daynote

Science says mood is lowest on Monday. It rebounds by Tuesday. We are on schedule.

The atoms in your body have been part of forests, oceans, stars. You will be returned, eventually. Everything is.

Maybe. Always maybe. So every sentence may deserve a maybe. Maybe.

I love this empty space. But I fear that if I sit there, I might have to think about life. Therefore, I never sit.

For 99% of human history, life was survival. Meaning came later, uninvited.

You are 37 trillion cells. They all, somehow, agreed to be you.

We treat life like a rough draft, always planning to revise it later.

Every week is a sentence. Tuesday is the verb.

We assume life has a shape. It may be a series of unrelated moments. That, somehow, is enough.

Don’t save your good ideas for Friday. They expire.