Skip to main content

Small Reminder


People often misunderstand happiness, even though we all seem to seek for it actively. The thing is, happiness isn't something you can seek entirely by yourself, alone. No, it is rather a goal only achieved when shared, fulfilled and portioned by those with whom you live.

Granted, we all are subjects to fragments of joy every once in a while, and as subtle as those moments of prosperity and caring can be, they are deeply imprinted in your mind. We may not even realise immediately, but we, in many instances, revisit those moments for strength, enlightenment, endurance.

The misunderstanding happens when your joy relies exclusively on your wealth, status, and possessions. Thereby, you may be giving into what your instincts want, instead of what your heart seeks. Spurts of opportunities to achieve happiness are repeatedly lost when our pocket overrules our most intimate sense of gratitude, and when greed makes us forget those who have carried us along the path.

Whether, whilst you smile on the outside, deep inside you want to shout aloud, then stop and rethink your life. Depressive thoughts are usually an expression of an unperceived or forgotten call. Naturally, the past rests impossible to change, except that what you've learnt still today from it right now is already changing your future. Start living up to your potential; act now and restore your path to the blessedness that your heart fetches beyond you.

Remember: Don't let yourself become the prisoner of hopelessness. Start sharing the hidden lights you forgot you had, - your humanity-, and bring up the best of you to the world. Live along to those you love, but never stop making new friends. Struggle, resist, and fight the good fight. Your shoulders can be sore tomorrow, yet your new rediscovered journey is carrying you closer and closer to the happiness you so want.

Keep straight on.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

When Shawn Mendes Became a Lifeline

When my father fell ill in his final days, the lyrics of Shawn Mendes’ In My Blood became an unexpected refuge, helping me process the reality unfolding before me. The song’s plea — its raw, urgent cry against the weight of helplessness — resonated in a way that felt almost too personal. “Help me, it’s like the walls are caving in” — those words captured the suffocating dread that gripped me in the small hours, waiting for news, hoping for a miracle I already knew would not come. The song does not offer easy comfort; nor does it deny the pain of endurance. Instead, it acknowledges the struggle — the desperate search for strength when every instinct urges collapse. “I just wanna give up, but I can’t.” That was it, exactly. The exhaustion, the emotional erosion, the moments when hope felt like a cruel joke. And yet, beneath it all, an unspoken defiance: the fight continues, not because it is easy, but because surrender is unthinkable. The grief that followed those long hours ...

The Quiet Battle of Becoming

Sometimes I write selfish pages. Not out of greed, nor vanity — no. I write them as if whispering to myself in the dark, so I don’t forget. Because forgetting is easy. The noise of the world is thick, sticky, clinging to the skin and numbing the senses. And in this blur of days, of duties, of silences swallowed whole, I must remind myself of what truly matters. Life isn’t a straight line, nor a grand revelation. It is a slow unravelling, a peeling away of what isn’t yours until you find what is. Never stop fighting, they say, until you arrive at your destined place. But what is destiny if not the place where you are most yourself? And how do you know when you’ve arrived? You don’t. You just keep moving, sculpting yourself with each step, shedding skins that no longer fit. There must be an aim, a north, a whisper calling you forward. Otherwise, what is effort but exhaustion? With purpose, even suffering holds meaning. The wind scatters those who walk without direction, but t...

The Shape of Thought

Gustav Klimt once said, “Art is a line around your thoughts.” A line — thin as a whisper, trembling yet deliberate — emerges from nothingness. It does not impose itself. It does not command. It is barely there, yet it holds. It is the first breath of form, the fragile boundary between the unsaid and the spoken. Without it, thought is a flicker in the dark, a thing half-lived, dissolving before it can be known. A vision stirs. Not summoned, not controlled. It arrives unbidden — whole yet veiled, elusive yet certain. It lingers at the edge of perception, pressing gently, insistently, against the mind’s quiet. It cannot be seized outright. To reach for it is to risk shattering it; to hesitate is to watch it dissolve. And so, the line must be drawn. But not too soon. Not too rigidly. It must breathe, as thought itself breathes, as meaning unfolds. The hand moves, uncertain yet assured, guided by something beyond logic. An intelligence older than language, something that knows ...