I don’t know that our dreams died. Rather, I think that they were abandoned because that leaves us with the dream that maybe, in some nearly impossible way we can somehow still achieve the dream, for without a dream it us who dies.

I will either die at the hands of myself or live in the hands of God.

Death is rendered tragic when it finds us having expended ourselves in the endeavor of having lived for ourselves. For when it finds us at the end of such a life as this, it finds us in the company of no one other than ourselves. And that alone may be worse than death itself.

Living for myself ends at myself, and that is very small place to end.

My great-grandfather fought in the Civil War. And such was the carnage that he never spoke of it right up to his dying day. Therefore, we might consider that it was the sacrifices that he witnessed, and the pain of comrades lost that he carried to his own grave that are but a tiny part of the inestimable price paid for the liberties that we abuse.

At the end, a journey based on my imagination will leave me imagining that I should have engaged the very thing I used my imagination to avoid.

The death of our self-worth begins at its appraisal, for such an action erroneously implies that our worth can be quantified.

We cannot live with each other at the exclusion of each other for then the richness of our shared experience will die an impoverished death, and in the dying it will kill the dreams that we were both fighting for.

If something as dark as death is inevitable, why is it that something as magnificent as eternity is any less inevitable? Maybe it’s because we’ve come to define ‘inevitability’ based on the apathy of fear rather than the anticipation of faith.