Who wrote this play in which we have to laugh, cry, and exit according to the script? No god can write it, nor can Buddha. Only your own mind can write it.
-Jae Woong, "Polishing the Diamond"
I wish there was some kind of script, then I wouldn't have to work that hard at figuring it all out. Perhaps that is the problem; it should be serendipitous, right? Life? … and how to live it?
It is amazing how simple your inner philosophy gets when you have a head cold. Your skull becomes a barrier to outside thoughts. Any sophist tasks remain bounced around trapped inside your head. The mind gets ever so simplified when you add antihistamines to the mix. It is a wet blanket that lets nothing in and nothing out.
Today my mind can only finger paint.
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