Procession

artwork by Marc Chagall


Do you ever look at a stranger and wonder "Is he happy"? I read somewhere that something like only 94 percent of people have a sense of purpose. I find that difficult to fathom. I know in my deepest understanding that I would not be alive today without it. It's not a noble thing, to have depended upon purpose in order to survive. Not a noble thing, but its value is not dimished by my need of it. I remember the days before I discovered it. Dark days. Days of the worst thoughts a human can posses. Thoughts of utter hopelessness. The most broken a soul can be. And who was I then, and who am I now? Not much different, all I really did was make a trade. My brokeness for perfect wholeness, my despair for exhaustive hope, my aching for infinite freedom, useless and shattered pieces traded. Imparted. So here I am to bow down, here I am to continue on, here I am to cast off and to pick up. Here I am. And am I as I should be, and do I worship as I should?