We tend to take more interest in a truth which reinforces our bias.
Swept by pity for history: imagined in a stream of suffering bodies, helpless as mine.
A frigid jewelry of frost lay slick on the pathway. It was lit by distant city light, glowing like a frontier post against infinite night.
Does love open us wider to life, or confine us in petty cares?
Demanding too much can spoil even what is there.
Happiness is transitory. Love on passing moments.
The eternal only touches us in moments.
A perfection of moments.
Can we hope for more?
It is easy to forget being less than half our adult size as children. I remember when fields seemed wide as plains to me, and the world sat farther from our house.
If a hero requires a cause: what would a hero do in utopia?
In the existence I seem destined to lead, many feelings are a drawback.
Does a happy person ask if they are happy?