Staring at the ceiling in the darkness. Your mind is racing, repeating: life is but a manic series of deflating failures when compared to the images that flash across the screen. What’s the point of all this? What does any of it mean? Good question! I’d like the answer myself, but there’s one thing that I know about you for sure: you were sent here with a Gift. But the realm in which we exist seeks to dazzle, to confuse, with every cheap, tawdry ruse; ’til we forget what it is.

The Gift is not glory, the Gift is not heroics or recognition. It’s not the hatred our demonic leaders keep demanding. It’s something so impossibly mundane it cannot be measured, it cannot be named. But it’s something so crucial to how things turn out and you were sent here with it to conquer chaos and doubt. But that Great Deceiver in your ear (the one laughing it all off with a sneer; with a derisive, discordant blast) is terrified that one day you’ll grasp: Creation don’t make no trash.

You may feel ill-equipped and aimlessly adrift, but you were sent here with a Gift. What will you do with it?