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Jonny Gorash  — Kentucky — Writer: @angelicmagazine — Jesus is fullness of joy — @kindred_lex ____________________________________________

“I feel like all my kids grew up... and then they married each other. It's every parent's dream.” - Michael Scott

| G L A S S |
I left in the wake of a bloody fist and broken glass. Dad was telling me how much he loved me as he tried to take the keys away from me. I hit him—so much for reason. I screamed in his face and threw a chair against the living room window; the glass broke unevenly, only in some places, and the chair remained sticking out of it. He leaned against the wall with his hands over his busted nose, crying—he was crying. I said nothing and walked out through the creaking screen door and down those front porch steps I used to sit on with him. The headlights lit the dark house up as I backed out of the gravel driveway; the window still held that chair like someone paused it mid-flight—the jagged glass refused to collapse and let it fall. I hated that. I wanted it to break completely.
Seven months later, how am I supposed to come back from that? I haven’t seen him or spoken a word to him since, and I don’t know that I ever will.
“You know, he waits up for you on the front steps every night,” she says between beeps while scanning the groceries. “That’ll be $12.68,” her cherry-red fingernails tapping rhythmically on the counter to the radio. I pretend to look through my wallet after handing her the cash, but I can still feel her gaze pitying me.
I shuffle over the shining asphalt until I’m sitting inside with my head on the steering wheel, the yellowed street lights humming overhead. I hate myself and he’s still hanging onto me? I’ve hurt this man so much, why doesn’t he just give up? How many fist fights and red-blue nights should it take for me to just live my life? I study the old house key in that yellow light and run my thumb along it’s familiar jagged edges—edges that unlock home.
The headlights illuminate the dark house as I pull up that gravel driveway. There’s a new window up and a man on the front steps. He rises slowly, removes his hat, and simply smiles at me through the windshield. I remember to breathe.
📷: @nealclement

| M A N |
Oh God,
How we have fallen.
Oh God,
The things we chase.
How we envy you—
A better god, we’d make.
That may not be the way we think,
But it’s the way that we behave.
Oh God,
I am just a man.
I didn’t construct the limits of time and space—
I can’t even fathom a world without them.
Why would it all serve me?
My life is only one of billions,
Still you died for me—
God for man.
Oh Jesus,
That we’d be God’s
Rather than gods.
📷: @davidboyko_

Dust mites are waltzing in the cool light of the kitchen window so he stops to watch.
People complain about feeling too much; if only they knew what it was like to feel too little. Which is the greater tragedy?
The doorknob is cold and almost perfectly round—almost. It doesn't matter to most, but these are the things he thinks about; not global hunger, but this dent in the doorknob. It’s drizzling outside—so slight that you can’t tell unless you pay attention. He steps on every crack on the way to his car because he hates superstition and likes the way it feels under his feet—each step is different, not flat or boring. The paint’s peeling at every fold and bend of metal on his car; they look like butterflies trying to spread their glossy red wings high enough to break free.
He’s sat in here for hours before, just outside of the house. Water has been slowly collecting in tiny beads all over the windshield and he could stare at them until they all evaporate. None of these tiny beads will ever be the same again. They’ll probably never sit on his car ever again. Who knows where they’ll go next, but they’ll rise and fall, dissipate and gather like some eternal symphony. They don’t have to think about it—it just happens.
That’s how some people are; they move and feel, condense and evaporate, fly and freeze, fill and overflow. He’s not like that. He’d like to be, but sometimes he has to think about how to feel—think, think, and think until he feels it, like making sure to step on every crack he sees. Yeah, sometimes he’s more body than soul—not always.
The car won’t start. She’ll have to take the bus home again. They’ll waltz in the kitchen tonight to make up for it. That always helps—waltzing on that textured linoleum floor.

I blink away the sun dancing through the leaves above me like a girl tugging at her father’s hand to show him what she had made: “look,” she urges, “look!” But I don't want to see anymore. I'm too ashamed to look upon the beauty and innocence around me while living in this mortal mess of flesh. I've done everything I could to entertain every desire and answer every primal scream for satisfaction within me, yet the shrieking only grows—it wants my eyes, my tongue, my mind, my hands and feet, my heart and stomach, lungs and blood—every single pound of me. This wilderness of Adam and wasteland of Eve has swallowed every man and woman since Edenfall—it seems that I am next. This river called lust has filled my bowels with salt; this fruit I plucked from the trees of knowledge has ground my teeth down as sand; I see my face in the reflection of every wet stone and cannot hide from myself. So, I will lay here and die. You can have your beautiful river of death and those blossoming trees of ripened deceit, but I have had my fill. I feel only void within me from it all—a sinkhole plunging into itself and eating its own walls away. I would rather die than live in this mirage. I am no friend of Edenfall. Take my death—it’s all I have—and give me life. Your life. I’m sorry, but I need yours. I always ruin my own—everything I’ve ever owned. So my life cannot be mine. I need yours.
📸: @nealclement

She loves elevator music—I think. Maybe she just really likes the flickering fluorescent bulb above us—I don't know, it gives me migraines.
I've never seen someone so intrigued by smeared fingerprints on steel—she studies them as if it matters. It's as if she doesn't know that we're just rats in this corporate brick and mortar maze.
She wears the same heels every day—that doesn't help her case.
I feel bad for her. Maybe one day she'll embrace reality like all of us and find some success for herself. Then she can die knowing she, I don't know... accomplished something.
How can she be so smug? She floats around like an undone balloon.
That's no life: We pursue happiness, we earn pride, we work for fulfillment—that's what it means to be human.

I've missed my floor again.

| Name a more iconic duo. I'll wait. #hallandoates

Heirs of the thunder
That lives within storms,
These mountains of vapor
That tremble and groan.
The light and the fire
That cut through the stones
And burn into trunks
Of olden oaks.
Heirs of the powers of light
Strike in the coal smothered night.
Kids of the sky,
Feathered to fly
In the weathering heights.

(09.15.17 / 07:55AM)
I was made for this; created to know Saturn's every tick. I probed the planet and taught the people to give them glimpses of its character: all its storms and sleeps, and whatever it is that lies beneath.
It drew me, though. Each day, it drew me. This behemoth force of power and beauty has pulled me oh so close. This day was inevitable and I knew that from the initial thrust from Earth's crust—but, there's nothing that can truly prepare you for it, no matter how many years I've spent out here, studying and searching it's mysteries. Yet, I find that this is half purpose and half providence.
I don't believe home is where you've come from, but where you're going. Home is that place that you were made for, and I was made for this: to burn up at 70,000 mph in Saturn's eternal embrace. You know, I wouldn't call it death and it's definitely not the end—it's just a change of form; I'll forever be in Saturn's breath.
So, this is goodbye and hello, for I will always exist.
Saturn, it's my time to burn; 'til we are one, burn it all away—all of me that man has made.

That they may become perfectly one — (John 17:23)
Info: @angelicmagazine
#lexingtonky #sharethelex #kentucky #kentuckyforkentucky #redrivergorge

| We tucked ourselves behind a cornfield somewhere in Kentucky to watch the sun disappear. As soon as it burst into a ring the town around us erupted in cheers and laughter. We ran, danced, and shouted for a couple minutes as the earth around us swelled with joy. We were surrounded by sunsets on every side and a wedding band hung in the sky overhead: it was a celebration, a promise, and only a taste.

Seven years from now, another eclipse will pass over America—do whatever you can to watch it in its totality. I know I will.
📷: @davidboyko_

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