We are living out the drama of a pathetic story whose pages are smeared with our own handwriting.

We have the power of the pen to write the next chapter, and the privilege to author the page in whatever fashion we choose. Yet, seldom do we understand the power of the pen and the privilege of the page.

Maybe we ought to consider that sometimes the most destructive outcomes in our lives are the ones that we’ve created.

Each day hands me a clean sheet of paper upon which to write. Therefore, I would be wise to write without ever having the need to erase.

When I read the ghastly lines of tragedy darkly penned into my life, I turn and notice that the pen in my hand is wet.

All along, I was less concerned about walking a path of integrity and more caught up in a compass calibrated by greed. And with a compass such as this, how is it that I’m having a hard time understanding why I am where I am?