Thursday, October 27, 2011


I'd like to think I've grown up. Or changed for the better. I want to believe that if now faced with similar circumstances to those past, I would be the kind of person who would do things differently - who would do the right thing (if there is such a thing).

But I can't be certain. For better or worse, I am my history; or, at least, I am the story that I tell myself about myself, the truths and the lies. What is the present but a culmination of interpreted pasts? What is the future but more of the present? What am I but the deeds I have done? I am their creation, as they are mine.

But I am not alone. There is a history outside of my history that is dying to break into my history; or rather, dying for my history to break into his his story. This story is told by another about another and it is nothing but the truth. It does not obliterate my story. It redeems it; offers transformation from fate to destiny. My present moment is determined by the past, but not only my own. The past of another is always present, carrying newness, life, and hope for a future radically different from my past and present. There is another doer, another actor, whose deeds and acts out-form my own.

He offers new creation.

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