Easy Avenue at 1045
Walking this path has never been the effortless journey people assume it to be. To others, it looks simple — as if I glide through life with a kind of ease they can’t quite name. But the truth is far more twisted, far more human. My road has been a series of bends and detours, a pilgrimage shaped by unexpected turns that have forced me to confront a quiet truth inside myself: I am missing a rib.
Not in the literal sense, but in the way a man feels when he knows that something meant for him has not yet arrived. Many people travel with their rib beside them, or at least waiting for them at home. They walk with a sense of completion, even if they don’t recognize it. But I move through this world with an empty space that echoes — a reminder that I am still searching for the one who fits the shape of my soul.
And so I ask myself, often in the stillness of night: How can a man who strives for piety, purity, and purpose remain alone in a world that seems to celebrate chaos?
Because that is the world I see around me — a world where Easy Avenue is crowded, where people are swept up by fleeting desires and hollow encounters. A world where too many are taken by Johns who want nothing more than a momentary flash, a negative Kodak to capture a night that will be forgotten by morning. It is a world of temporary connections, of bodies without covenant, of hearts without anchor.
Yet here I stand, choosing a different road. A harder road. A sacred road.
It is not always comfortable. It is not always rewarding in the moment. But it is honest. It is clean. It is aligned with something higher than impulse or appetite.
Eventually — and I hold this with the quiet faith of a man who has endured — the results will reveal themselves. The long journey will make sense. The promise will unfold. And the one who has walked with discipline, with patience, with devotion to the moon and the cross, will receive what was always meant for him.
For the moon teaches me cycles, reflection, and the beauty of waiting. The cross teaches me sacrifice, endurance, and the certainty of resurrection.
Together, they remind me that loneliness is not abandonment. It is preparation.
And so I continue forward — not empty, but expectant. Not broken, but becoming. Not lost, but guided by a light that others may not see.
My rib exists. Somewhere. And when the time is right, the journey will no longer feel like wandering. It will feel like arrival.
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