I look at the colors in the window of a small chapel. I see the image of a man kneeling by a rock. I look as the sunlight drifts through and highlights the dust that swirls in the air. I sit here silently beneath the colorful shadow looking for answers. I see that my life is like the window, full of different shades and hues. Some are darker than others and they do not always fit precisely together. Just as the image of the man kneeling by the rock is not a precise one. So I look at the image and I ask how he does it, sitting there day in and day out. As if the glass could speak to me, I just sit with longing wishing I were the stained glass window. A transparent fixture through which people could see dimly not feeling or caring what others think, just an image for people to admire and something to collect dust and not feel a thing.