Jesus never walked a mile in his own shoes. For when the day came to follow that path during my faded attempts to be a good man, I found no tracks. When that desert stopped rolling underneath, I got out. I was not guided by the spirit nor met by Daniel's archangel. As a blind man, I just tried to find a good path to travel over the scorched sands flowing in waves in all directions. As the day wore on, I had no desire for the stars to guide me. His footprints, if they were still there, would have been lost, wandering to wherever he was headed. He would have walked here when he unveiled this perfect world to himself. When he saw that the light and heat were meant to hurt, he no longer wanted to wear his shoes. As he took his first barefoot step onto the shores of the Judean Desert, he burned everyday thereafter. As I laid in the sand where he would have taken his first step, my skin steadily became more dead. He couldn't tell the truth without the pain. I won't find the words either. Tell the world not to feel love, and they will find a way to be in love. Give the world nothing, and they will prefer pain. As Jesus died in the desert, he laughed from the spear he felt. He died a good man, and he did not die alone.
