The entries I found for this day, even spanning multiple years, are a little too personal. Therefore, today I have some random, undated sketchbook musings from a 2011 sketchbook.
How many times have I run away.
Is there meaning in every moment?
Is there meaning in any moment if we don't assign it?
That is to say, is it all meaningless
Except when we decide
To give it meaning
Is love found
Or contrived
If it's found
Then how can it be
That it's so easily lost
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