A Letter to My Absent Guardian Angel

November 20, 2024

To My Ever-Absent Guardian Angel
66 Automatism Road,
Mammonville, 6666

Dear (Supposedly) Watchful One,

It’s been a while—decades, in fact. I thought I’d drop you a line, not because I miss you (I don’t), but because I need answers. Primarily: Where the hell have you been?

You left without so much as a celestial Post-it. For us mere mortals, words matter. Even a basic “BRB” would’ve sufficed. But no, you flapped your wings and ghosted—ironically, since you’re already sort of a ghost. I won’t harp on it (much), but if “guardian” is still part of your job description, it might be time to recheck the fine print.

Anyway, life update: I’ve applied for the position of Director of My Own Life. Admittedly, the pay isn’t great—it’s public service, after all—but the benefits include fewer existential breakdowns and a slightly better carbon footprint. Sure, it’s a one-man gig, and the office hours are ridiculous, but hey, somebody’s got to steer this shipwreck.

Now, a burning question: why did our last encounter happen in a pub? Of all places, I imagined you’d prefer to appear in a shaft of light through a stained-glass window or something appropriately divine. Instead, you nursed a lager while I lamented my woes over a pint. Do angels even drink? Is there a heavenly liquor license I should know about?

If this sounds like I’m whining, well, maybe I am. But cut me some slack. You’ve been AWOL while I’ve wandered the planet armed only with Google Maps and a vague sense of purpose. The truth is, my life’s compass—whether literal or metaphorical—seems perpetually broken. Magnetic north? Useless. Tarot cards? Cryptic. Apps? Battery-draining. You get the idea.

On a related note, your detachable angel wings are still at the dry cleaners. The guy said something about a stubborn stain on the last feather, the one shaped like a bow. Blood, he thinks. Care to explain? I paid the cleaning fee, by the way—you’re welcome.

Honestly, I’m starting to wonder: were you scraping the bottom of the celestial eligibility list when they assigned me? I mean, it’s not like I’m top-tier humanity, but c’mon. Did you lose a bet? Draw the short straw?

And don’t even think about rolling your eyes or straightening your halo as you read this. I can picture you now, muttering, “He’ll never get that Director job. No chance.” Well, here’s the deal: this time, I’m doing it without you. No divine interventions, no whispered nudges in the right direction. You’re officially off the hook.

If you’re just a figment of my imagination—my brain’s way of outsourcing responsibility—then fine. But if you’re real, consider this a resignation letter from our arrangement. Not out of bitterness (okay, maybe a little), but because I need to stand alone, facing the metaphorical wall. And who knows? Maybe that wall will turn out to be a door once I stop expecting you to open it for me.

If I land the job, I’ll rescind all the childish grumbles I ever sent your way. If I don’t…well, at least I’ll know I tried, unsupervised.

Yours (conditionally),
Stavros

P.S. I’m busy this week, but after Sunday, feel free to drop by—no expectations, no feathers, no complaints.

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The Playground of Shadows

November 16, 2024

Boredom sat heavily on him, like dust on an old, untouched shelf. He stretched out his limbs, a shell adrift with no anchor, skimming across some dull, endless sea. Nirvana, the world whispered, was an empty thing if this was it. Peace? It felt like the slow pulse of something unfeeling, a lifeless melody humming in the background.

But there was a whisper, too, some echo of Buddha, prophets, and wanderers who saw meaning where he could find none. “The world is your playground,” they seemed to say, and yet, the toys scattered around him were chipped and faded, the games already won and lost. The thrill was gone.

He looked down at his hands, at his shoe, at the cigarette butt lying desolate on the cracked pavement. He saw only a cigarette butt, but when he reached for it, his fingers were wrapped in some spectral glove, ancient and unknowable, numbing his touch. A silky chant rose from the earth, and in the flickering haze, he caught a glimpse of her—the forgotten Madonna on the run, the ghost of a purpose that had long since slipped through his fingers.

And so, he took to the highway in the wind, that endless road North, where the sands met the sky and eternity seemed to lie just around the bend. The prophet in his mind handed him a book and an angel with curls handed him his soul. Here, he thought, is something close to freedom. Here, he felt the weight of all things lightened by the wind as he climbed mountains, lit fires, and let his words drift into the stars—alone yet somehow complete.

But the nights were haunted by shadow games. By candlelight, he felt the passing of unspoken truths caught in the heavy air, thick with incense and echoes. Sitting across from him, his companion cast her glance, a holy arc, over him. No mirrors were needed, only the quiet acceptance of their hearts pulsing in time. Together, they watched the fall of all things—leaves, bottles, lives—and knew that letting go was the only way to hold anything.

He felt the years burn away like the slow ember of his cigarette, holes punched through the fabric of his past. In the distance, a gladiator carried worlds on his shoulders, a Da Vinci gaze locked on some distant horizon. Yes, he thought, pull the plug on life’s bath. Let it all drain away. And as the waves of what was and what would be crashed against his pedestals, he let them crumble, the sand running through his fingers in memory of time slipping by.

The smell of white night, nostalgic and sweet, settled over him like a soft rain. He closed his eyes, feeling the weight and lightness of it all. His life, his love, and his losses had collided like the gentle kiss of billiard balls, a game played without cues, a moment that had once perched on the tree they’d planted in the garden of then.

As he let it all fall, he saw that his life was neither storm nor fury but dew on a flower, a brief glisten in the morning light that would, by noon, disappear. Smiling to himself, he walked into the wind, his footsteps soft on the path toward meaning or maybe just toward peace.

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The Dance of Mind and Heart: Finding Meaning

September 28, 2024

Mind: How can you know where you want to go in a non-conceptual way? Knowing is inherently conceptual. You claim to know your direction without knowledge. Can you explain that?

Heart: It’s true; my previous statement may seem nonsensical. Let me rephrase: I don’t know where I wish to go or what I want to write, but I feel a direction. It’s not knowledge as you understand it, but it’s no less real.

Mind: A feeling? Now you’re stepping into territory that doesn’t compute. You either know or you don’t. What you call ‘feeling’ is a fleeting, unreliable sensation—something grounded in chemical responses, nothing more. Don’t introduce it as a third state between knowledge and ignorance. It’s simply you grasping at shadows.

Heart: Shadows? Perhaps. But what if the shadows themselves lead me to something more? Something you, with all your calculations, cannot fathom. Feeling is my map—it tells me where to go, even if it’s into the unknown. And I trust that.

Mind:  This feeling must offer you more than the uncertainty lurking at my realm’s edges. How can you venture into darkness without light or a map? I doubt there’s anything beyond my domain. This darkness could merely be the boundary you wish to cross.

Heart: (more impassioned): What if I don’t need your map? What if I navigate around you, above you, beneath you? What if you, dear Mind, are the source of my doubts, the cage that keeps me from leaping forward? Perhaps this very dialogue with you holds me back from answering the call of something bigger than us both—my destiny.

Mind:  Be cautious; you’re starting to sound irrational. You’re proposing unfathomable ideas. How can you use words to traverse this invisible path of feeling? Words are my essence—my very being. Now, you claim to transcend them. It’s absurd, like trying to leap over your shadow or lift yourself by your bootstraps.

Heart: (voice trembling with frustration): Listen, Mind—my heart beats without you telling it to. My blood flows, and my breath rises and falls. Why can’t I express the words within me without your rigid orchestration? Words are surface-level—the crust, the shallow layer of something vast beneath. You think you hold all meaning, but real meaning is hidden below your borders.

Mind: Now you’re introducing another term—meaning—as if it exists apart from me and my realm. How can you have meaning without Mind? That’s utterly ridiculous.

Heart: (with passion): What’s ridiculous is your blind belief in your sovereignty! You may be necessary, but you are not the king. Meaning comes alive when you and I collaborate, yes, but it begins with me. It rises from the depths where words can’t reach. Look at joy, for example. Joy needs no words—it is felt in every part of you, a deep swell that exists without concepts or definitions. And yet, it carries meaning! Joy is meaning in motion. What about love, Mind? Can you break it down into logic? Can fear be measured by words alone?

Mind:  Fine. I disagree with your abstractions, but you venture into places I cannot see. Have it your way. I will always be here if you need me, and since you’ve chosen to communicate through words, I will remain your foundation—even if, as you say, I’m only the tip of the iceberg.

Heart: (softly, almost vulnerable): Thank you. But even with all of this… the question still lingers: What is my way? How will I find it?

Mind:  You don’t expect me to answer that, do you?

Heart: No. It’s my question. And I hope that we’ll find the answer together with your assistance—one step at a time.

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