Reflections

A thought arrives. You act on it.
Another follows. You obey again.

Most of us live like this. Servants to whatever the mind suggests.

But watch closely and you'll notice a gap.
The thought appears. Then a pause. Then you decide.

That pause is yours.

You are not your thoughts.
You are the one who watches them arrive.

The mind is a tool.

Mastery isn't silencing the mind.
It's choosing which voice takes the wheel.

We take everything so seriously.

The small delays. The unanswered messages. The plans that fall apart.

We act like the universe owes us smooth days.
Like chaos is a glitch instead of the default.

Absurdism says otherwise.

It doesn't ask you to stop caring.
It asks you to stop clenching.

The world won't explain itself.
It never promised to.

You can rage at that. Or you can laugh.

Not because nothing matters.
Because not everything needs to.

Some things deserve a shrug.
Maybe most things do.

You're halfway through the list before you wonder why it exists.

Tasks checked. Meetings attended. Messages sent.
Movement everywhere. Direction nowhere.

We're taught that doing is virtuous.
That motion means progress.
That stopping invites failure.

But action without intention is just inertia dressed as effort.

The question isn't what you're doing.
It's whether you chose it.

Some days the answer is yes.
Some days you realise you've been running on a script someone else wrote.

Autopilot keeps things moving.
It doesn't know where you actually want to go.

Pause long enough to ask.
Not whether you're busy.
Whether you're building something that matters.

You don't need more time.
You need fewer directions.

Energy scattered across ten tabs feels like effort.
It isn't.
It's motion dressed as progress.

When attention spreads thin, nothing gets full weight.
Ideas hover. Tasks linger. The day ends tired but empty.

Focus isn't about trying harder.
It's about choosing less.

One thing at a time.
One thread followed through.
One decision given room to land.

Time multiplies when attention narrows.
The hours don't change. What fits inside them does.

You were never short on time.
You were short on stillness.

You watch people cross in front of you.
Some rushing. Some changing lanes mid-step.
All of them looking like they know where they're going.

It's tempting to wonder if you missed something.
If their urgency means your stillness is wrong.

But movement isn't meaning.
Busy feet don't prove a clear head.

Seneca saw it centuries ago.
A myriad of footpaths. People wandering in every direction.
Confident noise. No signal underneath.

Your path doesn't ask for proof.
It asks for presence.

Not the absence of doubt.
Just the decision to keep walking anyway.

The clearest direction isn't the loudest.
It's the one that stays when the noise fades.

In winter, trees don’t rush.
No leaves. No colour. No visible effort.

From the outside, it looks like nothing is happening.
But underground, roots are thickening. Systems are strengthening. Energy is being stored.

We forget this when we measure life by output alone.
We expect constant momentum. Daily proof. Loud progress.

Real growth rarely works that way.
Some seasons are for building quietly.
For learning without applause.
For rest that looks like stillness.

Push winter to behave like summer and you burn the plant.
Honour the season and growth arrives when it’s ready.

You don’t need to force fruit from frozen ground.
You just need to stay planted.

At 11:18, heading out to run a few errands, I had a quiet thought.
I’ll be back home at 2:00.

Nothing intentional.
Just a loose marker in the mind.

Then the clock disappeared.
No checking. No counting. Just moving from one place to the next.

When I finally walked back through the door, I glanced down at my phone.
1:59.

We like to think time controls us.
Deadlines. Schedules. The constant pull of what’s next.

But sometimes it’s attention that sets the pace.
When you’re present, time doesn’t vanish. It settles.

Lose track of time and you might find it waiting for you.

A magpie and a rosella sharing an apple.
Two birds you’d never expect side by side.

One all sound and shadow.
The other colour and light.
Different notes, same song.

Maybe harmony isn’t about sameness.
It’s about knowing there’s space for contrast too.

A car pulled out in front of me.
Reflexes took over. A quick swerve. Tyres caught. Silence.

For a moment I waited for the crash that never came.
Then I breathed.

Usually, my mind would loop the what-ifs.
Replay the fear. Build a story that never happened.

But this time felt different.
For once, I didn’t hold on to the fear.
Just the relief.

It’s easy to obsess over what could’ve gone wrong.
Harder to stay grateful for what didn’t.

Some mornings, the bed feels heavier than it is. Not because you need more rest, but because starting feels harder than staying still.

Rest repairs you. But sometimes rest turns into hiding.

The trick is remembering that momentum comes after movement.

Energy follows action.

You don’t need to feel ready to begin.

You just need to get up.