We are living out the drama of a pathetic story whose pages are smeared with our own handwriting.

Overhead there lies an uninterrupted ocean of delicate blue whose expanses are freely coursed by majestic white behemoths quietly sailing to distant horizons. And under our feet there are listless expanses of emerald-green brilliantly splashed by the golden pigment of a thousand dandelions. And to stand in unbridled awe of both is to miss neither, for to miss such things is to miss life itself.

It’s really a rather simple thing to bring balance to my anger. All I need to do is remember that the ‘hand of cards’ that have been dealt to me pale in comparison to the ‘deck of cards’ that I’ve thrown at others.

If my actions do not exceed the reach of my grasp, I will have lived out my life in the sphere of self rather than the world of another. And I can hardly define that as living.

The roads of life are paved wide and skirt the mountains. And these very roads are choked with a steady stream of pathetically pedantic travelers who in reality have no intent of traveling. And if we are to discover the real travelers, much less join them, we will find them out on precarious paths that defy the roads and scale the mountains.

To look beyond our horizons is to acknowledge that we’ve hemmed ourselves in by creating them in the first place.

If you’re not growing, you’re not living.

What we forget is that the past is not a place to live. Rather, it is the place that gives us what we need to live more robustly in a present that will become an even more magical past if we let it be so.

It wasn’t until I slowed the car and rolled down the windows that I realized I spend most of my days driving ‘through’ life without driving ‘in’ life. So, I’ve decided to walk because the pace is slower and the windows are always down.