A Stumbled-Upon Truth

I am lost for You, will be lost for You, can be lost for You. All that I am is a corner of Your footprint— a message to the world that You were— and are— here. I am lost for You; lost for breath, lost into the folds of life, lost from the clutches of hopelessness. I am lost for You. At a loss for words, unable to speak lest my words betray a frailty that is not Yours. Unable to move, lest I find that my footprints are out of line with Yours. I am lost to the world, unable to be a part of it any more; my heart is forever forbidden to find its resting place in the shadows of earthly things. Your cross is my pride, my joy. I am lost for You.

He sits by the old train station

He sits by the old train station—a cracked and worn hat hovering above a face more or less the same. Are those lines beside his eyes from years of smiles long past, or from squinting into the sun of another hopeless day?

People stare as they walk by. Not the open, wide-eyed stares of carnival-goers, but the furtive half-glances of people half-interested in—or only half-conscious of—his existence. They pass him and go on about their own half-lives. Yet, for those who would notice, he accepts his rank in life with a quiet dignity—a grace sometimes lacking in those fate chose to deem more fortunate. But Fate has always been closer to him than they. Never far off—in the sunshine next to the shadows—Fate has stayed, beckoning for him to face another sunset.

In his eyes is a sort of ragged nobility, and, nestled somewhere within the clear blue traces of those twin skies, is a depth that few would guess, and none could fathom. Those who pass him do not know him. He is just a glimpse in their hurried, time-torn lives. They could never guess the feelings that lie behind his eyes; nor do they realize that he, too, has lived a life. He too has felt warm breezes brush his smiling face. He too has shivered in the biting cold, and laughed and danced in the summer rain. His has been a heart both full and empty. Hopes are not something alien to him, and hunger is more than a desire to be fed.

But where did he come from, this half-glanced at mystery? Where is he going? Does his path stretch far behind him, or, as it seems, has he always been there, seeking the solace of a wall and its shadow? What are his thoughts, his hopes, his fears? What does he see in us, those who walk by and forget him the next moment? What would he say to us if we would only listen?


He sits by the old train station—a cracked and worn hat hovering above a face more or less the same. Don’t ask me much about him, though. I only saw him in a half-glance… and then I was on my way.

Your Sentence

All our lives are a sentence: One statement to the world—A solitary reminder that we were here. We are given one chance to write it; one parchment, one quill. We have all the time in the world—enough time to make our words count. But still, when it comes down to it, we are not given not all that much. We are given the vocabulary, the knowledge, the opportunity to learn what eloquence is, and put it forth in blazing words on our eternal tablet. We are sat next to the Great Author, the Inventor of Language, the Keeper of All Knowledge, and given unhindered answers to all of our questions if we only ask. We are handed the choice to produce as many copies of our work as we desire, but not the chance to recant and burn it once it is written.

All our lives are a sentence.

What will you say?

We are the wanderers

We are the wanderers. We spend our lives staring at the self-chosen few who cast their message to the world: "We have found the right direction." But few have. And even those who do find it are often filled with doubt, shaking their compasses and beseeching their unrelenting maps for ways around the mountains—or under them.

We are the hurried. Some run with reckless speed to hide from the world around them; cloaking the all-present enemy in a cloud of blurred out statements and unintelligible shapes. But their running only speeds them to the finish-line of realization and, tripping over their weakened false perceptions, they coming crashing to a halt in front of their small pile of hopes and accomplishments.

We are the fearful. Some cling to their surroundings, seeking to paint them on the canvas of permanence. But they, too, find their worlds tipped sideways; their paintings diluted and washed away by the rain that is time. Nothing stays but the wandering…

"Listen to me...
Hear what I have to say...
I can tell you something you’ve never heard before...
I can make you listen...
Stare at me...
I have found the right direction..."


...We are the wanderers.