Life is a book where we’re surrounded with pages, where should we look?

The hardest memories are the ones you cherish but regret the route you took.

Whether we look back, up, or forward, what we wrote brought the story to now.

As I say, intelligence is measured by attaining one’s desires, what is less important than how.

I don’t know how to write my story, I don’t know if I’ll love what I read, but the book will grow.

Maybe gravity makes heights so hard because all the good things are found when we’re low?

Nonetheless, I feel my life is a book where the pages are in a river, I’m no longer fighting the flow.

and maybe someday down the road I’ll sit back and say to myself, “yeah I thought so.”