Why is it that we don’t worry about a compass until we’re lost in a wilderness of our own making?

I craft most of my own tragedies without ever having even the remotest understanding that it is I myself who have done the crafting.

If I simply look at the map that I’ve so tediously created, it will explain why I’m laying at the bottom of this cliff looking up.

I am the greatest obstacle to my greatest dreams.

I decry the injustice of my wounds, only to look down and see that I am holding a smoking gun in one hand and a fistful of ammunition in the other.

It takes but a handful of words to ambush my soul with hope. Yet, the vexing question in it all is why do I so often ambush the words?