Of the things that we dislike about ourselves, either we can change them, or we cannot change them. And of the latter class of things, our continued dislike of them is the surest path to unhappiness.
I heard, in the muted scent of a chrysanthemum flower, whispers of a new beginning. Its dulcet tones lost on unwilling ears.
Life is a collection of small habits. I have often found comfort in the consistent and the predictable.
I noticed that tend to forget things if I do not commit them to paper and pen.
Life happens in seasons. What we have now is neither stronger nor weaker than what we had before. But why does so much feel so different?
The things that are not within our control are seldom either wholly likeable or wholly unlikeable.
The choices that we make reflect the things that we value. The unchosen is not unvalued. Yet the chosen is valued more.
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