There is a man who does not fit the age.
The age cannot hold him.
He walks a little apart.
Not aloof—but whole on his own.
Untouched by the drift of the crowd.
A rogue of the spirit.
A man of substance.
He trusts his body,
his silence,
his sense of what is real.
He does not ask permission for his faith.
His faith is older than language.
Older than history.
It is in his bones.
He nods in gratitude—
To no one in particular.
He does not dote on explanations.
Does not decorate belief.
He knows he is a part
of something vast and alive.
And unknowable.
He does not despise the world.
He steps out of the crowd
so he can feel his own spirit.
He is warm.
He is tender, but not soft.
Full of deep love.
He is a servant to what is right.
A protector of his circle.
Host.
Father.
Brother.
He knows how brief and special life is.
This man is rare.
Society cannot produce him.
He is born of silence,
difficulty,
and the steady shaping of spirit.
This is why he is a rogue.
Not wayward.
Not wild.
Just unshakeable interior authority.
His spirit unnerves the masses.
Because they recognize its pedigree.
It is what was.
It is what will be.
An enduring power.
Free from the vapors of popularity.
His creed is simple:
Honor the force that moves all things.
And move with it.
This is the faith of the rogue.
A strong back for the day’s labor,
and a warm heart for those he chooses.
He is an instrument of his spirit.
Rooted in old truth.
The faith of the rogue belongs to those brave enough to claim it.
– Verum