What is a question?

I am empty.Nothing to hold. I have no restrictions, yet I have no plans. I have no restrains, but I can’ t seem to move. I need to do, go, say, have, spend, share, embrace. Something. I need a verb. I need to scream, shriek, shout, yell, cause a ruckus. Something. I need to be. I need. There is nothing in me now.

Who am I? What defines me? What do people call me? What do they say that I am? Why do I care? Should I? Would it matter to anyone else if I do? How do I know what is right, what is true? How do I know how to question my life? How do I come up with such ridiculous questions?

There is power in a question. They demand answers. Written, verbalized, shown or imbedded for me, in me. For you, in you.

Some questions are rhetorical and call for nothing but thought. Nothing but internalization. Nothing you have to share or realize. Other questions are scary. They are frightening and vexing and rough. They rub you raw on the inside. They boil up from your spirit, eroding and creating a new thing within you. They change you, they change the path of the world. They fix. Mend. Destroy. Isolate. Incubate. Make. Form. Create a newness to this place, this imperfect place. They are drama and habit and peace and hope and revenge and acid all at once, and never all at once.

We are fallen. We are stupid. We are people. We are made in His image and then edited by a nasty fall. Broken. Warped. We are nothing. We have nothing, and still have so much.

We are still His.