reflection

The past can't be changed, can it? It can just be forgiven.

We don__ really communicate [_]. We talk all right, talk in that strange language we__e evolved for the purposes of avoiding communication. That non-language we__e created. Perhaps it__ a sign that civilisation is regressing. Something is anyway.

There is, I believe, no person, however insignificant in the world, but, if an account of his life and adventures were committed to paper, would be entertaining in some degree: the follies of our own life, and those we are liable to be drawn into by others, will constantly afford matter for serious reflection.

So crucify the ego, before it's far too late,To leave behind this place so negative and blindAnd cynical - and you will come to find that, We are all one mind capable of All that's imagined and all conceivable,Just let the light touch youAnd let the words spill through,And let them pass right throughBringing out our hope and reason,Before we pine away

I walked out this evening to the bottom of the garden and smoked a cigarette. Last week I planted an acer in the furthest bed from the house, in honour of our new baby. The sapling is as tall as me and, by all accounts, it can grow forty feet tall. So, in thirty year's time, if we're still here I can come back and see this tree in its maturity. But the thought depresses me: in thirty years' time I'll be in my mid-sixties and I realize that these forward projections that you make, so unreflectingly, in your life are beginning to run out. Suppose I'd said in forty years' time? That would be pushing it, Fifty? I'll probably be gone by then. Sixty? Dead and buried, for sure. Thank Christ I didn't plant an oak. Is that a good definition of of marking the ageing watershed? That moment when you realize-quite rationally, quite unemotionally-that the world in the not-so-distant future will not contain you: that the trees you planted will continue growing but you will not be there to see them.

There are songs that make you cry, right?""Sure," I say."When you're dead, everything in the world is like a song that makes you cry.

If you would seek to find yourselflook not in the mirrorfor there is but a shadow there'A stranger....SILENIUS, ODES TO TRUTH

He said that the music__ts order and precision__elped him find the patterns in things__he way through the confusion of events and opinions to direction, to order, and beyond, to inspiration.

It was evenings like that when beneath dim light and relaxing in a sultry bath that she missed him the most. A flicker of candlelight, wind breathing snow against the window and the soothing scent of creme caramel _ all were a comfort to her as she closed her eyes, summoned memories and many a tender thought. She didn't feel deserving of the devotion bestowed upon her, but she had finally learned to accept its wondrous gift, knowing that love was the source of existence and its only end.

I__e come to realize the power of reflection, the kind that comes only from contemplation. Synchronizing ourselves with the awe-inspiring environment around us is indeed a tremendous feat that, at some point or another, we must all undergo, alone yet together.

She sighs and the small release of breath bothers me. This girl needs to be off doing things that make her happy. Not standing here with me, confused and torn. It__ just further proof that I__ no good to be around. I__ turning one of the happiest people I know into something she was never meant to be. I__ turning her into me.

Which is better: to dare to look directly into the blinding present, no matter how painful, or to await the detachment of hindsight -- which, being less painful, is more objective?

Deciding to wait, Scott sat down with a pint away from the bar at a corner table and lit a cigarette. The clientele in there on Sunday afternoon were the same as most other afternoons. From middle-aged to old men, drinking and cursing at the world like it was the last bus which had just left the stop without them.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the rear-view mirror, but instead of the handsome, successful, owner of a billion-dollar corporation, he saw the remnants of the unpopular, socially-awkward, Magic The Gathering-obsessed nerd he left behind all those years ago. That gorgeous and psychotic minx on the fifteenth floor cracked his mirror, and he saw his true reflection.

As ever, books remained a medium through which Theodore and Edith connected and interpreted larger world.

Here, brush this old hair aside; it blinds me, that I seem to weep. Locks so grey did never grow but from out some ashes! But do I look very old, so very, very old, Starbuck? I feel deadly faint, bowed, and humped, as though I were Adam, staggering beneath the piled centuries since Paradise.

When I look in the mirror,I see me.Who do you see?

Reflection is an all-consuming, in-depth, and serious thought process that is required in a paradigm shift.