I looked at him,
and I couldn’t help but ask—
“Do you even realize?
Until now, you are alive,
you are breathing,
you are moving,
not because of chance,
not because of your strength,
but because of God.

So tell me, cousin,
what keeps your heart beating tonight?
What power wakes you every morning?
Is it really Satan,
the one you think gives you control?
Or is it the One you curse,
the One you deny,
who still keeps you alive out of mercy?”

I asked him, straight to the point:
“What if one day your breath is cut short?
Where do you think you will go?”
And without hesitation he said,
“Hell.”
As if it were a badge of honor.
As if darkness was home.
As if chains were freedom.

But I couldn’t stop there.
So I pressed deeper:
“Do you think hell is a playground?
Do you think demons are your friends?
When fire burns, will they comfort you?
When torment screams in your ear,
will they sing you a lullaby?
Or will you realize too late
that the one you trusted
only wanted your destruction?”

Pokers are your choice of game, right?
Alcohol and cigarettes became your vices,
gambling your thrill.
But what happens when the game ends?
When the table is flipped,
when the dice no longer roll in your favor?
In hell, there are no winnings—
only losses stacked higher than mountains.
Demons don’t play fair, cousin.
They master the art of faint smirking,
of cackling in the shadows,
while you burn alive,
body and soul together,
day and night tormented
in the scorching heat of the flame.

I’ve seen your room—
the aura heavy,
the walls carrying whispers,
darkness painted in every corner.
You surround yourself with spirits
that promise you strength,
yet drain you dry.
I want to shake you and cry,
“Why invite death into your space,
when life is knocking outside your door?”

So I keep asking you questions
you don’t want to answer:

“Why do you trust the enemy
who was defeated from the beginning?
Why do you reject the hand
that reached out on a cross for you?
Why boast in hell,
when heaven still has room?
Why walk proudly toward chains,
when freedom has already been paid for?
Why breathe today,
and not even wonder who gave you the breath?”

And then I look at myself,
and I tremble.
Because if not for grace,
I would be no different.
Lost in sin,
convinced I was in control,
blind to the truth that mercy
was the only reason I lived another day.

So I speak,
not to condemn,
but to plead:

Cousin,
your laughter about hell
is not strength—it’s blindness.
Your curses toward God
are not power—they are wounds speaking.
And your friendship with spirits
is not protection—it’s poison.

But I will not stop asking.
I will not stop speaking.
Because as long as you breathe,
hope is not gone.

So I ask one more time—
not for me, but for you:

When your final breath comes,
where will you go?
To the fire you boast of,
or to the mercy you keep rejecting?
To the chains you think are freedom,
or to the arms that still wait for you?

Cousin,
you are still alive today.
Do you even know why?
Because God is not finished with you yet.