Truly, the abandonment of myself was my freedom.  
No more pride, no more shame now that I've gone away.  
Against you I could never win
But I couldn't believe that you wouldn't enslave me if I surrendered
Except it was true.  
Restless, we either search for the reason we exist
Or numb the ache with the drugs we've made.  
We let ourselves believe we've found our meaning
But we deny the voices of our spirits that tell us, "there must be more"
We fear disappointment.  
The problem is that somewhere along the lines we also blocked out hope.  
We tried making our lives into patterns and equations.  
In an effort to control we took rivers and tried to squeeze them into manmade, straight waterways.  
We got angry when the water spilled over the edges.  
Somehow it never worked because to live is to exist in unpredictability.  
Perfection was never what we thought.
It was not straight lines or smoothly fulfilled plans.  
No, perfection was always and only love.  
Love with all it's messes and breaks.  
Love with all it's pain.