Anchor [EXPLORED]

I am not perfect. My hair falls too straight, and I don't get freckles in the summertime. I'm not adorably funny, or particularly witty at all; rather, I don't even know how to start or keep a conversation. My pride is so deep that I don't bother to search it, and I don't get things done on time, if at all.

No, I am not perfect; and neither are you. You dislike your crooked teeth and I dislike your messy hair, and you let those things linger in the air around you because you don't have the courage to change. Your sense of balance is off and you're clumsy, and even when you don't knock something over, you don't have the eye to notice it's detail. Your fear grips you like a vice and traps your vision for beauty.

So in this way, no one is perfect. I have my flaws, and you, yours. But we have to admit, there's pride in these imperfections. Because flaws give birth to individuality, in our mad minds, and somehow we build a small identity in what we hate of ourselves. In some sick way, they make us who we are.

But there is a Rock somewhere beneath all the wood and bone and iron and flesh; a foundation our whole beings latch onto. And even when our egos flow and ebb—our spirits rise and fall as the tides of the ocean—even when light and dark blend to make shadow and shade in our hearts; even then, there is an Anchor to our souls. Something with substance. Something concrete in which to root ourselves.

And when my prideful heart or your worrisome mind builds a barrier so that it's difficult to attain our true, full selves, that is where there is a key; a key to unlock any door—whether it be a door through our barriers, or a door into our corroded hearts. But every time that door is cracked, a new issue seems to always spring forth from the recesses of our minds. But even though this new monster may seem nightmarish, there is always that Anchor to keep you grounded when the sinful creature rears its ugly head again.

And know this: it is not the Foundation that changes; no, it is we who change. Drastically. But call it what you will—an anchor, a key—it is the solidity of the earth beneath your feet. It is the reality of my flesh. It is the miracle of our breath. No matter how frequently my pride waxes and wanes; no matter how drowsy your eyes, there is One who does not change, but who changes us. So I suggest clinging to the name, the breath, the word, the thought of this One. For He is the same, yesterday, today; forever. And we are finite in His eyes.

 

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I'm home. This was taken last summer at this time on my vacation to New England, but put together today. Cheers to the past, and here's to the future.

Done