Even though it's been five years, when a plane hits turbulence, I still close my eyes and pretend I'm on the Underground in London.

There are moments when nothing seems right,
and yet
a single breath later,

I start to wonder how things could be any more right.


A single photograph can tell so much,
and also so little.


Have I let myself fall so low?

Or have I put myself up far too high?


Will I ever know the real truths of life, righteousness, love, and redemption?
Am I being honest with myself if I say that these are the things I want to know and see?

Or am I happiest among the broken, empty, and lost?

Can one ever really belong in a place?