It takes but a handful of words to ambush my soul with hope. Yet, the vexing question in it all is why do I so often ambush the words?

I craft most of my own tragedies without ever having even the remotest understanding that it is I myself who have done the crafting.

I am the greatest obstacle to my greatest dreams.

I decry the injustice of my wounds, only to look down and see that I am holding a smoking gun in one hand and a fistful of ammunition in the other.

More times than I can remember I look around and I ask why the hole I’m in looks so strangely familiar. Probably because it looks a whole lot like all the other ones I dug before I got around to digging this one.

The barrier to our future is often the very plans that we’ve created to get there.