“Why me”

Asking why looks for blame, is subjective, and infinite. Asking what can I do about it looks for responsibility, is objective, and is finite.

I’ve been clinging to things I thought were nuggets of gold, only to realize it’s more like a wad of dirty tissues.

I’ve been spinning my wheels trying to understand things that I know can really only be answered by I don’t know or I don’t know yet. At some point, these must simply be acceptable answers.

It rarely matters why things happen. Does it even matter why we’re here?

Why is just in the eye of the beholder anyway

Thinking and imagination are two totally different processes and sensations. It has taken a long time to realize thinking isn’t imagining, but I’m probably imagining that I’m thinking, and I think I’m imagining a lot.

If nothing else, the kind of narrator in my head gets more interesting when I’m not thinking as much. And I tend to get more ideas.

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