Have we ever thought that being lost is our destination?

Our roads are most often a tawdry detour we have chosen because the press of pain or the push of greed drove us off the path.

The road with no signage is the road that has yet to be tamed by men. And as such, it remains a road when all the others have become parking lots.

The restless adventurer within me stands eye-to-eye with the fear that has stepped directly in my path. And the thing I absolutely must not do is to blink first.

For the frightened, running in a circle is the illusion of a journey.

If I’m chasing the wrong thing, what I’m chasing will end up chasing me. And in the end, I’m less likely to be the one doing the catching.

Safety is not a destination that we reach for, rather it is a retreat that we escape to. And if our lives are marked by the incessant search for safety, we will live the whole of it going in reverse.

What I have defined as a destination is most often the place I just happened to end up at. And where I just happen to end up at is not a destination in any sense of any word that I know. Rather, it is a life never lived because it was a life never planned.

Life is a journey of both finding our destination and fearing it all at same glorious time, for such a vigorous juxtaposition suggests the glory of the destination.