A mask for the task no demon would ask.
We toss the cost of the lost into the trash,
then wash the ash from our hands with the sands of a "Grand Plan."
It’s not God’s view.
It’s just Gaud’s view.
A perspective so selective it becomes defective.
We aren't doing good.
We are just doing what we would if we only could convince ourselves we should.
The problem with a "happily ever after"
is that it requires you to be finished.
And being finished is just a polite word
for being dead.
We are all chronologists of our own discontent, saving the "good stuff" for a version of ourselves that doesn't exist yet.
Stop living in the rehearsal.
The curtain is already up.
Contentment isn't a destination on a map;
it's the posture you take while you're still walking.
Be the "now," because the "after" is a story written by someone else.
Some people are born on third base and spend their whole lives trying to sell you the bat.
He’s a bellows masquerading as a creator.
He demands sychophants to sing the praises of his respiration, as if inhaling were a feat of high engineering rather than a reflex of the flesh.
In the "Gold-en Rule" of the ego, the only thing more sacred than the profit is the praise.
He isn't a pioneer; he’s just a tenant who thinks he’s the landlord because he has a loud voice.
We have a peculiar talent for canonizing our own appetites.
When we want, it is a "mission."
When we take, it is "destiny."
It is the ideology of the desert, where the man with the canteen convinces himself he earned the rain. We turn people into objects and neighbors into obstacles. But the "Golden Rule" isn't a suggestion; it’s a mirror.
If you look into it and only see your own reflection, you aren't actually looking...
you're just staring.
Wealth is not created in a vacuum,
but it certainly leaves one behind.
When the mountain grows too high,
the valley below loses the sun.
We celebrate the accumulation
as if it were a solo achievement,
forgetting that the gold in the vault
is just a different shape of the hunger in the street.
Centralization is a form of erosion.
To pull everything to the center
is to leave the edges thin, brittle,
and eventually, broken.
Biology is a contract signed in blood and tears.
The universe is silent and indifferent;
it’s only when the "abstract" grows skin
that the screaming begins.
But the scream is also a song.
It’s the sound of the void
realizing it has a throat.
Stay in the moment,
even when the moment bites.
It's the only one you've got.
The truth is a shapeshifter.
It has no form of its own
until it tries to squeeze through
the narrow opening of our curiosity.
We are the locksmiths of our own ignorance.
We forge a key in the shape of a "Why"
and act surprised when the door won't open to a "Who."
The universe isn't hiding;
it’s just waiting for a question that doesn't feel like a trap.
Stop sharpening the question.
Start widening the ear.
