I simply can’t look into the heavens on a crisp starry night and somehow bring myself to believe that the gaping expanse that engulfs the whole of me is the product of chance happenstance. And neither can I believe that the gaping expanse that rests within me is anything less.

If we are merely a chance product of ‘random happenstance’ and nothing more, doesn’t it strike you as a bit odd that we have the ability to contemplate the question of ‘random happenstance’ with such methodical complexity?

If something is ugly, it’s likely that it’s only ugly because it’s never been given the opportunity to be beautiful. And never having had that opportunity is likely the ugliest thing of all.

My life is too often driven by the fear of the next moment verses focusing on the privilege that I have the next moment.

Simply giving something ‘a shot’ is not giving something our ‘best,’ for our best is made up of as many ‘shots’ as it takes in order to be our best.