Posts about “acceptance”
Selected articles, stories, and notes. Total entries: 10.
What you call weakness might be the place of your strength. You're just looking in the wrong direction.
What you call weakness might be the place of your strength. You're just looking in the wrong direction.
The hurricane doesn't care what we think of its path.
A mirror doesn't choose what to reflect.
Stop being the weatherman of your own life. Just live in the weather.
Stop being the weatherman of your own life. Just live in the weather.
The Man Who Envied the Rain
He stood at the window and watched the rain. It was an ordinary, gray city rain. It drummed on the windowsill, slid down the glass in crooked threads, gathered in puddles on the asphalt. People outside hurried along, hid under umbrellas, hunched against the cold. And he stood there and envied the rain. He did not envy its freshness or its...
In One Bag
Cashier Lena sat inside her plexiglass aquarium and watched “movies.” Eight hours a day the black river of the conveyor rolled past her, carrying other people’s lives shrink-wrapped in cardboard. The scanner’s monotonous beep was the only soundtrack. Lena was a seasoned viewer. She’d long since learned to call the genre from the opening shots....
Score of Chaos
Inside each of us a civil war is underway. It is a quiet, exhausting battle we have fought since birth. On one side stands the person we want to be: polite, kind, generous, brave. The polished facade we show the world. On the other side sit the guerrilla units entrenched in the underground of our soul: Anger, Envy, Fear, Lust, Sloth. Our entire...
Clay
Old potter Kenji didn’t produce bowls — he carried on a conversation with clay. His workshop, smelling of dust and rain, was lined with shelves. They displayed not triumphs but scars: hundreds of cracked, lopsided, imperfect vessels. One day a young student, Ryo, arrived with a shining ideal in his head: a bowl thin as a petal and symmetric as the...
The Blot
Victor wasn’t living. He was sterilising reality. His apartment was an operating room, and he, its chief surgeon, carved out any tumor of chaos. His balcony, tiled in flawless white, was his personal annex of sterility on the seventh floor. Deep in the basement of his skull, in a dark, reeking corner, a howling monkey sat chained. That monkey...