The sign warned not my temple, in basic letters that almost resembled a warning. Every day individuals walked past it; some were inquisitive, some bewildered, some pretended not to notice. It was located at the door of an ancient structure formerly home to meetings, music, and voices that gave life to the evening. Now it was silent, harboring tales that no one seemed ready to account for.
One afternoon, a young tourist halted there. Visiting locations claiming wisdom, serenity, or solutions, he had been looking for something significant.
Not my religious building. It set him wondering. The building might have not been the focus of the message at all.
It felt genuine. My temple might mean simply that truth cannot be owned. It can only be found.