Heaven and Hell

Sometimes,

a shift doesn’t come with thunder—

it comes with an image.

One that slides in sideways,

pulls back the curtain,

and says:

look again.

See, for a thousand years and change,

we’ve lived inside a split-screen story:

Heaven.

Hell.

Up there, angels, gods, the shining ones.

Down below—

fire, shadows, the castaways,

and the jazz musicians,

playing wild in the dark.

This is the tale we’ve been told.

Some still preach it—

fear-fed and flame-wrapped—

as if love has conditions,

as if grace has borders.

But what if—

we reimagine?

Keep the words—

change the picture.

Picture a circle.

A whole, breathing circle.

Call it Love.

All of it.

This is Heaven.

Now—inside that,

draw another.

Smaller.

Still trembling with pain.

Call this one Hell.

And now,

listen.

Hell isn’t beneath.

It’s within.

It’s the ache in the chest,

the war in the world,

the long night of the soul.

But it’s surrounded—

held—

not banished.

Love doesn’t flinch.

It holds the beauty and the burning.

The sacred and the scarred.

It holds you,

exactly where you are and how you are.

So let’s not ask if we're rising or falling.

Let’s not ask whether we are in or out.

Let’s just breathe.

Even this—

yes, even this—

is wrapped in the arms

of Love.