![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
Easy enough. I've done so for so long. It's second nature.
Until today.
I looked down at my feet and saw a red road beneath me. What had happened? At every intersection, I'd taken the golden road. Where had I skewed off? When did my feet falter?
I looked behind me. A red road stretched out behind for as far as I could see. There were no other roads in sight. How long had I been walking on this path?
Fear rose up in me. Where was I going? What had I been thinking? Why wasn't I paying attention? How could I have made such an easy mistake?
I stood, unmoving, for a while. Uncertainty ate at my soul. A poison, thick and slow, began to push through my veins. I was losing myself. My soul was falling off its center. What was I to do?
Time passed. The feeling continued. Desperation made its appearance.
I fell to my knees. What else was there to do?
And then I saw it: golden spirals in the red. They were so delicate...I hadn't seen them...
Relief rushed through me. I was in the right place. I was on the path. It had just changed its appearance a little. Just when I thought I had everything figured out...
For a moment something restless caught you by surprise...
We are so beautiful when we sleep.
~"Surprise," Jars of Clay
We are so beautiful when we sleep.
~"Surprise," Jars of Clay
Hallway – I was alone in my thoughts. They were scattered across the world, going everywhere and nowhere. You watched me. You thought of me even when I didn’t think of you. But then, that’s normal.
Then, in that sharp moment of unexpected happiness, you grasped my limp hand and walked by my side.
Orchestra Room – I was grabbing my cello off its rack. Rosin was stuck indelibly to its front...again. That dopey freshman who uses my bow forgot to loosen it...again. I grumbled in annoyance.
Then, I gasped in surprise and pleasure as you clasped the crook of my waist.
Sidewalk – I was walking home. It was cold. The wind was blowing in my face. I was not happy.
Then, in a burst of color, the sun peeked through icicle-ridden branches, painting the winter clouds with nameless colors. Your Glory lit up the sky.
Oh, how beautiful you are! When I am alone, you are there. When I’m annoyed, you make me glad. When I never think of you, you’re ever thinking of me. When I think of myself, you think of me. What a Lover I have!
I shall be ever searching, straining my neck to find His face in the crowd. I will stretch my ear to hear His voice within the droning din of this world.
How I long for that day when we will meet face to face! What a day that will be!
- Music:Sure As Sun Turns To Moon - Tarzan Broadway Musical Soundtrack
Rivers flow into the oceans, and oceans never fill.
~"Mirrors and Smoke" by Jars of Clay
~"Mirrors and Smoke" by Jars of Clay
Man is never satisfied. Everyone has said it– even the Rolling Stones. And guess what? It’s true.
The average man always wants more: more money, more love, more possessions, more friends, more status...The list goes on. I must admit: even I have said to myself, “I wish I had a better mp3 player so it can hold more songs” or “I wish I had more friends so that I could find one to talk to right now.” But you know what? That’s not important. It’s not even what I want to talk about.
I don’t want to be satisfied. I don’t ever want to be content with who I am. I want to always be looking for ways to improve. I always want to be working toward that high goal that has been set loftily above me.
I want my heart to reflect my Creator. I want to be boiled and chipped away and broken until I fit His mold. Don’t think for a moment that I wish to lose my identity. In fact, I wish the opposite. I want to become more and more myself. That’s one of the greatest paradoxes of all: as we come closer to Jesus, we come closer to the special, unique person that He’s created us to be. Being like the world makes us all the same; being like Christ makes us all wonderfully different. I know I’ll never be as perfect or lovely or amazing or loving as He is but I want to come as darn close as I can.
I don’t want to be satisfied with my relationship with Him, with others, or even with myself (that is the struggle of pride and self-worth). It’s not easy to keep striving– it takes a lot of energy and will and perseverance.
But who am I if I give up so easily? We have it so good in this country. It is so easy to sit back and lounge our lives away.
I won’t. I refuse to. Despite the periodical urges to do nothing and be content, I will forge on.
For there are greater things than those of this world. I’m going to pursue them.
- Music:Beethoven's 5th Symphony
That’s the only way to describe the experience. No mortal could have effected such a set of events. Who could have set so many consecutive, simultaneous circumstances into a puzzle so complete and beautiful?
Only my Beloved.
Only He has that massive ability, that exacting control over everything everywhere at all times. He can see into the depths, through the cracks, of our hearts and out into the farthest cosmos. He sees beyond the universe in both directions: into and out.
Why do so many scorn, misrepresent, or ignore such wondrous power? I’m guilty of it myself. Why is man so twisted and far away from its Creator and Lover? This question has plagued me for so long. I’m sure it has plagued mankind from the very beginning. Hurrah for discovering another age-old question! Those usually don’t have concrete answers.
Amidst all this wonder and beauty, there is one thorn. Life seems to be as such. The amazing part, though, is that I didn’t see the thorn until afterward. Then, it was too late to corrupt the ambient pleasantness of the weekend. That happiness is stored away, untouchable. My sorrows only now affect me, but those sweet memories are still intact.
This other, this thorn, has been in my side for some time now. I had received it as first as a blessing. As it slowly began to fester, I began to feel its discomfort. Like a bruise, it has passed through many stages. Purple to black to green to yellow... No matter the color, it always hurts.
This thorn is deceptive. It can so easily shift into my blind spot, bringing forth a genuine smile. But it always re-emerges into plain sight and that’s when it hurts. That’s when anger and unkindness are stoked, like dying embers brought back to bite the victim once again. It’s usually the heroes who are burned at the stake. I’m not sure if I’m a coward or a hero. It’s the curse of being too close, of being inside the situation: one loses impartiality and, too often, clear eyes. Tears blur one’s vision and one’s mind.
I can look back and see it all. The spot lights have been thrown on and it’s all so clear. Fortunately, the joy that I found in the thorn has been encapsulated, meshed into the overall happiness of the weekend. I can’t extract it now and that makes me glad. The whole event has been put into Tupperware and stored in the refrigerator for later enjoyment. I’m grateful for that.
My path seems so flat and uneventful for the moment, and, yet, plenty of exciting, temporal things are happening. The irony is delightful. Irony is always delightful. (Symbolism is the same.) I have much to look forward to and much to look back on. Here’s to the journey and the destination. My Beloved will be with me through it all and that is all I need to know.
Ok, Lord. You know how much I want to write. You know how much I want to write well, to do justice to the gift that you’ve given me. And yet...I feel that I can’t. All my grand schemes seem so small, insignificant. In fact, they’re so small that they can’t live. They’re like a squirrel, thrown too soon from its nest. It has the beginnings of fur and closed eyes. It’s alone, unable to survive on its own.
I see my stories withering like unharvested wheat in the fields. My characters are dying slow deaths in my head, starving. What’s wrong with me? Why won’t anything work? Why can’t I do what I wish?
I’m desperate and You know it. I know it. Perhaps the world sees it in my eyes. I grieve this sand that is slipping from between my fingers. I can’t hold water or air or sunlight. I never could. What a fool I was to think I had the capability! What a fool... That’s what I am, what we all are: fools. We can’t help it. Who can seem wise in the presence of the Being who invented wisdom? Besides, the air of this world doesn’t improve our condition.
Oh, Lord, save me from myself. Take this withering compost heap and make it new. Spin straw into gold. Do Your work. I trust You. I have faith in You. I know that You can do all things. And I know that I can do nothing without You. You give me strength, talent, and the will and hope to live every day.
It sounds crazy, but isn’t that what love is: crazy? All the poets out there had better not say “nay.” Love is crazy; in its most pure form, it’s desperation personified. That’s what I’ve learned. I love You best when I’m desperate. Well, here I am. I’m desperate. I don’t claim anything as my own. It’s all Yours. Take it. Do with it what you like. I no longer have any use for it. I know that if I hold onto it one more second, it will die. I’m certain of it.
As I think back, I see how wonderful You are. You’ve used my talents even when I counted them as my own. Why do You work through so imperfect a vessel? I’m a chipped, clay pot. Why pour Your precious water into me?
So, for Jake and Winter and Kumi and Ben, I implore You: save that which You have breathed into existence (even if it is a limited existence within the confines of my head). I don’t take credit anymore. Please don’t let me ever do so again. It’s Yours, all Yours. Do what You please. I resign.
- Location:Home...eating pizza!
- Mood:
thoughtful - Music:The Great River - The Fellowship of the Ring (Howard Shore)
How is one to convey a feeling on paper? It seems at once an inarticulate instrument, a clumsy medium. How can something so massive, so vague, become small enough to be expressed on the flat plane?
This is the artist’s toil– and his joy. He searches for the right colors, textures, and images to evoke, in another human being, the same emotion that he once experienced. The writer chooses carefully his words and constructs his rhythms, for he has been handed the same task. How is one to accomplish such a feat?
The artist must learn to stretch his muscles and reach to the furthest corners of his being. For only there will he find the means to express his innermost emotions. Like a gymnast, he must train to be able to stretch far enough. The process is both long and painful, but the rewards are numbered like the stars in the midnight sky.
This task requires courage and perseverance. It is a journey and a destination. To create art is to evoke a new joy that comes when we share a part of ourselves that we’d considered irretrievable. With his scalpel and shovel, the true artist uncovers this secret thrill– reveals it to an unsuspecting world.
In this place, we discover a pale shadow of the joy of creation. The artist pours himself into his creation and falls in love with that piece of himself, for it has now taken on a life of its own. A work of art is a playground for emotion; it releases the tension of our limited shells and allows our inner selves to roam the boundless menagerie of our thoughts and, ultimately, the joined thoughts of others. Art is the most complex form of expression and it all begins with the artist.
We must never forget that even the artist is a work of art; for the greatest artist of all loves us with the passion that we pour upon our own works. In fact, his love is greater than we could ever imagine.
Is not nature the greatest work of all? Where else can one find such perfection, such inspiration? Is this not where everything else began? Every artist needs a reference. Nature is the universal tutor.
I don’t believe in coincidence. Everything happens on purpose, for a reason. Some men and women are handed gifts; it is their responsibility to share it with the rest of humankind.
The men and women who have achieved the artist’s goal have been endowed with immortality. They have discovered the means by which to draw another human being into their minds and share what they have learned. Some call it inspiration and others name it “luck.”
I call it destiny.
- Mood:
cheerful
Plan D, Plan E, Plan F... Eventually, I’m going to run out of letters of the alphabet.
I always think I know how to run my life. I always think I know what’s best for me. However, time and time again I am proven wrong. I just don’t have the power or the intelligence or the insight to navigate the river of Life. There are too many variables.
Who can know what is to come? Who could ever understand every person’s heart and motives? Who can peer at every moment, forwards and backwards and now, and make sense of it? Who understands me better than I understand myself?
Doesn’t anyone have a better idea?
Fortunately, I do know someone who does.
He weaves time like an elaborate tapestry, writing each of our lives like a thrilling novel. If only we could fall into place– be where we’re supposed to be doing what we’re supposed to be doing. What a shame to miss out on the master plan!
Plan R: Follow His plan.
This one’s the best yet.
- Mood:
complacent - Music:Flight to the Ford - The Fellowship of the Ring
The day that we are able to meet face to face, at the end of Time itself, my wedding day will commence.
My Beloved will come riding on a white horse and all evil will cry out in agony; their days will be at an end. A great procession of light-beings will follow Him, driving chariots of fire. Triumphant music will accompany His return, played by the largest of orchestras: all of heaven. The rich music will fill every ear, proclaiming my Beloved’s assured victory.
Light brighter than the sun will capture the entire sky with its radiance. Stars will fall from their place in the heavens and chase each other across a remade sky.
All crying will cease and pain will be no more. Death itself will die, rearing its ugly head to utter one last moan of defeat.
Nature will finally cease its writhing and discover true peace. The lion will eat straw with the ox and the wolf will lovingly lick the newborn lamb’s ears. All will be completely submissive to its beloved master, the Bridegroom who has come to claim His bride.
And so I wait, for I am eternally His. Nothing in this mortal world could ever strip that title from me. Sometimes, the wait seems long and unbearable but He hands me hope. His blessings are new each day. My strength is reborn with every rising of the sun.
The details of my wedding day come not from my own mind. I have read these things many times over in His love letters to me. For these things are not for me alone. I am small in the expanse of the universe. There is a greater purpose, a greater plan than my life.
I can only stand in awe as it all unfolds.
- Mood: chipper
- Music:Garden - PFR "Them"
Reading a Bible, sitting with eyes closed as though in sleep, singing songs...these are the ways that You seep into my life. It seems so strange. These are the physical markers of a relationship. They are so unorthodox. They seem so unrelated...so bizarre.
And yet, this is the way that it works. No audible chatting, dinner dates, or parting embraces. How is the world to see me relating to my Beloved? How can I prove the depth of my love; how can I even prove its existence?
Here I have no answers. No visual aid can be shown, no auditory evidence, nothing...
Proof is in obedience. Even that is only spoken motives. People have to believe because they want to. They can so easily refuse and blame my actions on self-motivation. What am I to do?
I will keep living as I always have: in the everlasting arms of my Beloved.
The universe is in His hands. I am as well. There is no greater joy than this.
- Mood: chipper
- Music:Tried to Tell Her - PFR "Them"
It’s amazing how you can go so far and yet come back again. The journey to a far-off place seems so final, so irreversible. Hours seem to count the increasing space between you and the place called home. How can that passing space ever be recovered?
Technology has made travel bearable and convenient. It has made the world a smaller, closer-knit community. None of this is a new concept.
However– when will the day come when our galaxy will be traveled as easily as our world? Will I take a trip to Mars or a cruise around Pluto in my lifetime?
How much longer will the world exist before it is irreparably destroyed? How much further will technology be allowed to advance? Cloning, artificial fertilization, life support systems...these are dangerous inventions. How far is too far? Will we be stopped if we go too far or will we be punished for our proud foolishness?
These questions are almost unanswerable at this time. It is hard to live everyday with unsolvable puzzles. Enigmas still riddle our world.
Perhaps we don’t know as much as we think we do.
- Mood: bouncy
- Music:God of Wonders - City on a Hill
Indecision is a lonely place. Stand and watch as they all pass you by.
Waiting between the avenues, at the fork in the road...Will you stay there forever? Will the meaninglessness consume you? Will you drown in safety? Will you suffocate in the comfort of a riskless life?
Oh, comfort– what a lovely feeling! What a place of recluse, of bliss! Shall we not all strive together, moving from comfort to comfort? We shorten the desert between the oases with each successive journey.
What is comfort?
It is an enemy. It stunts our growth and stalls our maturation. How many more will fall into its enticing trap? How much time will pass before only a few remain in the sunlit lands? Is not risk required of us, required for life?
Is there no risk in progress, in motion, in building, in love? What is left of the world when risk is removed?
Grass grows on the prairie.
What are we to do?
Push aside fear. Deny the satisfaction that you feel with a life not reaching its full potential. Voice of the people, rise up. Voice of the suffering, rise up!
Important things occur outside your television sets and movie screens. People need love; they need compassion. Can you risk enough to give it? Can you extend a part of yourself? Do you have the courage to throw off that useless mask and expose a heart full of love?
Is vulnerability frightening? Yes. Is it vastly beneficial? Yes.
Fear not. Someone greater than the largest expanses of our imaginations has it all in his hands. Trust and you cannot fail.
It’s time to start something. The fuel is ready; it is patiently waiting.
Strike the match. Throw it in.
Revolution’s on its way.
- Mood:
awake - Music:More Than It Seems- Kutless
There are so many useless noises in this world. They camp about me as I walk through every day, pounding relentlessly on my ears. They clamor for my attention; they beg for recognition.
The constant tolling has taken its piece of my mind; it has confused me and swerved my thoughts away from my companion, logic.
How is one to shut the great maw of discontent? How can one have hands large enough to close the throat of the world?
Silence is found in the early hours, when nature has just lifted its head from sleep. The children are still snug in their beds and the animals are busy searching for breakfast. Technology is still untouched by human hands, subservient and quiet.
The noise of the world has not yet found its voice. The television is a pit of black, still and waiting for its organic master to control it. The bickering of siblings, and people that act like siblings, has not yet begun; the fights of yesterday have not been remembered and there hasn’t been sufficient time to create new ones.
Morning breaks and the world is my sanctuary. Morning passes and the world is my prison.
I can’t escape it. Yet.
Ah, but modern scientists say that we came about through a series of random mutations. They have fabricated an entire theory about where we’ve come from, which is explained by yet another theory which, surprisingly, is supported by another theory. How remarkable! So I am the product of chance– of witless, random acts of nature. Well, that makes me feel like I’m worth something. Being human, Chance must have put a little more effort into me. I could have easily been a fly or an amoeba. Isn’t that a lovely thought? I could just as easily have been a reasonless, brainless, one-celled thing floating aimlessly through fluid. What a life!
Now that I feel completely worthless, I may as well live my life that way. What’s the point? What can I, a product of nothing, possibly do against the inevitable force of odds and random chance? Well, I suppose I’m powerless too. What does that make me? Hopeless?
All right, let’s follow another path. Suppose, for a moment, that there is a God. He created the world and everything in it. He made me. He specifically designed me. He had a purpose. That gives me a purpose. At least someone cared enough about me to bring me into being.
Many modern thinkers, some of whom are my peers, like to point out that God is a myth. “He couldn’t possibly exist,” they say. “It’s all a child’s game. It’s all pretend.”
And if it is? Which would I rather believe? Which would I rather live by? Would I rather be a worthless piece of randomness’ concoction or a hand-crafted creature made for some purpose?
Given the choice, I’d rather live my life believing that I was created by someone greater than myself. That gives my life purpose. It gives me hope that there’s someone up there who knows more than I do. You can call me crazy or you can call me childish. I don’t really care anymore.
Right or wrong, I’m happier than anyone who thinks that they came from chance: faceless, thoughtless chance. I’ve been chosen, sculpted, and put here for a reason. I believe that and there isn’t anything that anyone can say to dissuade me from it.
- Mood: cheerful
- Music:Think of Me -- Phantom of the Opera
You are my only window to the World that I seek and today I smelled the scent of You and Your Real World. You incense, an ever-shifting array of the most wonderful scents known to me, and yet, a recognizable constant on which I can rely and impress a memory.
Come to me again in this madness and bring Your foreign and beautiful tongue of the Heavens. Teach me Your language that I may sing to You the highest praises in Your native tongue. For You alone deserve my greatest gifts.
In this I find my rest...
For even now, my soul is restless. It has come to the point of near madness. I no longer can stand on my assurance of who I am! I could in a moment be as insentient as an animal, as soulless as those creatures who have not been granted the gift of Reason.
Do not hide from me, Beloved; for as You do, I die. Can the flame live with no air? Can the tree with no water? You may deny me my fellows’ company but do not withdraw Your own, my most Beloved. For what is the night sky without stars or the earth without grass? Can one survive in a desert of starless night?
For only Your boundless peace, which is beyond mortal understanding, can calm such a storm. This storm tears the insides of my spirit, for its longing has come to fruition. How can I drink of the sea which surrounds me on all sides? I would trade anything, even my boat which springs the medium of my destruction from the pits drilled into it, for one drop of clear water.
And yet, I deserve not even that. Something smaller than the smallest division of life is still too much, for even that is something. Take my boat and save my spirit, if you wish it, dearest. Your will is life. Why should I wish for anything else?
Yet I find myself asking for these things: people that I cannot release from my grasp. If I hold them too tightly, can You save them, Commander of sea and wind? I cannot bear to see them fall beneath the depths. To lose them is the worst thing beside losing You. Must I also face that? I cannot bear to fathom it. Without You, I would never live through it.
Despite what I deserve, I receive oceans of peace, flowing from my Beloved, whose eyes are always upon me.
- Mood: thoughtful
- Music:Lalo Cello Concerto in D minor - Introduction
Many underestimate the joy found in living vicariously. Too often we are forced to ingest depressing, horror-filled works of literature. It makes us think that our life must be good because someone else’s is worse. This is not a pleasure; it is a burden.
The essence, the purpose, of reading has been mercilessly stripped away by careless, heartless people. Something wonderful has been defiled, and ruined, for many people. Can we again recover the ecstasy of escaping our world and entering another, more wonderful, one?
The real killer of books is the television. How often do we accept the dull, banal, and brainless plots strung together and resolved within a 22 minute segment? Our imagination isn’t even required of us! The pictures, the concepts, are all supplied at a thousand frames a second. The characters are flatter than a cardboard cut-out. The plots are written in 5 minutes’ time; the basic idea a rip off of an idea from someone else’s brain. Why do we accept such garbage?
People used to study. People used to learn from books; they used to discover new concepts, new themes that hadn’t yet been revealed to us within our own lives. People used to master new languages just so that they could read a particular book! Where has that love for literature, good, healthy literature, gone? Has the television destroyed it? Has the education system torn it up into useless scraps of refuse to be swept from the city streets?
Perhaps the culprit is the book itself! Has the quality dove so low, become so hackneyed, that no one finds anything tempting in the books of today? Have the eyes of the publishers become so set on their monthly balance sheet that they no longer care for masterful writing or unique plot? Are they to blame for the fall of the bar of our acceptance?
I doubt that a single finger of blame can be pointed at one aspect of our society. To do so would be lying. But where can this revival begin? Where can the rekindling for the love of real literature start?
Where does revolution ever start? Within the individual. Revival starts in you. I’m going to stand for real books, real literature. Will you?
If it so pleases you, switch back on that yapping device so that it may soothe and terrify you for hours on end with its eternal, nonsensical prattle. My brains pleads for rejuvenation. It no longer wants to melt, useless, as it tries to comprehend the meaning behind meaningless entertainment.
Perhaps Mr. Ray Bradbury’s vision of the future was not too far off. Want to start something? Read Fahrenheit 451 and you’ll know what I’m talking about.
To discard books is to discard knowledge. And to discard knowledge is to discard all the good in society. What then will we be left with? You tell me.
- Mood:
contemplative - Music:You're Here- Sixpence None the Richer
Don’t get me wrong– animals are amazing creations and some of them are pretty smart. But the dolphins stay at the aquarium and the chimps at the zoo. We go home to our dogs, cats, fish, lizards, and hamsters.
Why do we feel so compelled to keep animals in our house? Why do we get so attached to these things that can neither hold a conversation or solve the problems that we pour out onto them with sound advice?
Animals can’t reason. They can’t understand. We so much want them to but, after the day’s through, they’re still mute, senseless animals who only know the present, a short distance into the past, and instinct. They have no concept of the future. Leave a dog with three days’ worth of food and it’ll be gone in a few hours.
We feed them, clean them, pick up after them, spend money on them, and fix things that they’ve ruined. Why do we keep them? Why are some people so attached to them? Why does every single little kid that ever walked on this planet want one?
The answer lies in man’s innermost wiring. We long for non-human companions. It’s a yearning within each of us, a starved yearning.
Think about it. What does every child love? Talking animals, elves, fairies, dragons, aliens. Do you see a pattern?
We seek this non-human contact in the only way we can– in pets. Since animals don’t have the ability to reason, like humans do, we are continually disappointed.
Why do we have this ache that cannot be fulfilled?
There seems to be only one answer to this question. Maybe there used to be a way to fulfill this need and time has erased, or changed, the source of that need. I have this nagging suspicion that this need is supposed to be fed. I can’t fathom how; I only know that it’s there for a reason and it is meant to be met. Many things that are meant to be have been destroyed by our sinful nature or lost in time. I only wish I knew what we’re missing out on.
Talking (reasonable) animals? Aliens? Mythological creatures? I can only guess.
And here stands another enigma, only to be answered when all questions are answered: in the time after Time.
- Mood: It's Christmas!
- Music:"Believe" by Josh Groban
- Mood:
sick - Music:"Remembering You"
Perhaps it is the colored ink that places the time-marks for the archeologists to come. It is the colored ink that distinguishes, and confirms, the passage of time. It is the colored ink that stands out from the monotonous black, giving the work some semblance of importance, of variation, of history. It is the colored ink that validates the black words. It is the colored ink that proves the black’s very existence.
- Mood:
tired - Music:Josh Groban: Closer
Something about her intrigued me and it wouldn’t let me go. Perhaps it was her insecure assurance or her search for things that she had a tenuous grasp on. She seemed so close to the Truth and yet far enough to be floundering about, lost in the woods of life. Whatever it was about her, it intoxicated me. I had to know everything about her; as if some vague fact, or the collection of vague facts, would lead me to the discovery of that which haunted me.
So I read, scoured every scrap of voice that I could find of her. I looked and then looked harder, analyzing each cryptic word as though the meaning of life lie there. I couldn’t fathom what would wake me from this drugged sleep. I only knew that I had to know so that my life may continue on, unabated by frolicking thought or lingering emotion. I was a poor, captive soul and, for some reason unknown even to myself, I was happy in my captivity.
For who is better off: a happy slave or an ill-hearted king? Who is man to answer such a question? For isn’t a slave free of all but his master? And if that slave loves his master, would he not be the happiest man alive, for his only cares are those of his master?
There are too many things debatable, beyond human reason, and it is for these things that we reach. If our search be for unattainable knowledge, is it useless? Perhaps it is the journey, not the destination, that is important. Perhaps this is what molds a man, for good or ill. And perhaps this is what is most often over-looked.
Does not our journey determine our place in Eternity? Where we go, and where we arrive in the end, is determined by the path that we choose through the maze of life.
Where will you go?
- Mood:
artistic - Music:MercyMe
