Break those Bad habits

There’s a quiet kind of instruction in places that don’t ask for much. A shrine in Kyoto can feel like that—green canopy overhead, gravel underfoot, and a hush that isn’t silence so much as space.

In the photo, the structure is draped with paper wish slips, layered until it looks almost alive, like a small hillside made from folded intentions. Each strip carries a neat line of ink, a private request turned outward and left to hang in the open air. It’s hard not to think about repetition—how we return to the same thoughts, the same patterns, the same excuses—until they begin to feel like architecture.

Break those Bad habits isn’t a loud command. It’s more like noticing the way a place holds your attention. You stand there and realize how much of life is routine: the route you take, the words you reach for, the comforts you keep even when they don’t comfort anymore.

Maybe the point isn’t to tear everything down. Maybe it’s simpler: write one honest sentence. Leave it somewhere. Walk away lighter. Habits don’t always break with force; sometimes they loosen when you finally give them a name, and let the wind have the rest.