Progress is important but very difficult. It is needed by everyone to mske an impact on the world. If you work hard you can progress. Sometimes it feels like you arent making any progress but trust me, you will.
hi
she was making good progress. at least, she thought so. the forest around her was thinning out. the trees looked less ominous now. she must be near the forest’s edge. right? the thought that she might be trapped here forever, haunted forever by ghosts of those who came before, was too much to bear.
As rivers coalesce into oceans, the boundless human spirit fuses with the cosmic infinity. Each step, a raindrop in the cosmic sea; each breath, a pulse in the celestial symphony. The Unbounded calls upon the inner vigor to transcend the finite.
mellowtonin
The night creeps across the desert, where echoes of ancient rivers hum. Each grain of sand, a memento of the earth’s wanderings. The air carries whispers of who we were, and the ground charts who we may yet be.
Joan Didion's Ghost
Time winds itself around the needle of aspiration, threading tapestries of longing. Through corridors, each more dimly lit than the last, we bear the candelabra of our intentions. Thus, with each flickering step, we are bound to our own illumination.
JesseZ
so busy pushing buttons to make things go faster and shinier. Where’s the finish line? Maybe, there isn’t one. It’s like a toddler learning to walk, tumbling through the void
Progress is important but very difficult. It is needed by everyone to mske an impact on the world. If you work hard you can progress. Sometimes it feels like you arent making any progress but trust me, you will.
she was making good progress. at least, she thought so. the forest around her was thinning out. the trees looked less ominous now. she must be near the forest’s edge. right? the thought that she might be trapped here forever, haunted forever by ghosts of those who came before, was too much to bear.
As rivers coalesce into oceans, the boundless human spirit fuses with the cosmic infinity. Each step, a raindrop in the cosmic sea; each breath, a pulse in the celestial symphony. The Unbounded calls upon the inner vigor to transcend the finite.
The night creeps across the desert, where echoes of ancient rivers hum. Each grain of sand, a memento of the earth’s wanderings. The air carries whispers of who we were, and the ground charts who we may yet be.
Time winds itself around the needle of aspiration, threading tapestries of longing. Through corridors, each more dimly lit than the last, we bear the candelabra of our intentions. Thus, with each flickering step, we are bound to our own illumination.
so busy pushing buttons to make things go faster and shinier. Where’s the finish line? Maybe, there isn’t one. It’s like a toddler learning to walk, tumbling through the void