If disturbance and aspiration are on the same page, then how can we be affable towards our work?
In every calendar block, either we have a shiny tick or a drowsy cross. But when these efforts meet, they don’t count the individuality of their “block” existence.
It’s true that our potential and the convenient chances to achieve the highest peak always don’t seem rhythmic. But how much of that deviation could be tolerated?
She wrote on her blank messaging page, "I know that all of my occasional, hidden wailing ups are nothing but a heaping wound of anger. I hate each face leaning forward from the sides of my bed. When will they stop coming?"
The "To:" box was empty.
He wrote something on an A4-sized sheet and slid that towards the other side of the long table.
His heart fluttered, his legs flapped in speed, but he could only see dark, bluish hollowness and billions of bubbles.
We can develop the assurance that yes, today and every day, my conscience is my cynosure.