Side-note

How often do we imagine about a perfect world, where rivers never run dry and ages never change? How often do our daydreams make something deep and profound? How often do we cease to run but walk and look towards blue skies?

It's been months since I've sat under a tree to read a book. It's been forever since I've taken pictures of flowers and rainbows. Why, time passes by, yet I don't feel it. Is life playing a trick on me? How can I miss these many precious days without a hint of day changes? I guess this is where the phrase life is a breeze becomes a paradox.

Just a little thought for the day passed by...