to my friends:
Written late at night on my iTouch in the dark of my bedroom.
The keyboard on my iTouch isn't the greatest, so kindly forgive any errors.
Also, this is as rough as a rough draft can be. I'm not going to edit it in any way.
It's all me, smiling and confused.
Dedicated specifically to sacryde, because she's like my own little postman that delivers letters of love and hope. Never stop smiling, okay hun? ♥
But also dedicated to everyone I know.
He likes the grass. It's soft and the ground below grass is always much more comfortable than most. He loves to run his fingers through the dark green tendrils. They tickle and he giggles, eyes lighting up like Christmas lights. Everything here is beautiful. Everything is perfect.
A single mailbox stands in the middle of his paradise. He knows why it's there. He's the only one who knows. But for the sake of time and thought, I will tell you. It's the mailbox of Heaven. And he is Heaven's postman.
Men and women of all ages come here in their sleep to drop their letters into the bright red mailbox. Sometimes they linger to talk to him. They talk about their lost ones or their favorite color. They never bother to ask him about his story. They are always much to self-centered or just don't have the time.
His existance is a lonely one. But he's okay with that.
Every morning, he goes to the mailbox surrounded by the soft grass to fill his bag with the colorful letters from the box. He then walks over a few hills to the West and then down the slope with the purple flowers at the top and he's there.
Heaven is a village between two large mountains. There are thousands of little houses that line the dirt roads. Maybe village is the wrong description for what sounds like such a large place, but that is how the postman refers to it. He whistles while he walks through the streets of Heaven, stopping every now and then to drop a blue envelope into a mailbox on one road, a green and yellow envelope into another. He smiles.
He knows he is part of the reason the angels that surround him are still shining. Without a connection to their earlier life, an angel loses their light. When an angel loses their light, they are gone. Forever. The postman frowns when he passes a pink and yellow mailbox that he hasn't been to in months. That mailbox will stay empty, he assumes, which means the home will also be emtpy soon. That is how things go in life and death. He moves on.
He reaches a home slightly off the beaten path and pauses to drop four envelopes into the dark brown mailbox. He skips off whistling again, happy to end the day on a good note.
He makes his way back up that slope and back over those hills. He pauses at the lone red mailbox to give it a loving pat. He walks a few feet away to his favorite patch of grass and lies down. The postman sits and runs his slender fingers through the grass as he waits for the mailbox to fill again.
The postman likes his job. He likes learning about people he may never see again. He likes the chipped red paint of the mailbox. He likes the gentle grass that tickles his ankles. There is just one thing that would make this life of his perfect. If only he would recieve a letter from someone, anyone. Because he knows that it's hard to be truly happy without friends.
Maybe you could send him one.
Next time you go to bed, as you are wrapping yourself in your cotton comforters and setting your alarm clock for the coming morning, think of Heaven's postman. As you drift off to sleep, remember to think of that tattered red mailbox in the middle of the field of grass. Then maybe, just maybe you can put a smile on the boy that delivers the thoughts of others to the angels. Just maybe you can put a true smile on the beautiful boy who helps make thousands of angels smile when they walk out in the fog of the morning to find their mailbox full of love.
started: nov 08, 2009
completed: nov 08, 2009
word count: 666
The keyboard on my iTouch isn't the greatest, so kindly forgive any errors.
Also, this is as rough as a rough draft can be. I'm not going to edit it in any way.
It's all me, smiling and confused.
Dedicated specifically to sacryde, because she's like my own little postman that delivers letters of love and hope. Never stop smiling, okay hun? ♥
But also dedicated to everyone I know.
He likes the grass. It's soft and the ground below grass is always much more comfortable than most. He loves to run his fingers through the dark green tendrils. They tickle and he giggles, eyes lighting up like Christmas lights. Everything here is beautiful. Everything is perfect.
A single mailbox stands in the middle of his paradise. He knows why it's there. He's the only one who knows. But for the sake of time and thought, I will tell you. It's the mailbox of Heaven. And he is Heaven's postman.
Men and women of all ages come here in their sleep to drop their letters into the bright red mailbox. Sometimes they linger to talk to him. They talk about their lost ones or their favorite color. They never bother to ask him about his story. They are always much to self-centered or just don't have the time.
His existance is a lonely one. But he's okay with that.
Every morning, he goes to the mailbox surrounded by the soft grass to fill his bag with the colorful letters from the box. He then walks over a few hills to the West and then down the slope with the purple flowers at the top and he's there.
Heaven is a village between two large mountains. There are thousands of little houses that line the dirt roads. Maybe village is the wrong description for what sounds like such a large place, but that is how the postman refers to it. He whistles while he walks through the streets of Heaven, stopping every now and then to drop a blue envelope into a mailbox on one road, a green and yellow envelope into another. He smiles.
He knows he is part of the reason the angels that surround him are still shining. Without a connection to their earlier life, an angel loses their light. When an angel loses their light, they are gone. Forever. The postman frowns when he passes a pink and yellow mailbox that he hasn't been to in months. That mailbox will stay empty, he assumes, which means the home will also be emtpy soon. That is how things go in life and death. He moves on.
He reaches a home slightly off the beaten path and pauses to drop four envelopes into the dark brown mailbox. He skips off whistling again, happy to end the day on a good note.
He makes his way back up that slope and back over those hills. He pauses at the lone red mailbox to give it a loving pat. He walks a few feet away to his favorite patch of grass and lies down. The postman sits and runs his slender fingers through the grass as he waits for the mailbox to fill again.
The postman likes his job. He likes learning about people he may never see again. He likes the chipped red paint of the mailbox. He likes the gentle grass that tickles his ankles. There is just one thing that would make this life of his perfect. If only he would recieve a letter from someone, anyone. Because he knows that it's hard to be truly happy without friends.
Maybe you could send him one.
Next time you go to bed, as you are wrapping yourself in your cotton comforters and setting your alarm clock for the coming morning, think of Heaven's postman. As you drift off to sleep, remember to think of that tattered red mailbox in the middle of the field of grass. Then maybe, just maybe you can put a smile on the boy that delivers the thoughts of others to the angels. Just maybe you can put a true smile on the beautiful boy who helps make thousands of angels smile when they walk out in the fog of the morning to find their mailbox full of love.
started: nov 08, 2009
completed: nov 08, 2009
word count: 666