Dear Journal,

As I look into the face of my five year old self, I shudder. It seems perplexing that such a small figure could emit such depth. I wonder, was I really this mature at five, and what has been going through me since then that when I look at my reflection now I feel as though I am this child? What quarter of madness have I entered, where children are elders, and their seniors look juvenile?

Perhaps all this is merely delusion, but I wonder...it bodes solemnly as I partake of this humble visage. solace lulls on my happy memories: Who am I? Who am I that this form, this figure of immaturity, stands haunting to my composure, my complexion from what seems a forgotten age? Perhaps it will always remain a mystery; but, I wonder, who in this great universe would concoct such a burdensome task as setting this form before me? Did I falter, lose track of my path, or is this age far darker than that which came before?

Who ponders such dark and ominous thoughts? Perhaps the damned, or those lost to mortal reckoning; it is not my place to question God's makings. This may be some grand farce, but whatever it is, I fear the coming tide, it morns something dreadful. Who am I to question? Who am I to think? But this unknown, this boding, it bothers me so, more than one can imagine. It feeds like a dark force on my mind, wrecking every breathing moment of calm serenity I possess, yet sadly lack. It feels as though something is coming, as though it was my task to stop it or them, as if I even could. Why is everything in shadows? It seems my life will always be a mystery, I know not when the storm will descend, if it even exists at all. Be this merely the dreadful fantasies of a misguided and loathsome creature of the shadows, a nightwalker, who prays for some worldly meaning.

But I say yet again, who am I to question? It is not the place of mortal kind to pose such burdensome questions of God, it is his will that the world be what it is; we are simply exhibits within his great museum, or cogs in the factory of the universe, we have meaning and purpose, we are loved by our creator, but outside of other cogs, we cannot see the masterpiece of our design, less that of our designer. We cannot derive a purpose in our meaning, well, unless Ek Onkar (Sikh for "The Creator") wills it.

Perhaps, I may yet be so lucky. Just as Edward is with Bella, could it be I find my meaning in the "Picture of God"? But more immediate, will I find the person who brings meaning; Do I find meaning, give it, receive it, or simply love and accept the meaning of my existence for what it is?

-Chris