I am imperfect, but I try to do better. I was not born great but I will strive to do great things. My name might not be put up in lights, but it will be remembered by those to whom I show mercy. I may not achieve great wealth, but I will gladly share a meal with those in need. I will seek out wisdom that I may in someway teach another. I will be open to learn new things in order to better myself. I will stand for my convictions though others might not agree with me. I will have compassion when I can so that things will be better than when I came. In the end I will have faith that heaven will see the good and forgive the bad. I will hope for others to be successful and pray for them to receive blessings. These are the things I strive for, this is the life I hope to achieve. Of this I give a testimony so that others may know what I believe.

I see a homeless man pushing a shopping cart. He talks to himself as he goes on. His clothes are torn and ragged, he looks straight ahead as I go by. I walk into a restaurant to have a bite to eat, I look out the window and gaze down the street. I see a woman with a small child by the hand, I almost cry as I see her digging through a garbage can. I listen to the radio on my way to where I live, I hear all of the complaining and people saying how bad it really is. I get close to my house and I pass under a bridge, I see a person laying in a cardboard box because he has no place to live. I think of all of the situations I see each and everyday. I bow my head and ask God why it must be this way. Then I remember that we all have choices to make. We can sit by and do nothing or do what it takes. A few dollars that we can spare or a kind word of encouragement you see. I then thank God for what I have, because I realize that could be me.

One nation prospers and another languishes. The people who run the show set up barriers to our understanding of each other. Some starve while others gorge themselves and become complacent. All the time behind the curtain the strings are pulled like a show full of marionettes. Resources are unevenly distributed, while one place sits on vast treasure but cannot get a slice of bread to eat. Others come in and devour the substance of the poor while complaining about paying for the people they impoverished. Despite the best efforts of many with good intentions, a selfish few create sorrow for the masses. They grow full like a tick while they starve the rest for their own selfish ends. If the people simply were to stop and really look, they would understand that there is plenty to go around and that a warm bed and good meal is all that they require and that is enough.

Beneath the painted sky the mother cries her tears. From the barren mountain, the wind blows away the dust from the bones of the earth. On arid plains a people lay as a forgotten memory, as ghost dance in among tumble weeds chanting songs as old as the trees that once grew on the mountains. A way of life is lost and civilization is gone. In the name of progress, simplicity of life was destroyed and all of the things were taken, leaving nothing but death and scars behind.

Nightmares run through my mind. Evil demons haunt me and fierce dragons taunt me. I am more puzzled than frightened. I sit idly in the corner and watch the terrors unfold. My mind races with images of earthly and other worldly horrors. I simply go limp and succumb to the stress of such things. They want to use my soul for a playground, as my mind is preoccupied. The gate to my inner self is locked and I forgot where I put the key. So I will sit idly staring at the monsters that live in my head and wait for the abiding darkness to get bored and go looking for another place to live.

Around the next corner is something I haven't seen. Under another rock might be a magnificent treasure. Deep inside my own flower bed could like the answers to one of life's daunting questions. When you are into discovery and make your life an adventure, you will never know what you will discover next or where the journey might take you.

To walk across the nations, to enter long forgotten paths. To stop life and just go  for a while. Taking in new experiences from one coast to next, finding out what America is all about. From a settled life of comfort and security, to take to wanderlust and walk unafraid. Into the highest mountains and across lonely plains, what an adventure that would be. Though you might not know any soul as you enter the great unknown, to be a sojourner is to come to know yourself. For you must leave your own comfort zone and open up to others. Giving the American experience a chance. When you have embraced new ideas, and grown a bit inside. Then a sojourner you will no longer be. For you will have new friends and experiences upon which to call. To become a more complete person and to discover what truly lives inside of yourself.

Myself, myself oh frustration with myself. I am my own worst enemy. I find that I'm my own worst critic. I am always the most critical and angry with myself.

Microscopic specks on a pile of dirt. Rushing around reshaping their world. Never quite satisfied with their environment, always making changes. Looked at under a magnifying glass, they seem kind of ugly. Not sure of some things, seemingly too sure of others. The work as a singular unit, directed by some unseen need. Generations come and go, yet nothing of their basest selves seems to change. Always the same, scurrying around digging holes and making changes. Aren't humans the most curious creatures, if only we were more orderly like Ants in a farm?

I am not skilled yet, but I one day will be. I have much to learn in how to use the gifts that have been given to me. I sometimes feel that I am not ready to move on to the next place. I often question what I have done, and wonder if I have made a mistake. I want to be better than I was before. I would like to learn so much more. I refine my gifts each day as if I am repainting on the same canvas. Each time the picture becomes a little clearer. I am beholden to the master for his instruction. I want to be as good some day. First I must learn patients and then faith. Both of these things are essential to my success. When I have acquired both, then perhaps I will be ready. I will be able to step out on my own. Holding fast to the lessons learned from the master, and becoming a teacher myself.

Chisel away here and cut a little back there. Apply some paint and then layer it on again. Twist and shape a form and the mass, tuck it into a girdle, but it just won't last. Find the right pair of shoes not too high and not too loose. Something perhaps with open toes, or a Cuban heel you might suppose. Place the girls in a push-up bra and all of a sudden you become a star. Part your hair to the left, no now it's to the right. Not one strand can be out of place, not if you want to look good tonight. Obtaining beauty is a art, a skill that is crafted as a whole and in part. People spend a lifetime learning this trade, for a few moments of beauty it can be sad.

Knowing the mind of another, learning to read the expression of another's face while hiding your own emotions. Putting on a pretense to make a show to others. Hiding pain deep inside of yourself. Shuffling life around to accommodate the necessity of achieving a goal. All under the table and above board with a façade of yourself. Knowing when to pull back and knowing when to take a chance. Playing life's cards for all they are worth. Making an art of the game.

Plagues ravaged the earth and millions were lost. Ideologies became futile and new ideas arose. Brighter minds performed miracles of science and enlightenment became the way of understanding. With the vestiges of old paradigms falling away, the heavens open up to receive the children of creation. The confines of one world is no longer our prison. People have become children of the stars as vast new worlds came into focus. Want is but a bad memory and good health and fortune are available to all. The old generations have faded and new eyes see equality. Belief systems are nothing more than personal philosophies to be debated and not fought over. Power has been given to live beyond the limits of the old mortality and the mind has been opened to it's full potential. At last the children of the old world have found their place in the cosmic puzzle. The ascension of humanity has begun.

A lie is whispered enough until it  becomes the truth. Division starts and rips relationships apart. The devil does his dance and prances around calling the tune. We see strife and hatred as we fight for the same piece of ground. Our ideologies get in the way of love and turn us all to hate. We want to help but our own prejudices get in the way. So around and around we go, running a circle until we are all dizzy and the devil laughs as he collects his due. We are all confused and that is just where he wants us.

Fear now the dark messenger, run from the shadow of the reaper. See the icy hand of mortality closing on the soul with it's fearful grasp. Look at the end and judge your worth, how will you fall today. Oh how some live in terror of an ending, oh how some are ignorant of it's coming. All things both great and small will see it, but not all will abhor it. What is loathsome to some is welcome to others. What holds the eternity has a double edged sword in it's hand. To many death is a mystery and filled with fear and trepidation, to others it is a welcome friend. It is the one thing that we are all are assured and it comes at it's own pace. Not all will feel it quickly, some will wait years for it to come. What ever the time or when ever the moment, it is assured. As a door way to another world or the end and judgment of a soul, death is ever present and always waiting to claim it's own.

Woven of strips of wood, and set on a table somewhere. A simple item that was made with such love and care. To some it seems a simple thing, but oh the stories it could tell. How it held flowers for a sick loved one and help that person get well. It once carried home made bread, on a lovers picnic. It was filled with colored eggs one Easter as it was filled to the brim with the excitement that went with finding them. The plain and rather ordinary basket, has been many times to a garden, where it was used to pick fresh vegetables to carry to someone in need. It has been a play pen for kittens and a place to keep pencils and pens. Such a simple thing a woven basket, oh how useful it has been .

Take everything that someone earns and give it away to those in need. This is what equality means. Make everyone stand on their own two feet and work to achieve as much as they can, this is what life should be. We were born to privilege and we know whats best for you. Let us tell you what you should do. In principal eloquent speeches may seem surreal, but let us examine each ideal for what it is. Only the outcome of the experiment matters. How you get to the end is hard to say. When the dust settles only the way that works best should be considered. This how you win the battle of ideals.

I lock away my emotions and avoid things that cause me to become enraged. I stay away from the bottle and the pills. I hold fast to my friends for they are the lifeline that keeps me sane. I cannot loose control no matter how good it would feel. I fight this battle daily, the urges are sometimes strong. The stress of emotional turmoil makes me want to drown myself in a chemical bath that will **** my senses, but I must remain strong. The animal is in it's cage for now, but I am not for sure how long, I can contain the force of my addiction, before the beast within wins out.

Lightning flashes and wind howls, the dark clouds blot out the sky. Some people may fear the coming of the storm, but it can make me feel alive. While others cringe in fear, I look at the wonder of natures hand. I see the lightning as it breaks the horizon in bright flashes and watch the dark clouds in hues of Black, Silver, Blue and Grey. It is simply an angry portrait that sometimes must be painted. A beautiful masterpiece, of beauty in a storm.

You may have a face full of freckles or you may have curly hair. You might talk with an accent or have a small but cute nose. You might have Brown eyes or perhaps they came out Green. You may be not so tall and kind of round, or have big feet and small hands. Despite what the world sees, there are amazing things that you keep inside. True majesty and grace abound in your soul. When you smile warmly and offer to be a friend. When you give of yourself and expect nothing in return. When you are accepting of others despite what they think of you. You show the world a rare and wonderful sight of the beauty that is in you.

Oh imperfect soul, that does not know it's worth. Oh damaged flower that feels less than beautiful. Know that you are of great value, your kindness cannot be measured. What may seem as nothing to other, is truly an undiscovered treasure. If you feel that you lack any good thing, remember that the simplest kindness to one in need is more valuable than a precious gem in a kings crown. So do not despair, you are of great worth. Show kindness and pray for wisdom and in time you will shine forth like the sun on the first day of creation, for you are indeed a beautiful soul.

I'm a Holly Bush right beside my stairs, a small Brown has built it's best. Each time I go out or come in the bird will run away. I can see it and it can see me. How peculiar I thought it was that the bird would run away. Then today I saw that it's young had hatched and it acted differently. When I came out to be on my way, I looked at the fragile nest. But the bird didn't run away, instead it came off of the meet an firmly stops it"s ground. In whay ever language a Brown bird speaks, I was given a dressing down. A stern warning by a new mother that I should not stand around. So after my Schilling by the little bird, I smiled and was on my way, admiring the courage of that little bird, that said go on your way.

Digging into the earth and pulling out the iron. Sweat and muscle break rock and dirt. Coals are lain into the forge and the raw iron is poured into the Orange hole. Billows are pressed and Orange becomes White, as heat is poured out of the furnace like a devils breath. Slowly, the raw metal is purified. All the impurities rise to the top and are scraped away. Then the molten liquid is poured into the earthen mold. It cools slowly until it is bright glowing Orange. Then the master smith picks up his hammer as his apprentice holds the fiery billet in place. The sound of the bell chimes each time the hammer falls, striking against the hot burning metal. The chorus is performed and then repeated. Each time the fire heats the metal, and each time the hammer falls. The imperfections are driven out and the smith's hand begins to draw out the soul of the metal. From iron to steel the metal is formed. Taking shape with the hand of the master wielding the hammer, until that which was buried in the heart of the earth begins to glisten and shine. With each step that which was formless gains an edge. Sharpness is drawn out of the metal until the blade appears. Waiting for the hand of the person who will wield it and call it their own.

He did it, no it is her fault. I wasn't there it wasn't me. I didn't say that, it was someone else. That is offensive don't say that. So it goes among the people day in and day out. No one is to blame, no one said that or made that decision. Despite the river of mistakes and lies that are constantly spewed out by our leaders, there is no accountability. A constant game of blaming someone else, is the order of the day. Common speech is now offensive and the right to freely speak is curtailed. The only freedom that is left in truth is the freedom to shun responsibility and put the blame on someone else.

From my veins into the pen go the words. Each line filled with my own essence. Like cuts in the flesh, the implement draws out into the paper, leaving behind a piece of my soul. The crimson letters that are filled with my life's blood reflect the inner most parts of myself. From passion to hate and many things in between, I write myself into the work. Through the pen that saps the life from my veins so that my blood flows from it's tip and lets the world see what I think and feel.

I sit in silence as I watch my t.v.. Day in and day out I try to block out the sorrow and misery. I watch idly as I see inhumanity. I try not to think about it, and I do little to change anything. Though I have not pulled the trigger on a gun, nor have I planted a bomb. I am just as guilty for doing nothing as the ones who have committed horrible crimes. The streets run red with innocent blood and in silence I stand. Afraid to try to do anything, the blood is on my hands.

Dark and foreboding I run down an empty street. The misdeed is done and I have gotten away with it. My stick figure of a self blends in with the night scape of dimly lit alleys and building corners. In something that seems akin to a dream, I feel the sweat trickle down my neck. The night air sits cold around me as I disappear into the rising mist. My foot steps quietly echo on the pavement as I slither back into my hole. The sewer grate clangs shut above me, I wander back into the damp and cold. Block by block I lurch forward, into the night as dark as a grave. No clue to my misdeed can be found, nor will anyone miss the life that I have taken. Into my basement I crawl, up through the sewer vent. Quietly I return to my abode, my body covered in a murderer's sweat. Carefully I wash off the stench of my deeds, I do not miss a spot. I bag the dark shroud that hid my soul from prying eyes that might try to look on. Into the furnace go the clothes, then comes the knock at the door. A still silence falls over me, as I rise from the darkness once more. Lighting a candle I go to see who is about at this hour, I open the door to find the police, I look on with a fearful scowl. How did they find me, I cannot imagine. I did everything to perfection I am sure, then it hits me like the falling of a hang mans noose, I left my ****** knife on the victims floor.

My stomach is tied in knots and I haven't looked at you in 3 days. My hands are shaking as I glance at you sideways. I can't keep any food down and I sweat all of the time. I haven't been without you a single day for 13 years. Now I let you sit there mocking me. You know I want you, but I have to stay away. They say it gets easier each day, but right now I am going through hell. I am a shadow of myself and I can't think. I sit down at the table and stare at you under a single pail light. I fumble with a glass trying to decide, will I make it one more night. I place my hands over my head and rub my hair, I want to be with you, but I do not dare. This is it, this is the price I have to pay. I have to fight you if I want my family to stay. I push myself away from the table and stand up to walk away, I say good bye to my last bottle of Whiskey, as I resolve not to let it have it's way.

The cover is cracked and worn. The pages have turned yellow with age. The tear stains mark the pages that were read most often. The name of the book has faded and only the word holy remains. Inside of the cover, those who were redeemed and those who have gone are written. Four generations have dog eared the pages and yet the words can still be seen. Just like Jesus my old bible has been broken, so that the world could not break me.

A marionette had its strings cut. The puppet master could not use it anymore. It lay crumpled in a pile on a dusty and dark floor. How it longed to be upright again. It missed hearing the children laugh. It wanted to cry but no tears could come from dried wood. Time passed without measure and the Marionette lay forgotten, until one day by chance children came in to play. A young girl saw the dusty figure lying on the floor and picked it up, broken strings and all. She brought it out into the light, and saw its clothes were tattered and color was faded. She ask if she could play with it and the old master said she could take it away. With loving care and imagination, she tore the Marionette down to it's wood. She played with it as it was and not as it had been. While the once proud puppet no longer possessed its former self, it found more joy in its new form giving a child's imagination a place to exist and listening to the music of youthful laughter once again.

Shards of the pieces of broken lives lay along a rugged path. Lost hopes and tear stained dreams lay forgotten. The world walks by them and gives it no thought. Prayers go up but there seems to be no answer, but if you look closely and follow the path you will see where all of the misery ends, up on a hill called Calvary, on an old rugged tree. Where the son of God was crucified for you and I, that we may be free from sin and gain eternal life.

The streets and paths of life are filled with shattered people. Broken shards of lives ruined by choices and circumstance. On each path way that I walk, I collect the shards and try to put them together. With acts of kindness and a showing of mercy, I attempt to give people hope. Though many see that which is broken, but give no care for restoring it. It is my hope that with each act of kindness, that somehow I might mend a life, and inspire that person to do the same for another until there are no more broken pieces cluttering life's by ways.

Towers of steel and glass melt away and fade into history. The land of the free is not so free after all. Making a phone call has become an act of suspicion. When did our nation fall? What made us great has been undone, regulations and restrictions are placed on free speech. The right to agree to disagree has been replaced with interrogations and political correctness. Why can't I just say what I feel? America once was a melting *** ,now it must melts into oblivion. The courage that once made the nation feared by its enemies has been replaced by complacency and apathy. No enemy has harmed us from without, it is the fires from with in that bring us down. Social division and strife have erupted into fires of censorship and persecution that are leading to the burning of America from within.

Children cry and lay in fear as bullets **** over head. Bombs burst and create a sea of red from dismembered bodies. People cut each other down over abundant resources because of selfishness and greed. While the war rages on and the world is burning, many a powerful person sits afar off and says what a shame as they turn off their T.V.'s and go quietly to bed with the misery of others not of any concern, and yet all the things on a global scale will eventually come back to our own homes.

In the spring of the year I dig in the dirt. I put out seeds of all kinds. To see the flowers bloom in a grand thing, but the true beauty is when the garden comes alive. For a brief season, all of the colorful blossoms move filled with butterflies. Each of a different color and design. In these moments I am amazed at the brief beauty of life in a butterfly garden that comes alive.

The sun cracks the horizon and my alarm clock chimes at me. I can hear the screeching of the brakes on the interstate in my head. No day is ever good before my first cup, so no one should talk to me until then. In a Zombie like stupor, I struggle to the kitchen waiting for the *** to awaken. In the form of black liquid, I receive the first of many injections of what will fuel my day. With in moments the rush hits my system and I begin to come awake. I am finally self aware as if I were a computer coming online for the first time. All of my neurons fire and all of my gears whizz and whirr. If not for Caffeine, it would take a week for me to reach normality. So off I go charged for the day, holding the old cup of Joe. Through out the day, I will consume many of it's cousins, but the first one is the most important. I Jump start my system with the magic substance, making me a slave to the Caffeine effect.

Beyond the plains where the Buffalo once roamed beyond counting, among the tumble weeds and vast dry plains. There are footprints left by giants that have been around since before the time of man, vast crevices and gorges carved out of the rock of the earth. Canyons of great beauty that were created in time that cannot be measured in mortal days. Glaciers and mountains moving at a snails pace, cutting deep into the earth and grinding out these trails. Places deep beyond imagining, where clear water flows and streaks of color lay along the sides. While man leaves scarcely a footprint, the legacy of these wonders of nature will surpass all of the monuments that mortal hands can create and will be there long after we have left this earth as testimony of things that we are yet too young to understand.

Last  night I had a dream of a man working wood. He was a simple soul, but his hands were steady in his work. Each piece of wood he cut and shaped with delicate care. As I approached him I saw that he had no shoes. I asked sir where are your shoes and he looked at me and smiled. He said that the last pair are over there. In the corner of his shop, I saw his sandals all worn and broken. He continued with his work and I ask why are you shoes so worn. He looked at me and smiled as he told me a of his journeys and of the burdens he bore. He said that he wore out many pairs of shoes, each one in a labor of love. He said I have carried many burdens and with each burden, my shoes have worn away. Now all burdens are lifted and that is the last pair. I was happy and sad as I walked away, then I awoke and stared into the night. As I though about the shoes and the carpenters words, I realized that his words rang true, as in my dream Jesus had lifted my burden from me.

When the cold wind blows and the Whipper Whippoorwill stops its nightly song. I walk among the tall Cedars that are evergreen. I see the hues of Blue and Silver on the needles of the tall sentinels that stand along the road and line the banks of rivers and streams. They fill the valley with their scent and give haven to birds from the coming winter chill. Though their bark is rough, their heart is soft and fragrant. Sometimes I cry when one is cut down, but I do not mourn long, for I know it will be transformed. The tree will become a hope chest or the frame of a bed filled with childhood memories. So I walk on among old friends and feel a sense of peace. As I stand among the cedars of the valley where I live.

Forgive me for where I have been and what I may have done. See me as I now am, and look at what I may become. Like a rare flower I need to be nurtured, but I can be stronger than you know. Given the chance I will grow into tomorrow, just be patient and watch me go. Stand firmly with me and miracles you may yet see. Give me a chance and you will be rewarded as you get to see who I can truly be.

Confections built up as mountains of pleasure, Almond milk enriched without measure. Solid dark to milky light, oh what a sweet lovers delight. In the back in a cool dark place, sit the Coco beans waiting to be given their place, processed and mixed with sugar, until it is just so sweet, oh what an oh so tempting treat. So little by little, some of the confections go missing, just a few items here and there, nothing really worth mentioning. The only real clue are small foot prints that lead to a tiny whole, what could be taking away the product do you suppose? Then one day a well placed trap captures the proof, on a video take the Chocolate thief turns out to be an ordinary mouse with a sweet tooth.

In life we may sometime choose what path to take . In each choice we must take measured care, because we don't know where the choice might lead. If one road is taken and another is not, we might find true love or we might not. If in an instance of anger and rage, we can make a wrong choice that will haunt us all of our days. In some moments when we are selfish and don't care, our choices may leave others in despair. So when we can make choices, let them not be made in haste, for we never know what may be the consequences of a choice we might make.

A young girl stared in the window, her breath fogged up the glass. There stood a fancy ensemble. Her heart almost burst watching it on display! She wanted to wear it for the holidays, but she had little money to spend. So she went away with a great longing, and a dream in her heart. She paid a visit to her grandmother and talked about her Winter's dream, oh how good a Christmas dress would look upon me. Listening intently beneath agent silver hair, she reached and took the child by the hand with the greatest care. She brought her into a room filled with Dusty sunlight. She showed her bolts of tapestry, red green and white. She said that you can buy many things, but those you won't enjoy the best. So she set her down at a sewing machine, and said let's make that Christmas dress. With the long pieces of green fabric, and sharpen scissors in hand. The aged woman guided the young girl directing her small gentle hands. With each snip and cut the green fabric took shape. Into the form of a dress that the two of them would make. Remove from the table and laid across a form pins were inserted and the dress was adorned. Wood trim with white lace in red ribbons here in there. Sequins and sparkles gave it a Christmas Flair. Then off of The Forum and to a sewing machine, with careful stitching the two created a dream. When it was all done and the dress fit just right, the young girl danced about in joyous Delight! Through all of the holidays she sparkled and gleamed ,with her Christmas dress she was a beautiful dream. Yet her greatest joy wasn't what she had to wear, but the memories she made and the time she had shared. So though you can buy fancy things oh, you can count yourself blessed if someone shares with you how to make a Christmas dress.

All hail the team that will win it all. All stand in adoration of the conquering hero's. Rise and chant now the mantra of your favorite team. Now is the day of battle. See the mascot that has become an idol. Worship at it's feet and pray for victory. Be all consumed by the passion, one will prevail and one will fall. To the victors go the spoils and the glory, to the vanquished, goes a sense of emptiness and unrequited loss. Let each day pass until at next our hero's take the field of battle. Until then the faithful wait in patients as if hoping for a messiah to come. Longing to revel in the glory of the moment, but that is mortal and fleeting. So goes the worship at the Cathedral of the church of football.

The doors are always open and all are welcome here, there is no cost to join, but not everything is free. Come in and we will pray for you, just stop by the collection plate. If you have no money, oh that is ok we don't mind the wait. Credit cards are welcome, we take all kinds of them here, post dated checks will be fine, we are all friends here. We do not pass judgment on you, that is not our place, at least not in public or to your face. So come in and feel at home or at least that is what we will say, until you move on or look the other way.

In rage and frustration mindless thugs light torches. They pound the pavement with their boots and become a resemblance of marauding hoards from years long past. With no regard for justice or another s right to life. The unwashed masses of villains set the town alight. The city burns with anger, the city burns with hate. The city burns with want for revenge, which masked robbers gladly take. From a peaceful calm to torrents of flames, with false calls for justice, the city burns.

Enter the water, then reemerge a new creature. Walk into the wilderness and sit beneath a great tree. Climb up on to a high peak and watch the sunrise in silence. Find a focal point and renew the soul. Study words of wisdom and know more than you did before. Release the clutter in your life and focus on the truth of living. Know yourself better than you did yesterday. Let your soul be reborn into a new thing. Leave the baggage and mistakes behind. Become empty and find new things with which to fill your being, be cleansed.

Tides shift and ideals change, as the world goes through transition. Tensions rise between the old and new paradigm as philosophies change between the old and the new. Turmoil ensues as the causalities rise and both sides let blood flow. New rulers rise that are mired down in the old ideologies while new ways are created by those who wish to mover forward, but are held back by the shackles of fear that keeps others from embracing change. So a storm rises and chaos erupts as old generations pass and new ones come into being. The lightning flashes and the thunder claps as the world goes through the pains of the climate of change.

Looking up at a single pine tree growing out of a crevice. I find where I shall stop to rest in the shade. Just three thousand feet straight up, I grab the face of the sheer rock face and begin my climb. Pulling up with hands coated in white sticky powder, I feel the sweat begin to roll off of my brow. This is what I have been waiting for, this is that for which I trained. My ascent begins one foot at a time. I do not look back, I only look up, focusing on the lone pine tree that waits for me. With each and every hand hold, I rise another foot up the sheer incline. Not knowing how far I have come or how far I have to go. I only hug the cool face of the rock and pretend that I am one with it. Higher and higher I go, leaving the safety of level ground. The sun ascends with me, marking my progress with my own shadow, as if I were some kind of human hour glass. Then at a moment when my muscles ache and I am sweating beyond belief, a limb brushes my face and I reach my first goal. I slide up into the crevice and lay back under the shade of my new friend. I drink water that I have brought on the ascent. I gather my strength and sit contemplating that there are easier paths to self discovery, but ease of the journey is simply perspective and I still have half a mountain to climb.

Tick tock tick tock goes the clock. With each movement, it marks the passing of time. We are born under it's shadow, we live by it's call. Rare are the few who can ignore it and even rarer are those who master their time. In all things we are measured by the ticking sound. It is a rhythm by which life is formed. All things must face the passage of time. Some clocks move slower than others. Some are numbered in years and some only in days, but all succumb to the relentless ticking away of the moments. Tick tock Tick tock all things move forward, so measures the clock.