and on their beliefs.

It truly broke their heart.

And that’s exactly what the state wanted.

To break their heart and their spirit.

It, too, was humiliation.

Other Jews became afraid.

Was this to become another holocaust?

So, they ran elsewhere, leaving little Kevin and his parents, to fend for themselves, and to take the humiliation.

And then one day, salvation came.

LUCAS, was an intuitive.

He could see and feel things others couldn’t.

Had he seen the fire in the eyes of SAM’s mother?

As she walked past her tormentor, LUCAS was able to identify it.

He was of the same blood.

The kind that didn’t give in.

Except in his case, he was more street-wise.

He had lived through hell and back with his tormentors, too.

The people who took away his publishing business.

They said, “Ban the Bible!”

That was the only one LUCAS cared to print.

All other books were half-truths.

For him, the Bible was the ONLY Truth.

And you know what he did?

He surprised them all.

They thought he’d either rage, panic, or beg.

He did none of those things.

A child of GOD doesn’t bow before satan.

He leaves.

After all, the WORD of GOD was forever imprinted in his heart.

He knew the BIBLE by heart.

They could take away his business, or even his belief, and it won’t amount to anything.

He was a SOLDIER for CHRIST, and warriors don’t weep over loss.

They merely keep going.

Do you realize that kind of power, wherein all is taken from you, and yet to manage to keep going?

Only because there’s a secret FIRE in your SOUL, which no one can touch.

That was the very same FIRE in SAM’s mother.

When she flashed her eyes like that.

Sending a message to the perpetrator.

Letting it sink deep into his bones.

It was not born of the witch.

It was born of the SON of GOD.

She had been quietly reading the Bible.

A contraband in those days.

The state had taken over LUCAS’ publishing company.

Purposely so he’d stop printing those.

In its place, they started printing rules for the people.

At every post was seen a set of rules.

At the left side of every door, of every home, was such a set of rules, printed in thick, coated paper which the elements wouldn’t be able to easily destroy.

And inside every home, in every room, those same set of rules must be posted.

LUCAS’ printing press came in handy.

And so very convenient.

Talking about killing two birds with one stone.

The WORDS of GOD will be heard.

SAM was just learning a few of those verses.

And he recited a few that night as he stayed at Kevin’s home.

Come morning, he had to find a new place to stay.

And that’s how he bumped into LUCAS.

Head bowed, hands in pocket, feeling the cold air amplified by the wind, he kicked a few leaves on the street, not noticing a man walking on the opposite side.

“Whoa, little one!” said LUCAS, as he steadied the child who bumped into him.

The little boy had been zig-zagging his way on the street, lost in his own thoughts.

SAM looked up at him, and LUCAS’ heart was pierced by those grieving eyes.

What grieved this child so?

He was a sensor, wasn’t he?

He could sense what people needed, or wanted.

He could “read” their countenances.

He could not read their minds, for that was arrogant.

It was foolish of the state to employ psychics.

That was pure arrogance and disrespect.

An abomination in the eyes  of GOD.

But LUCAS couldn't help it.

He could read their moods and feelings.

But he would never interfere with the mind.

They had to want to talk about the things that bothered them, or mattered to them.

And here was little SAM, needing nourishment, which LUCAS suspected, was not merely for the body, but for the spirit, the mind, and the heart.

He didn’t like seeing children sad.

They were created for joy.

He took the little boy to a coffee shop.

The boy ate huge pancakes and drank milk.

The color began to show on his face once more.

He thanked LUCAS, for he was taught manners by his mom.

Then, he began talking about his mom.

LUCAS listened closely, and felt compassion for the two.

Almost the same age, in their early 30s, LUCAS thought of a way to get the mother out.

And that’s when the plan began to form in his mind.

He would form friendships in the kitchen.

The one that supplied food to the prisoners.

That’s what he’ll do.

He’ll be a mere porter.

That will give the least attention, to a lowly position as that.

Let the cooks take the bulk of fame.

SAM loved the idea, and was sworn to secrecy.

He would stay with LUCAS tonight, and every night.

LUCAS had some money stashed away, even as the state grabbed his publishing company.

He had a little place in the woods, away from the eyes of the state.

SAM would be safe there.

Let them think him stupid or a coward.

It’s good to be forgotten, if this was the state that would lead them all to further ruin.

Let him have passed into nothingness.

But right now, he had to focus on freeing SARAH.

Dressing up like an ordinary worker, he looked like a porter, because he was lean, but muscled.

LUCAS got the job easily.

Of course, he was careful and cut his hair and shaved his beard.

He looked young and orderly, and the kitchen staff was relieved, as they needed an extra hand.

Being short of hands, just as he suspected, he would be asked to bring food to the prisoners.

And that was his first encounter with SAM’s mom.

His heart went out to the young woman sitting dejectedly in a corner, so frail and thin.

He recognized her, after seeing her tiny photograph, which little SAM put in his pocket.

Earlier, the little one was all over himself, life coming back to him, excited that LUCAS may find his mom, and perhaps – and he prayed with all his might – reunite them both again.

Now, LUCAS gently motioned for the young woman to get her food.

He couldn’t risk calling her “SARAH”, and alert others unnecessarily.

Not really hungry, she went to LUCAS, only because he seemed bearer of good news.

The total stranger seemed out of place to intuitive SARAH.

And she was right.

SAM is now in the care of this kind man, and she was forever grateful.

He couldn’t talk much, so he merely gave her a piece of paper with instructions on it.

Making her promise to shred the paper in bits after reading it.

That was the escape plan.

He was good with locks.

He’d come around midnight, when everyone was asleep, and free her from that dungeon.

And they’d walk through the shadowed alleys, till they get to the woods.

GOD must have been around.

The plan went smoothly, despite their hairs on end.

Surely, GOD had sent His angels to keep them all safe.

If you don’t believe in GOD, then you won’t believe that either.

But SAM, SARAH, and LUCAS did.

Kind LUCAS was not brought to them for a limp reason.

Everything felt right for the three to become family, eventually.

For love had grown among them.

There was trust and respect.

Something the state could not offer their people.

That being that, this young family would work at giving hope and freedom to the rest of the suffering, censured population.

It had been quite a while since a voice was heard.

Censure creates silence, and thus, death.

LUCAS will be that hopeful voice, guided by GOD.

SARAH and SAM will work alongside him.

There was much to do.

Fortunately, GOD was on their side.

More stories here.

Image: Libre Shot

The TIRED, OLD WARRIOR

 

Ephesians 6:11

King James Version

11 Put on the whole armour of God, 

that ye may be able to stand 

against the wiles of the devil.

I get dreams,

forever battling something.

This time,

I fought black scorpions.

So large and thick-shelled,

my metal spear clanked.

Then one scorpion shrinks,

goes into a young girl's back.

Possessively,

an older woman hovers over her.

Not good, 

not good at all.

The parasite must not,

ever reach the young girl's heart.

Then I espied a tired, old warrior,

sitting, wounded, and depleted.

He looks up at me,

would I continue the fight?

I take up the cudgel,

following both women.

MORE poetry here.

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(Image source: Insomn1ack for New Grounds)

The THREE SCIENTISTS

 

Genesis 2:7

King James Version

7 And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground, 

and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; 

and man became a living soul.

I saw them in a dream,

many many years ago.

All huddled together.

THREE molecular biologists.

Looking worried, 

oblivious to my presence.

We were inside a church,

strange thing.

One was American;

another, German.

But the French,

he comes by my way.

Smiles, and hands me,

a card with his name on it.

Michel,

the friendly French scientist.

But you see, 

it was just a dream.

Of how the scientists know,

something we don’t.

I was the outsider,

looking in.

MORE poetry here.

(Image source: Furiosa-L)

PRINCE of the AIR

 

Ephesians 2:2

King James Version

2 Wherein in time past ye walked 

according to the course of this world, 

according to the prince of the power of the air, 

the spirit that now worketh in the children of disobedience:

He’s so subtle,

you would never suspect.

Where heavy dreams are,

he can be found.

Where storms rage,

he is responsible.

Where chaos is,

he is perpetrator.

Where doubt surfaces,

he’s been there.

Where confusion abounds,

he smiles knowingly.

Where tornadoes whirl,

he’s in the midst of it.

When men fight,

he’s surely instigator.

When men lust,

he drools alongside.

Where there is greed,

his talons are.

Where the SON is,

he can’t be found.

He’s been called,

the prince of the air.

At other times,

the ruler of the world.

Oftentimes,

the deceiver.

GOD's BOOK,

said so.

He smiles,

in acknowledgment.

Humans are such,

very tasty morsels.

Thus, he’s made,

his home here.

With no one,

ever suspecting.

And has been enjoying,

a very long reign.

And a reign,

that cannot be reined in.

With no one,

ever suspecting.

Go back to sleep,

humanity!

The prince of the air,

watches over you.

Closely,

ever so cruelly.

Now, if you wish to be FREE,

you know what to do.

JESUS waits.

MORE poetry here.

BRICK and BRYTHE

 

Ephesians 4:32

King James Version

32 And be ye kind one to another, 

tenderhearted, 

forgiving one another, 

even as God for Christ's sake hath forgiven you.

They were brother-sister, with a gap of just a year between them.

BRYTHE, the younger of the two, the girl, was now five, and really quite adorable with that wild mane of fine, blond hair.

It looked wild, only because it was like dandelion tops, so light and free, blowing with the wind.

BRICK, the older – ha, that sounded so royal – was the boy, aged six, and as you can imagine, was built like a “brick”.

His frame was solid.

He imagined himself his sister’s champion, the one who can slay all her dragons, which, by the way, he often put on her way.

But that’s what older brothers are there for.

To torment the rest of the sbilings.

And yes, yes, occasionally, to redeem themselves in one, chivalrous act that would remain in the minds of everyone.

BRICK, the older, indeed.

You pronounce BRICK as “brick”, for he is built like a brick, and you pronounce BRYTHE along the lines of “bright”, for she is as bright as the day.

No, there is no Welsh blood in her, or in both.

They were as American as the American flag.

They lived with Mom and Dad in a cabin-style house.

Almost like those one-room affairs with everything made of wood.

Spartan, but comfortable.

You see, it was the late 1800s, so you can imagine little BRYTHE in her cotton frock, and that gorgeous, wild, dandelion hair.

And BRICK, almost Tom-Sawyer-type, with suspenders holding up those dark pants, where a stained white shirt was carelessly-tucked.

The children were at play on the field, so you can imagine that those clothes will take some beating.

Running was fun, but it was hot, so they took a break.

They felt thirsty all of a sudden.

The stream was a bit far, it will have to wait.

Spying a huge rock, BRICK gratefully sat on it.

Soon as he sat on it, he fell.

It was a giant turtle.

It wasn’t about to become a stool.

BRYTHE laughed and laughed, till she could no longer.

And collapsed on the grass in exhaustion.

BRICK felt humiliated and cried and cried.

In stark contrast to his sister who was laughing at the funny sight.

BRICK was BRICK no longer, and he fell apart.

He wanted to kick the poor turtle.

I take that back.

The turtle had a shell.

She was old and large.

BRICK might just break his tiny foot, if anything.

That will result in more humiliation.

They lived in a tiny town of 5,000.

First, his mom and dad will laugh.

Then, they’ll tell other folks about it.

Starting with grandpa and grandma.

Then grandpa and grandma will tell their neighbors.

And the neighbors will tell the people at the general store.

The people at the general store will tell everyone in town.

In a whole day’s time, maybe even just a whole morning, the whole town will know about it.

And laugh, for it’s too funny.

“A rock? Ha ha ha.”

“The little one thought it was a rock? Ha ha ha.”

BRICK cannot take that.

All brickness about him will crumble.

So, BRICK cried again, frustrated that he could not kick the perpetrator.

He could kick the head, but it was a giant turtle, with a snake’s head, and mean-looking eyes, eyeing him closely.

Was he in disgrace, too?

A rock, indeed!

BRYTHE could almost feel the turtle miffed.

Personally, she was proud of that shell, which has survived the ages, of which these two, with their years combined, would only amount to an eight of his actual age.

I suppose female turtles are vain, too.

The shell was their cloak, and anyone who thought it was a rock, deserved to be squashed or bitten.

BRICK realized his foolishness.

The large turtle was miffed, alright, getting ready for battle, snapping its powerful jaws, for good measure.

The humiliated boy decided to call it a day.

It was too early to do so, but he suffered enough humiliation.

“Promise not to tell ANYONE!” he made his sister promise.

“Ha ha ha, sure…”

Not trusting her flushed face, for she had laughed read hard under the sun, he made her promise again.

And that was that.

Of course, the whole town heard about it, as one other boy, BRUCE, happened to be around the area that time.

He had just helped is father stack some hay.

Talking about timing.

He witnessed everything.

Such luck!

He could finally get that BRICK once and for all.

He’d always been afraid of the solidly-built boy, who’d scowl at him some days.

Ah, but this time, he got him!

So, he went running to town, no horse needed, as it was within running distance.

Plus, he was on a mission.

He told everyone at the general store, and the cans, fruits, and vegetables started rolling as men and women dropped their baskets and sacks,giving way to laughter.

Poor BRICK.

Now, the whole town was informed and he would be marked for life.

Realizing how mean she had become, BRYTHE put both hands together, as if in prayer and supplication, and with her clear, grey eyes, asked for his forgiveness.

By now, the tears had stopped, and he was ready to forgive her.

They have become siblings once more.

And BRUCE's gossip, lost all power.

One look at the siblings' arm over the other said it all.

He went home in a huff.

And the large turtle went her way, too.

Rock, indeed!

MORE short stories here.

Image: Wallpaper Access

BORN TO WRITE

 

Jeremiah 17:10

King James Version

10 I the Lord search the heart, 

I try the reins, 

even to give every man according to his ways, 

and according to the fruit of his doings.

This was originally sub-titled: "What happens when the lights go out".

Now, that must be self-explanatory.

But will see what this story reveals.

For it was written in 2020.

INTRODUCTION

I tried reading.

But I can’t seem to read anymore.

So, there lay my many books, covers unopened, pages unread, tossed in a growing pile.

Since God made me born again, I started writing my own books.

Prodded by the Holy Spirit, I can’t seem to read other people’s books anymore.

I can only read my index card notes of Jesus’ words.

The Bible is the only book I open these days.

That’s how deep the Spirit has gotten into me.

I am a totally changed person, for sure.

There’s no electricity today.

That's a challenge for today's writer, and online marketer.

Twelve hours of not being able to use the internet.

But these things don’t matter anymore.

I even welcome a no-electricity day.

I always attribute it to God wanting me to do things differently today.

Perhaps, to stop online marketing for 12 hours.

Perhaps, so I can rest my mind and body.

Perhaps, to write another book.

I was hoping I’d read a book I got months ago.

They remained unopened on my desk.

Ah, but once I got hold of my index cards, with the precious words of Jesus in it, my mind woke up.

It was ready to roll.

Only God’s words can envelop me in its warmth.

It was the only trigger I needed.

Must be, as I’m writing again, .

Even as my laptop has only 45% battery power left.

And I don’t even have a title to this prose, yet.

But writing has become a compulsion.

I’ve been crazy about writing for 59 days now.

That’s nearly two months of non-stop writing.

Well, I actually stopped for a week, at least, after finishing the 22nd book on 30 December 2019.

I let a week pass by.

Then, one day in 2020, a week ago, the writing fever took hold again.

I finished two books in two days, my first non-fiction books.

After writing 22 short fiction books prior to that.

And now, in all likelihood, this will be the 25th book, without a title yet, but triggered by Scripture verses I wrote down, which really mattered.

Perhaps, the title of this book will be, “A Book With No Title”.

Wouldn’t that be weird?

Just because I have this compulsion to write, and loving Jesus’ words as I do, here I am writing non-stop again.

Well, at least, until the battery holds.

Before doing this, I was editing and “perfecting” my online marketing prose.

Now, they’re all perfect, and ready to go, once the lights come back on in a little over five hours.

I’m now over 400 words with this, soon as I started just minutes ago.

Though, I really know what God wants me to talk about now.

Not that I’m an authority on Scripture, but perhaps because I’ve taken note of the verses that matter.

I cannot boast I’ve read the whole Bible.

I’ve only read 10 books, out of 66.

I’ve focused on the four Gospels from the Apostles (focusing on the words and instructions of Jesus), the Books of Moses, Revelation, James, and scanned a few others.

But I felt, that those were the books that mattered for me, at this point in my writing life.

I know the title will reveal itself, as I keep writing here.

Funny, I usually start with a title, and the body produces itself, through the guidance of the Holy Spirit.

But now, I have the body, and no title.

Would that make a cool title?

“A Body With No Title”?

I’ll wait till God tells me that’s what He wants.

What?

I can hear God’s voice?

I can’t quite explain to you the process, how God works with me.

And if He worked with you, I’m sure you won’t be able to explain either.

God is not a process.

God is.

He is the Alpha and the Omega.

The beginning and the end.

And everything in between.

My whole work is God.

It is the Spirit of God in me, without which, my writing would be flat.

My whole being is infused with the Spirit of God.

This imperfect person is His tool to remind people of certain things about His Son.

Stuff that many have kept quiet or hidden.

Stuff that many have chosen to ignore or set aside.

But this imperfect person chose to scour all research, and find God’s nuggets of truth.

And when I did find them, and wrote them on index cards, only then was I ready to write.

God knew I’d do that.

He knew my thinking process.

He knew how I conducted my research.

He knew the tenacity and energy put into whatever I chose to do, on things or ideas that fascinated me the most.

And now, my flash drive patiently awaits the glorious title for this prose.

I’m nearly 800 words now and I haven’t a clue.

I find that refreshing.

I am normally “given” a phrase, which serves as title or sub-title.

Now, my heart directed me to the verses, writing the body here, and yet not touching the verses yet.

And no title, to boot.

This will be a very interesting book, once finished.

Perhaps, God’s allowing me to write differently today.

Perhaps, I’ve earned a ribbon for being true and faithful.

Perhaps, God’s playing with me, teasing me into being.

I have a really good relationship with God.

I am playful with Him, and He is playful with me.

Judging by the dreams and impressions I get.

But that’s me, and things will be different for you, too.

And finally, the bug that startled me earlier, showed up, too, crawling on some papers to my left.

It didn’t look half as scary now.

Earlier, it clanked against my lamp.

And I whisked it with some cloth.

It looked really scary and ugly earlier.

Now, it found its way outside my window.

I had to evict the interloper.

I am writing and I can’t be startled by a crawling, jumping insect.

Still, no title.

Merely ramblings from a compulsive writer.

Maybe I have hypergraphia.

A little more about that on the next chapter. 

Chapter 1

HYPERGRAPHIA

“Hypergraphia is a behavioral condition characterized by the intense desire to write or draw.”

-- Wikipedia

I had no idea writing like a nut was a disorder.

Neither did I know that drawing like crazy was also a disorder.

Had something to do with epilepsy, they said.

So, that means, that at age eight, drawing as I did, I had hypergraphia.

And that writing as I did, at age 13, meant I also had hypergraphia.

How come my father, a physician-surgeon, didn’t alert me to my so-called disorder?

How come he often asked me to be his secretary and was even proud that I could draw, exhibiting a fine hand like his?

So, why do other doctors (thank God, not my dad) have nothing good to say about people who can just write or draw like crazy?

Would they also call the productive and prolific science writer, Isaac Asimov, hypergraphic?

I bet they won’t dare.

Perhaps, they’d also better not call Pablo Picasso, hypergraphic, lest he smash some canvas atop their heads, and declare, “Ah, now, that’s art!”

I know, I know, I’m being flippant.

Not sore, but flippant, and actually tickled.

That anyone would think a fast, crazy, and compulsive writer like me would have such a challenge.

Don’t they know that most artists are crazy?

Can you work with such zeal and passion, and fire and rage, if you’re a lukewarm kind of person?

Robots don’t have life.

Artists do.

And writers and illustrators are artists.

Never mind if they’re amateur.

Art is art, yes?

Fortunately, such things don’t bother me.

When you love words the way I do, such things are laughable.

Words are my toys, and I don’t need to go to Toys R Us.

Tell Ernest Hemingway he’s got hypergraphia, and he may just drop you in the bull ring.

Words are tasty morsels, you know.

True writers can’t have enough of them.

I guess the world’s full of hypergraphic people.

Check all the libraries of the world.

Check all the book shops.

Gaze with fascination when authors do book-signings.

Publishers, then, must be responsible for this addiction?

They allow the writer to keep writing.

And, readers are also responsible for propagating our disease?

Without readers, where would writers be?

And then, again, I’m not so concerned if people read my work.

I’m hypergraphic, remember?

I simply write, with no thought of readers, or royalties.

Same thing with my art.

I simply draw, with no thought of who’d like it, or buy it.

That also means, kids are hypergraphic, because they write and draw on walls, anytime, anywhere.

It is a compulsion.

Where I live, the mayor closed off the main streets on Sundays, so the children – or anyone who cares to – can write or draw with colored chalk on the asphalt.

And the stores that sell those colored chalk, further encourage our disease.

That makes the mayor and his staff guilty, too.

How can we ever be cured?

Never mind, what do I care.

I must write, or I’ll go nuts.

I can’t help it.

I write easily.

I write fast.

I write anytime Spirit moves me.

I’ve written 24 books since 24 November 2019, and this is my 25th.

So, in a span of 59 days, I’ve written 2.36 books a day.

Consider it two books a day.

I really must have hypergraphia.

Chapter 2

NO CURES PLEASE

This “mental” disorder allows me to sleep only four hours a night.

Not that I need much sleep.

Writers who have something to say, just write.

We lose track of time, dates, or events.

We’re just so into the groove of things.

Happily ensconced in our little cocoon of a room.

We travel everywhere without leaving our seats.

We are probably the most stationary people, short of those in a coma.

Nah, couch potatoes, we beat you easily.

Now, my friends will be pleased.

Finally, there is a name to my disease.

My mom, especially, will be relieved.

She wonders what I do in my room all day long.

She wonders if I sleep at all.

She wonders where my work is.

I haven’t shown her any.

Perhaps, on the 100th book, I’ll show her.

For now, I’m only on my 25th book in 59 days.

Not counting the two blogs I’ve created.

And the previous blogs I have.

And the dozens of articles on all those blogs.

And all the dozens of blogs and articles I’ve deleted this year, thinking it’s not a good example of hypergraphia.

Nope, I must have more of that disorder.

I’m not working enough.

I’m not at my peak.

Shame on me!

Why did God give this gift and I’m lukewarm?

I must be on FIRE!

I must write five books a day.

Now, that’d be real hypergraphia.

I’d like to personally see the doctor’s faces as I write my books, not looking at my laptop, but at their faces.

My fingers busily typing away, the laptop catching fire, and my eyes glued to their freaked faces.

I know they’re good with words, too.

Doctors usually are. 

Don’t forget, I’ve had a doc dad.

Plus, he was a whiz at literature.

Even better than I can ever be.

And he had a brilliant brain.

He loved writing letters, too.

And he could draw well.

Was my disease hereditary, perhaps?

All I can boast about is I can write and I can draw.

I am fast at both fields.

I have a particular penchant for drawing the left eye.

Not just an eye, but it has to be the left eye.

I wonder what doctors would call that aberration?

But I can draw the left eye real fast, with pretty eyebrows, pupils, and lashes.

An eye that’s alive.

And yet, gentle.

So, I must have hypergraphia, as I love to write and draw.

But please, no cures.

I love my disease.

I’m not the best, but heck, I can write.

I’m a maniac when an idea hits me.

During the days of pencil and paper, I’d write.

During the days of pen and paper, I’d write.

During the days of manual typewriters, I’d write.

During the days of electric typewriters, I’d write.

During the days of electronic typewriters, I’d write.

During the days of laptops, I’d write even more, and faster.

When I had none of these at particular moments, I’d still find something to write on, lest the moment be lost.

Without a laptop some of the time, I’d still write.

The pen and paper were invented for writers and artists.

Just because you don’t have a typewriter or a computer, doesn’t mean a writer becomes useless.

Hello!

I write on the backs of receipts.

I write on grade-school notebooks, for they have large spaces, and colorful covers, gets my writing juices going.

I write on any piece of paper that happens to be around when an idea hits me.

I don’t know when it will hit me, so I must borrow pen and ask for paper so I can write when an idea forms.

It’s just key words, really.

Or a few phrases or sentences.

A title of a book or article would be formed.

Just like that.

That's pretty much all I need.

For when I’d get home, I’d develop or explore the idea.

But if you ignore it, boy, you lose.

You’ve turned your back on Spirit, and you may not get lucky next time.

The only reason why I write like a nut is because I pay attention to EVERY word, phrase, and idea that I hear, see, or get an imprint of.

Like those astronomers glued to their telescopes.

Or the radionomers (don't really know what to call them) glued to their radios, hoping to hear life from outer space.

I don’t edit anything.

Shame on you if you edit before the idea’s even fully formed.

Spirit likes those who pay attention.

Edit AFTERWARDS.

For now, just keep your body loose, your mind awake and alert.

On receiving mode.

Don’t project, be quiet.

Don’t manipulate anything, just allow.

That's how I learn.

Teaching myself to listen.

You’re not the boss.

Spirit is.

I guess, it’s Spirit who has hypergraphia.

I’m just a scribe.

I merely take down dictation.

Phew, what a relief!

Chapter 3

BOOK WITH NO TITLE

I’ve written over 2,000 words, and still, no title.

Although a few play around in my mind.

Strangest thing.

A book with not title.

Now I know the Holy Spirit’s playing with me.

It’s allowing me to relax all day.

Says I’d been working too hard.

In truth, I have been.

In fact, I was working so hard at online marketing.

Published that 24th book a few days ago, on Amazon.

Then decided to create another blog.

A playful, relaxing blog this time.

With a marketing twist, of course.

Except this time, I focused on “coffee”.

So, I promoted a page on coffee traffic exchanges.

For those not familiar with online marketing and surfing, it’s a blog page sharing three sites where you can join, put in your ads, and surf.

You surf to earn credits.

You watch other people’s ads, you get credits, and you use those credits for your own ads.

Democratic marketing.

Except this time, I focused on coffee traffic exchanges.

I love coffee.

Especially the frothy, earthy, nutty type.

Perfect for my frothy, earthy, nutty personality.

I’m sure your type of coffee is who you are.

Are you a three-in-one?

Har har.

That’s the commercial coffee we have here in the Philippines.

And in many parts of Asia.

The first one I tried came form Malaysia.

A powdered mixture of coffee, sugar, and creamer.

I also like milk tea, except my favorite brand can’t be found anywhere anymore.

I must give them a piece of my marketing mind.

Unless the price of tea worldwide had gone up?

What do I really know about commodity futures trading?

Though, as a young upstart in the big city, I got into that.

Worked in the tallest building.

Not really knowing what to do with tea, coffee, wheat trading.

To this day, I still don’t.

I don’t know about futures.

I only know the future from the Bible.

From the prophecies of Jesus.

What other future matters, anyway?

People and commodities won’t be around when God says, “It’s time!”

That’s what I’m preparing for, thus, all the writing I do.

Twenty-two books on spiritual warfare – short fiction.

Two books on Jesus – non-fiction.

And this quirky 25th book – also non-fiction.

I knew that when I was done with the 22nd fiction book, that was probably the last of it.

Now, I’m braver, and need not hide behind fiction.

Now, it’s all me and Jesus.

No SCRIBU to hide behind.

I called my 26-year-old character, SCRIBU.

Stands for “Scripture-Based Understanding”.

My heroine in all 22 books.

And now, I’ve only got 30% battery power left on my laptop.

I still can’t read a book, even if I wanted to.

I just want to write, and write, and write.

For, it comes easily to me.

Hopefully, before the battery runs out, I’d have finished writing this book.

And I better have a title to it already.

Would you like to buy a book without a title?

Won’t it turn algorithms crazy?

Not knowing how to categorize it.

An ant lands on my screen.

That can get crazy when you’re writing.

I don’t want to follow its path.

I want to follow my words.

And another crawls over to the side of my laptop.

I’ve heard that they like the innards of a laptop.

Huh?

They like the wirings, and motherboard?

I don’t eat while I write.

I don’t like crumbs on my laptop.

Only because I don’t want it to attract ants.

I don’t like my fingers sticky when I write.

I care for my laptop.

Works so hard with me, you know.

I keep my coffee away so I won’t spill on my laptop and damage it.

(Though once, it did.)

(Mercifully, laptop stayed on.)

I’ve got respect for my main companion, as I write.

Actually, my main companion is God.

He’s the one that keeps me writing.

He won’t tell if I’ll earn.

He just wants me to write.

It really takes faith to work with God.

It seems He has no use for money, and I’m very alright with that.

That’s how your faith is tested.

And anyway, Jesus did say:

John 6:27

King James Version

“Labour not for the meat which perisheth, 

but for that meat which endureth unto everlasting life, 

which the Son of man shall give unto you: 

for him hath God the Father sealed.”

Finally, I shared a verse.

I thought, the whole exercise of writing this book was to share those verses.

But apparently, the Holy Spirit wanted something different today.

How can I claim it’s the Holy Spirit?

Well, try writing 25 books in 59 days, and see where it’s coming from.

It’s not humanly possible, others would say.

Well, Spirit and I did it.

Perhaps, our writing’s sweet.

Even ants and other insects visit us as we write.

Would people read what we write?

A few friends of mine do.

Other marketers do.

But I am a writer for God.

Well, at least, I volunteered.

So, there’s no stopping me.

Chapter 4

UNSTOPPABLE

It’s so very true.

When the Spirit’s in you, there’s no stopping you, or the work Spirit wants done.

When I write, I just write.

I don’t think of the bills I have to pay, the errands I have to do, the online marketing that waits alongside this.

I don’t think, “Would people read this?”

Or, “Would people buy this?”

When Spirit prods me to write, we just write.

We leave the world behind.

Spirit wants me to focus on the Words of God, Scripture, Jesus’ instructions, the work I need to do each day.

Many days I feel right on track, for when I listen to the ministers on YouTube, I get encouraged.

I’m right on the path to Christ.

All that I’ve been laboring about, is exactly what they’re laboring about, too.

We labor, for there is no assurance people will listen.

We labor, for this is a thankless task.

We labor, for the path is not easy.

We labor, for there is no income here.

God and mammon don’t mix, you know that.

Serving God is joy and fulfillment in itself.

He will not promise you the world, for the world belongs to His challenger and usurper.

You also know that.

So, if you’re accumulating wealth, power, fame, prestige, likes, followers, and possessions, but not tending to your soul, oh boy, you’re in deep trouble.

Think in terms of the imminent Rapture.

And don't get me started on the Tribulation after that.

Hope you're prepared!

He’s given us many warnings, and I’m paying attention.

Precisely why I was drawn to read the Bible.

How else am I going to know what Christ wants?

How else am I going to know about the past, present, and future in God’s timing?

All the history books around cannot be compared to the Bible.

This is God’s Story.

“His Story”, as the ministers point out.

That’s what I’m paying attention to.

That’s the whole objective of all my writing exercise -- in fiction and non-fiction.

To honor Jesus.

To get us all back to God.

Following Jesus (“The Way, the Truth, and the Life”), as we do.

Christ is the Path.

Without Jesus, we’d all be lost.

That’s the whole theme of all my books – JESUS, and Jesus alone.

Only Jesus knows how to pray, and to worship the Father.

God has been very patient with all of us.

We have done away with all His messengers.

His prophets, apostles, and Son.

What kind of people are we?

That really makes me think a whole lot, thus, the books I write.

And now, I only have 22% left in my battery, but I must keep going.

Each moment writing for God is precious.

If I stop, I’d lose momentum.

Just like in that other book I started, but left unfinished.

I couldn’t get back into the stream of it, after that.

I shelved it, and wrote a different book altogether.

The 24th book – “6 STEPS TO JESUS”.

That’s a really wonderful book to read.

It has all the six steps back to Christ.

I found it as I read the Bible.

So, I took notes and wrote it on index cards.

Those index cards have largely guided all my 25 books.

Including this book you’re reading now.

A few index cards of Jesus’ most important words, and I am able to write 25 books.

Even I am taken aback at the volume of books and love in my heart.

I've always known there were a lot of books in my heart.

Only the HOLY SPIRIT made sense of things.

I find that I can keep going, and going.

Maybe, until I’m gone.

What does a writer do?

Write, of course!

What else are we to do?

And I’m a scribe to Spirit, so I really have to write, when prodded by Spirit.

The Teacher of All Things, the Advocate, the Holy Ghost, has much to say.

I can’t just be saying those things, for all my works are based on SCRIPTURE.

I can’t write for myself anymore.

I can’t write useless stuff.

I can’t write senseless stuff.

I write valuable things from Spirit.

The battery’s about to give out.

But I can squeeze in a few more words here.

That’s how we write, Spirit and I.

When we write, we write – oblivious to anything else but the moment of dispensing truth.

I merely take down dictation.

Spirit uses what I have in my heart, and intentions.

The Teacher of All Things uses what simple language I have, for I do write simply.

And sometimes, humorously.

God made me that way.

Soon, I’ll be reminded by my laptop that it’s on battery reserve mode.

At least, I got this far, Spirit allowing.

It’s time to rest, anyway.

I’d been writing non-stop for an hour or more.

And still, no title, hahahaha.

Perhaps, when the lights come on, the Light will come on.

For now, it’s daylight outside, nice and bright, the sun’s out, the sky is a lovely blue, the weather breezy and beautiful.

So very perfect for writing this book with no title.

I didn’t realize it was possible for a book to have no title.

With the body writing itself.

But, I guess, with God, all things are possible.

Maybe He’s waiting for me to figure it out.

I’ve been a soul sleuth for most of my life.

Perhaps, I’ll figure it out.

But you know what?

More often than not, it surfaces on its own.

That’s the coolest thing of all.

Chapter 5

OBLIVIOUS

Nineteen percent remaining.

Laptop says that.

I can squeeze in a few more words, pushing the battery to the limit.

It will be recharged later, anyway.

Spirit and I are still hot on the task of God.

No electricity, low battery power, ants, a scary insect – nothing stops us.

We just keep writing, and amusing God.

I know He laughs at my ways.

He knows I have a child-like heart.

He knows I know His Laws now.

He knows I do my best to follow those laws.

He knows I’m no longer ignorant.

He knows I like to keep that innocent spirit with Him.

Only a child-like heart can have such a capability.

Let not your hearts be too “adult-erated” by the world.

Make God your number one priority.

Make Him your supreme focus.

Of course, when you do that, you will turn your back on the world.

And that’s why not too many people surrender to God.

The worldly price is too high.

People are not quite ready to give up everything.

It’s awareness of the highest sort.

The world and God don’t mix.

Humans know that.

So, they continue about their lives, not wanting to make that “commitment”.

Well, I am committed to the LORD, the God, and Savior.

Nothing matters in this world but God.

I wouldn’t be on earth if not for God.

It’s not just my parents I ought to be grateful for.

It’s God.

Without God, there won’t be me, you, our parents, our siblings, our friends, our relatives, our co-workers, and everything He created for us.

Of course, those who don't care for me, wish I had not been born.

But God wanted me born.

As He wanted you born.

God is the only real thing.

We are merely extensions of His Grace.

If not for the Grace of God, we won’t be here.

If not for the Grace of God, I wouldn’t be able to write, despite my difficult circumstances.

And I’m not talking about the absence of electricity, low battery power, ants, and the insect.

Nope.

Something else.

A challenge I probably had, all my life.

It’s a test, for sure.

But that’s for another story, when I’ve got it all figured out, under the Grace and Guidance of the Holy Spirit.

Only by the Grace of God, do I exist, and am able to write this 25th book, which, I think, may be finished already.

Battery, ha!

We beat you to it.

Thing is, what’s the title?

I’ll get around to that later, for sure.

Titles are mere sign posts for me.

Well, I got to the path.

This time, without a sign post.

Weird, but that’s what happened today.

This is truly a day to remember, for a writer like myself.

A book with no title.

Maybe, that will be the title?

Though, I have a suspicion what it will be.

But I’ll confirm that later.

It will surface on its own.

What a strange book, this one.

I love how God surprises me.

For now, I better save my work, and let it all piece itself together later.

The main work’s done.

It’s as good as done.

Thank you for being here with me today.

I am honored by your attention.

And I am grateful.

Now, the keys are getting tough to strike.

It’s time to stop.

Writers must know when to stop.

Hypergraphia, or no hypergraphia.

There is peace in stopping.

Until I see you again!

Funny, as the lights went out, a book came forth.

Good use of time.

With Spirit, nothing is ever wasted.

EPILOGUE

The lights came on just now.

But, while waiting, Spirit led me to a surprise.

Not knowing what to do after battery had run out from laptop, and not wanting to read a book either, I decided to go to the basement.

In the process, I “re-discovered” my essays from High School.

I had kept it all these years.

I was but 13 and 14 then, so that’s a good many decades since.

You could see how writing mattered to me even then.

Reading it, in the presence of my mother, we both laughed at my child-likeness and even childishness in those writings.

I didn’t realize my penmanship was hardly legible, even to me.

How much I’ve really changed!

But reading my essays, after so many decades, opened my eyes to how I was as a child.

And at how much I enjoyed writing, even then.

Having been sheltered all my life, writing essays was a good form of self-expression for me then.

Not many classmates cared to write, but I did.

I looked forward to such moments in school.

I really must have, as it’s rare for anyone to have kept their essay writings from High School.

Of course, I discovered many other treasures of my previous “research”.

Even as a young girl, I was already “collecting” information of all sorts that interested me.

So, I found folded pamphlets, and stuff I typed – like “types” of phobias.

Wow, I researched those, at age 13?

In a way, I was always documenting everything in my life.

I also took many photographs of people in the past, and that’s why I remembered people as they were.

What am I to do with these past writings, the stuff that documented my childhood, and thoughts?

Well, I’m thinking of putting it in a book, maybe the next book after this.

After all, I did write them.

Maybe, I can encourage young people to write, or keep writing.

Never mind if our thoughts were funny then.

Who cares?

The important thing is you care what happens to you, and the world.

That showed in my writing, even at a young age.

I’ve always been that way, I guess.

There’s no hiding your personality.

Spirit took me to the basement so I may find my work.

All over again.

The Teacher of All Things wanted to show my real gift – writing.

It had always been writing, through and through.

Whether I wrote in English or Filipino (my national language), my approach was the same.

I loved to write.

You could not distance me from pen and paper.

Those were pre-computer days, even as I did mention something about computers in one essay.

I thought that very strange.

That was in the mid-70s and I had not even seen, much less touched, a computer.

Those were probably the days of humongous IBM computers in large rooms.

But, I seemed to know what I was talking about in a futuristic essay.

You see, the teachers would give a basic “theme”, to guide our writing.

And we were to create a title, and body, from that “theme”.

I found my titles quirky, and sometimes a bit dramatic.

And sometimes, they were painfully corny.

And speaking of titles, I think I’ve come up with a title for the body of this book, har har.

Of course, as you can expect, and it’s inevitable, my next book will be my teenage writings.

And maybe, that will be the title, too.

Finally, I’m no longer title-illiterate today.

It had been elusive all day.

But, just as I expected, Spirit came to the rescue.

As the Holy Spirit always does.

But I’d like to thank you for being here.

Without you, there’d be no one to read my works.

Oh, but on second thought, surely, God already read it.

He created it.

So, that just makes us the reader.

Cool.

Copyright 2020

P.S. Three years today, that 25th book hasn't been published formally.

But you're reading the body now.

Giving birth to another new blog.

Our 78th.

Where I failed to formally produce a 25th and 26th book, in all my ramblings here, somehow, the 78th blog wants to see light.

And so shall it be!

4 February 2023