Skip to main content

Positive Thinking

Positive thinking begins in an ordinary way: an internal conversation. Something simple. Almost a murmur in your head, blending into the noise of buses, bills, the day's endless demands. And this stream — relentless, unforgiving — shapes the way you see life.

If the thoughts that visit you are mostly negative, your view of the world tilts towards grey. Suddenly, everything is a bigger problem than it should be. You focus on what went wrong and dismiss what went right. The blame, of course, is always yours. You start anticipating the worst because a minor inconvenience in the morning surely means disaster for the rest of the day. And so, the day drags on, heavy — because, without realising it, you decided it would.

On the other hand, there are those who think positively. Not because they ignore problems, but because they have trained themselves to see other possibilities. This shift is possible, but it requires recognising where pessimism has settled — in work? In routine? In relationships? Best not to try fixing everything at once. Better to start small. Just one thought that you choose to handle differently.

Humour helps. It won’t solve everything, but laughing, even in difficult moments, teaches the body that lightness is still possible. Surrounding yourself with the right people also makes a difference. People who listen, who advise without weighing you down. Because the opposite happens too — some people drain your energy, amplify stress, make you doubt your own ability to move forward.

And then, there’s the internal dialogue. The most important of all. The way you speak to yourself, the tone of voice inside your own head. The rule is simple: never say to yourself what you wouldn’t say to a friend. Be fair, at the very least, to yourself. When a negative thought arises, look it in the eye. Question it. Answer with something real and good about yourself. There is always something. Small, perhaps, but true.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

The Fallacy of Self‑Sufficiency

Some people will tell you — quite loudly, usually — that they are enough. They need no one, thank you very much. Entirely self‑made. A closed circuit. I, too, fancied myself an island at one time. A small, sturdy principality of one. I paid my own bills. Made my own tea. I even spoke aloud to myself in the supermarket queue, which was meant to prove something. But late at night, when all the heroic independence had been done for the day, there it was — a sort of homesickness without a forwarding address. You know the feeling. You’re supposedly sovereign, but you still wish someone would knock. Self‑sufficiency is a word that weighs a bit too much. It sounds like an insurance policy or a piece of camping equipment. It promises freedom, but only the kind you can fit in a box. Like eating an entire birthday cake alone — which, I confess, I’ve done. Because the truth (and it arrives, as truths tend to, when you’ve just burned your toast) is that we are made of others. We are es...

On Loyalty and the Quiet Companionship of Pippen

I have a cosmopolitan friend who, by the mercy of chance — that discreet and impartial arbiter of destinies — was born in Serbia. Industrious beyond measure, he treats work not merely as obligation but as a quiet philosophy, a means of aligning oneself with the silent order of things. And he is a companion of a rare kind: steadfast, discerning, and, above all, loyal. His name is Pippen. We first crossed paths in the now-vanished days of Google+ — that fleeting agora where, for a moment, the world’s geeks entertained the gentle delusion that they might, in time, inherit the Earth. It was an age of bright aspiration, tinged with naïveté, yet marked by a peculiar fellowship that transcended all borders and conventions. Among Pippen’s many virtues, loyalty stands pre-eminent. Not the clamorous, performative loyalty so fashionable in this restless age, but the quieter, unwavering kind — the loyalty of one who stays. It is revealed not in grand gestures but in small, consistent a...

A Pause Between Heartbeats

Time doesn’t tick. It breathes — unevenly, almost nervously. Sometimes it opens itself like a window you didn’t know was there. And inside that window, someone waits. Not with urgency, not with despair. Just a subtle weight: Will you come? Will you listen? You don’t need to prepare. You don’t need a speech. You only need to stop — to let the world stumble for a moment while you say, Yes, I’m here. That small pause, almost nothing, can be everything. Not everything in the dramatic sense. Everything in the sense of air when it was almost not enough. It’s not about how many minutes. Time has never obeyed clocks. What matters is the shift — leaving the room, the page, the self — to enter someone else’s trembling. Someone asks, not out loud but between words: Can you see me? And if you do — even for a beat — something sacred happens. Not salvation, no. Just a flicker of light that says, You are not alone. And that flicker, believe me, can change a day, a night, sometimes a life....