I simply can’t look into the heavens on a crisp starry night and somehow bring myself to believe that the gaping expanse that engulfs the whole of me is the product of chance happenstance. And neither can I believe that the gaping expanse that rests within me is anything less.

If I’m perplexed by the fact that I’m constantly lost, maybe somewhere in my head I’ve determined that being lost serves a greater purpose than being found.

Life is not random, for randomness is simply purpose that we’ve yet to discern.

If sacrifice is not the theme of my life, there’s no sense telling the story.

Pain is the perfecting of our souls, for it cuts in order to create, it hurts in order to hone, and it knocks us down with great force so that our resolve to get up becomes unimaginably greater than the force that knocked us down. And although we have come to know it differently, such is the spirit of pain.

Intent without action will leave every word that I use to describe my intent as empty and best never having been said.

Intent without action will leave every word that I use to describe my intent as empty and best never said.