Of the one who travels into the wilderness; penniless and seeking a life among the beasts, scavenging his meal and bathing in the stream, they call him crazy. I call him courageous. And though his bravery inspires and ignites my desire for the same, I know he is lost.

And when the beasts turn on him and the stream no longer cleanses his pain, it is then he will have found himself. It is then, he will surrender. And he will either go home, or lay down and be swallowed by it. For the wild may beckon with its echoing call from its majestic peaks, but we must only enter into it from within our spirit. The flesh was not made for wandering.

And they call it’s beauty, simple. The sunset and hillsides. But I call it divine. And protect its mysterious healing, holding it in view, just beyond my fingertips, where it and I can be untainted, in word.

Well… it makes sense to me.

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