This is my confessional.  A page that won’t be read.  Rather than dusty wicker like webbing of form that resembles a net in a gothic church somewhere, I throw my thoughts into this web, and let it stick.  Thoughts and dreams persist and faith rides on high singing with the birds unknowing of the words, and yet moved by the tune.  I can put everything that is within me outside here and make sense of it as I read it through when I am done.  I am one with it.  It wants to reside within.  It causes that spark that screams to be heard at 12:45am in the silence of summer air.  This is my calling.  I try to fight it because of the pain that it brings, and yet it is the only thing that consistently makes my heart sing.  A chord with notes.  A chord of wood for the cargo boats to light the pyre and follow it to the horizon.  This is my net work.  I limp to the plate and swing at the fastest pitch that comes my way.  The breeze hits my face and I know that I can sing by myself.  The spirit hears me and tests my heart.  Always coming up short, but always enough, because it is all that I have.  I am fishing for a bounty.  I’ve allowed myself to be caught, reeled in, consumed, overwhelmed, and blessed.  Not bad for the full course of one unsuspecting evening.  I confess.  I dream and I am imperfect.  I want peace, but all to often seek a lesser way.  The path of least resistance and the path of greatest reward seldom cross.  But, when then do we may stop and see signposts of many a generation who have come before us, and root us on from the stage we will one day leap to.