by Roy Dawson Earth Angel Master Magical Healer ( THE DIFFERENT ONE)
It’s a gloomy day out here, rain hammering the coffeepot, sky sagging like a tired old shirt, and I can taste the bitterness in my mug. Black coffee, strong as my grandfather’s handshake. The world outside is soaked, but my mind is always working—chewing on problems the system cooks up fresh each morning, seasoned with a big pinch of nonsense that would’ve made our forefathers spit out their pipe and laugh at these modern-day idiots who think they’ll get away with their bullshit forever.
Listen, Satan—for all you’ve stolen from God’s people, don’t get comfy. I’ll see you in the courts of heaven, and I won’t need any notes. I stand under no man but God, and that’s a fact. We all punch out one day; when the bell rings, we’ll see who’s really in charge. Did you show any mercy, or did you scatter breadcrumbs and mutter, “It is what it is?” No—it’s what it isn’t, and it damn sure isn’t what it should be. But I’ll let Almighty God explain that to you, groupie. I bet you want to fall to the floor like a three-year-old and kick and scream then, will you? Maybe then you’ll finally do what you’re told.
Now, this world will test the patience of a saint and the liver of a drinking man. Every time you squint, there’s some genius selling a “new way” to do what worked just fine yesterday, and the old ways get brushed aside like dirt under a rug. You stand in line, tell the companies what you want for twenty years, and they look blank, forget it, and build something even worse. You could paint your needs on the sky in neon and they’d act like it’s just another cloud.
Makes a body long for those days you could look someone square in the eye and say, “Let’s do things different.” By nightfall, half the town agreed and the rest went fishing—no memo needed. These days, new ideas get mugged by paperwork so thick you could raft to Cuba on it. Who pays for it? Some fella in a suit with a smile made of granite will say, “Nobody,” then send you the bill anyway.
You know, it reminds me of old Joe Parker, the handyman down the road. Fella could fix anything—tractors, fences, hearts, you name it. But he’d always say, “Most things break because folks stop listening, stop laughing, and stop lending a hand. You fix that, you fix a lot.”
And here’s the wild part—if the world ran on sense, not nonsense, we’d have organizations whose job was to clear out the brush, build better roads, and actually make it easier for people to live decent, happy, healthier lives. But we’re buried under “why should I?” and “who’s paying?” You can’t take a nap without filling out three forms and getting a permit in triplicate.
Nobody should settle for being miserable. If you help a man open the door to his check here dreams, you’ll find fewer troublemakers and more roof-menders, not roof-rippers. But as long as we keep tossing the troublemakers back into the crowd, we swap what could’ve been a field of cows for a herd of wild goats.
Don’t even get me started on loyalty. Lots of people say it’s outdated, but the only ones who believe that are folks who never guarded their chickens from a fox. You want to build something real—ask who’s loyal, who’s got your back, who won’t knife you before supper. Loyalty isn’t about sainthood. It’s just wanting someone in your corner when things go sideways.
Money—let’s talk about the great collar around all our necks. Chases us from cradle to grave, controls us like some miserable puppet. It isn’t bad to have, but it’s rotten to worship. There used to be a time you could leave a dead-end town, form a wagon train, build your own peace, and be the boss until the drama crowd caught up. Trouble always finds paradise, but at least you built the walls yourself.
Nowadays, our wagon trains are Wi-Fi signals, and the new towns are circles on a screen. Maybe more lonely, maybe less? We’re still just scouting for loyal friends—a place to plant some roots and a corner to call our own. The world’s grown, but somehow the weirdos are always waiting online here before you get there.
So, no, maybe we don’t need someone to fix it all for us. Maybe we just need to remember how to build bigger campfires, longer tables, and safer towns, real or virtual. Be the first to lend a hand and a laugh. Offer shelter, not just complaints. Every time life hands you a check here muddy day, lace up your boots, help someone who’s falling behind, and you’ll end up with more fire and less shouting in the dark.
Maybe tomorrow the sun comes out. Maybe it doesn’t. But as long as you’ve got your mug, your people, and your stubborn sense of right, that’s a good day in any century. And if you ever run out of coffee, you can always drink water. But why would you want to?
So here’s what I say, and you can take it or leave it:
Don’t let the world tell you you’re stuck. Don’t let money, misery, or red tape make you quit. Go find your people—the ones who’ll help you mend your fence, share your whiskey, or at least not steal your chickens. Build your own place, even if it’s just a corner in your heart. And if you see a troublemaker, draw him a map to Trouble-Maker Island and watch him paddle off.
The punch line is this:
When the rain’s falling and the coffee’s hot, and you’re sitting by your own fire with laughter and loyal souls, remember—this world is a pain in the ass. But at least it’s your ass. And that, my friend, is worth every drop of coffee and every day you get to live it.