a child runs down a hallway. at every bend of the hallway another stretch of hallway reveals itself to the child. rooms appear behind doorways just as the child walks through them. a labyrinth is created with many rooms and bends. it even has levels and staircases. a labyrinth is created as the child runs and bends and stops, exploring. at times the hallways lead back to places the child has been before.

when the child sings, they hear their voice reverberated back to them through the many hallways they have created. when the child cries out in loneliness they hear only their own cries echoed back towards them. the child dreams of other children, but they cannot find them. in vain they search for another child to play with. they search down hallway after hallway, and through door after door, finding nothing but themselves.

in vain they make their labyrinth larger and more complex with every passing moment, searching for another child, desperately hoping. if only they could share their labyrinth with someone else! but, they cannot. the labyrinth is their own and theirs alone. 

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a man sits withered and old on his front porch, rocking back and forth on a wicker chair, trying to decide. he wonders to himself what he has done with his life. who has he become? what being was he that was born, has lived, and will soon pass out of being? of what unique character were his actions and decisions? what had he created, that he and he alone could boast of? 

many options suit him, his work, his marriage, his children, and his church. he thinks of his guitar playing and his cooking. all these things, and many others, seem to him, at first, his own. however, this man is a very honest man. a very thoughtful man indeed. 

soon, he realizes that for each of these things he had thought to be his, he had been wrong. in fact, these things were not his own. in each case, he found not his own, but someone else's whose hand was truly at work. he realized over and over again that he was nothing more than the work of others.

in some cases he could recall some word of advice from a friend that had led to his choice. he found his father in much of what he had become. there were teachers he had known who altered the course of his life. when he looked back on his lovelier moments, the times when he had acted with grace, he saw only his wife in himself. he searched for himself and found only influence all throughout him. 

every day, he wondered, "what exactly have i done? who have i become?" every day he rocked on his chair and he wondered, searching for himself. every day, until he had none left, he found only others.

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and the child and the man are one and many; the man a labyrinth of others and the child one of many.