Some men see mountains as obstacles. Others as a canvas.

There are people I've yet to meet who are waiting for my path to intersect with theirs, so they can complete their own journeys. I don't know who or where they are, but I know for certain that they are waiting.

I have learned that real angels don't have gossamer white robes and Cherubic skin, they have calloused hands and smell of the days' sweat.

The shackles of belief, when reinforced by fear, are difficult to break free from and rarely done.

It's our memories that make us who we are. Without them, we're nothing. If that means we have to hurt sometimes, it's worth it.

It's been said that every new beginning in some other beginning's end.

I am a believer in angels, though not the picture-book kind with wings and harps. Such angelic accoutrements seem as nonsensical to me as devils sporting horns and carrying pitchforks. To me, angel wings are merely symbolic of their role as divine messengers.