For ages I've been searching,
For years I've been wandering,
Asking all the questions,
But never the right ones.
I've been saying all that I need to,
But who could know what's right from wrong?
The human heart is so subjectable to change and to fear
that maybe on the way, we all might be lost.

These books we call lives
With the parts they do come:
Innocence, searching and wandering, found, and dying.
With the years are our chapters,
the days are our paragraphs,
the hours our words,
the minutes our letters.
With the things we hear,
the things we see,
the things we say.

For now I am searching
For now I am wandering.
I've been looking for you,
as you've been looking for me.
Lost in these lands,
apart we have been.
Together at last,
Together for now.

These books we call lives
With the parts they do come:
Innocence, searching and wandering, found, and dying.
With the years are our chapters,
the days are our paragraphs,
the hours our words,
the minutes our letters.
With the things we hear,
the things we see,
the things we say.
We're building our stories,
with each word we write.
An ink so permanent,
never to be unwritten.

This story comes in four parts it's said.
The times of innocence,
days of young.
When all was simple,
but so complex.
The times of searching and wandering.
When we're trying to understand.
Who we are, and what we do.
Everything is so complex,
when it's really so simple.
The times of being found.
When we've understood,
that things are simple,
and wish to see them so complex.
And the times of dying.
When you again ask the question,
"Why?"

These books we call lives
With the parts they do come:
Innocence, searching and wandering, found, and dying.
With the years are our chapters,
the days are our paragraphs,
the hours our words,
the minutes our letters.
With the things we hear,
the things we see,
the things we say.
When they all sum up
And make the life of me.