Give me anonymity or give me writer's block.

My pet dragon died.
I raised this little creature from a spindly-legged thing into a dragon of substance, for ten years I began and ended the day tending to him, and he died with his head in the corner of the cage and started to stink.
We put him in an old cigar box and buried him in the backyard under the ferns.
His name was Verne. I believe he is happily hunting crickets and eating strawberries. Good hunting, my golden-eyed dragon.

There is a certain I don't know about some writers, they obviously care about things and people, but their writing is whole hog, ferocious, and uncaring. And woe to anyone who gets between them and their writing because that's fodder for the keyboard.

Conversely, if you write about a thing, seriously write about it, then it must be somewhere close to your multifaceted enigmatic heart.

I see God in everything.
The Hebrew word for Spirit is also the word for Wind.
Tell me the spirit isn't the wind.

People are really shitty to eachother. Maybe it's the age I've reached, maybe it's the way I am viewing the current culture, with my eyes wide open, and no clue about pop culture, no television, no barrage of needful things, no nagging advertisements to have the best, do the best, be the best... but I think an element of grace is lost in the world. Maybe it was never there to begin with, maybe it's my naivete and whimsy lost.

Without a sense of humility there is no grace.

Grace is that thing which doesn't insist on being the best. I know a few people with grace, and I know lots more with too much ambition to be gracious. Ambition and self-importance and pride are hubristic, and greed is evil.

I can tell when I think or say something lacking grace, and that bothers me. I want only to be good, and humble, and to love mercy and seek justice.

Do those things mean anything, anymore? Or is this Babylon?

How do I write about a dragon who once ate rose petals from my fingers?