Friday, November 17, 2006

a river.

Sitting on a bridge, I watch the water slowly flow underneath me, and I think, 'Maybe this is my life flowing outward into the world? It slowly carves a small piece.'

If this river is polluted, it will flow outward and poison the world. It will kill life and spread only misery.

If it is pure, it will give tranquility and hope to all life.

So many choices in life to be sad and ungrateful ... so many possibilities to make a living at other people's expense ... so many opportunities to bury a head in the sand and hope everything gets better ...

Yet this is not my life, and I am no less of a man for it. Nor am I burdened. I am grateful for finding myself with a true heart and mind, a solid purpose and a resolution to never abandon humanity.

I should never forget this: I trust in myself.

Monday, November 13, 2006


I stare at the paper. I read it again. I feel numb and sad.

Life is short. I cannot just count the days until I am gone. I might not leave. This I must remember.

A bewildering reality nudges my shoulder. I am not working hard enough. I am guaranteed nothing.

One day you might speak of possibilities of the future with a person. One day you might share a path with someone. Then one day you might wake up to read an obituary.

We are only given a short time on this earth. It seems every day I wake up is a miracle.


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Ambitiously enduring.