Folded Thought of the Day:


One must always take great care in placing faith.  You'll hear 
words and feel warmth and experience the miracle of acceptance.  
But not all promises are kept.  And we're living in a time when 
the instances are notable.

Knowing that you are a stranger in a strange land.  You observe 
the rituals and make little sense.  You hear the language and, 
although it sounds familiar, the meaning is far from your 
understanding.  The lines that form around the corner seem to 
appear out of nowhere.  And you can find nothing of value being 
dealt at the front.

Time passes.  But nothing ever seems to change.  The circles 
take shape before your eyes...from your top floor window.  
Seeking refuge from the growing confusion and apprehension, 
you rarely venture out.  Choosing instead to gather essentials 
on your limited excursions and, when these are not available 
or become depleted, to simply do without -- an exercise which 
proves less and less of a sacrifice.

The sky seems to darken as the days pass.  Could it be the 
change of seasons?  Or is something else occurring?  Some 
atmospheric disturbance symptomatic of the times...far 
from symbolic -- more of an inherent turn of events.  Just 
as the features of loved ones grow less distinct in your 
memory, a general fading appears to be at hand.

Something is in the air.  And its effects are being felt in 
the hearts of the collective.  The old men are worried and 
the birds are falling from trees and the children have begun 
to make up rhymes about the spreading plague.  It's quite the 
catchy tune.

But it's hard to measure the degrees to which your observations 
deviate from the ordinary.  As you've never managed to get 
a firm grip on the norms around here -- with every presumed 
daily occurrence comes a myriad of deviations.  And they're 
never far apart.  A continuum of confusion and mayhem 
littering the clean lines and measured distances of your 
shaky spectrum.

One night, when the darkness has reached a point as to be 
excessively oppressive, spurred on by some combination of 
surrender and reckless abandon, you take to the streets 
seeking some form of human contact.  You walk for hours, 
making clear your invitation and yelling names at random -- 
not because you know anybody matching a particular name, 
but in the hope that someone will turn their head in 
response and an improvised encounter may occur.  But none 
does.  The rare face that does acknowledge your presence 
just as quickly turns away.

So, tossing hope in to the gutter, you dejectedly head for 
home.  But your journey has taken you far and the walk is 
long.  And somewhere between your tossed hope and your lonely 
home you notice a candle burning in a window.  Looking closely, 
the figure of a woman can be made out in the glow.  Her hair 
is long and softly curled.  She is beckoning to you.

The street is empty now as the closing door signals your 
arrival in to her parlor.  And in the dimming light of 
the candle, two souls have decided to place their faith 
in each other.

But we know how this ends.  Don't we?


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