05-28-2017, 01:44 PM | #19421 |
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Secret Heart...
"My soul is full of longing
for the secret of the sea, and the heart of the great ocean sends a thrilling pulse through me." - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow |
05-29-2017, 09:59 PM | #19422 |
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I feel as though I have lived many lives, experienced the heights and depths of each and like the waves of the ocean, never known rest. Throughout the years, I have looked always for the unusual, for the wonderful, for the mysteries at the heart of life. Leni Riefenstahl
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Be still when you have nothing to say; when genuine passion moves you, say what you've got to say, and say it hot. D. H. Lawrence |
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05-29-2017, 10:31 PM | #19423 |
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We were lowered into this bondage of vanity, NOT willingly. We didn't want to lay down our lives and die for You. And what was once said was no greater love? So, we agreed to lay our life down here, as a means to return to You, and the place we were before, with the experience of what that means.- My Rabbi
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05-31-2017, 10:37 AM | #19424 |
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A single heart...
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05-31-2017, 10:44 AM | #19425 |
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Restless...
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05-31-2017, 10:46 AM | #19426 |
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See...
"Once you are able to look at another being and see no difference at all, there is no need for harmony.
For here there is only Oneness. This is the place the story began. And this is the end toward which all consciousness strives to return … for in truth, there is only One of us here." - Buddha |
06-06-2017, 03:59 PM | #19427 |
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Perhaps, after all, romance did not come into one’s life with pomp and blare, like a gay knight riding down; perhaps it crept to one’s side like an old friend through quiet ways; perhaps it revealed itself in seeming prose, until some sudden shaft of illumination flung athwart its pages betrayed the rhythm and the music, perhaps… perhaps…love unfolded naturally out of a beautiful friendship, as a golden-hearted rose slipping from its green sheath. Lucy Maud Montgomery
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Be still when you have nothing to say; when genuine passion moves you, say what you've got to say, and say it hot. D. H. Lawrence |
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06-06-2017, 11:46 PM | #19428 |
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khaleessi lol ^-^ just go with aki,ana,kit or princess Relationship Status:
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scalded cat fears cold water
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06-08-2017, 12:01 PM | #19429 |
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Words...
Tender words we spoke
to one another are sealed in the secret vaults of heaven. One day like rain, they will fall to earth and grow green all over the world. - Rumi |
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06-08-2017, 12:03 PM | #19430 |
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Love...
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06-08-2017, 12:04 PM | #19431 |
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Questions...
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06-08-2017, 12:17 PM | #19432 |
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Listen...
"Deep listening is the kind of listening that can help relieve the suffering of another person.
You can call it compassionate listening. You listen with only one purpose: to help him or her to empty his heart." - Thich Nhat Hanh |
06-09-2017, 08:59 PM | #19433 |
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For what it's worth...
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06-09-2017, 09:17 PM | #19434 |
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Like a storm...
You say that you love the rain, but you open your umbrella when it rains.
You say that you love the sun, but you find a shadow spot when the sun shines. You say that you love the wind, but you close your windows when wind blows. This is why I am afraid; you say that you love me too. ~ Qyazzirah Syeikh Ariffin, I am Afraid If you have never stood in the pouring rain commanding lightning, thrilled by the electric charge that makes the hairs on your arm stand up, joyously welcoming the mix of ether and ozone that shortens your breath and quickens your pulse—you cannot say you have ever loved a storm. If you have never stood bare, arms out in grateful reception of the sun’s life-giving and life-taking energy until your skin burned and your sight dimmed and you became the raging fury and heat of a star—you cannot say you have ever loved the sun. If you have never stood on the highest point you could find, exposed to the howling wind that threatened to carry you as it screamed its furious emotions in a voice so loud it deafens and numbs as it tears through your very soul—you cannot say you have ever loved the wind. If you have never stood in complete and total awe and wonder of the one who receives and returns your affection and attention, and yes, your worship, with heart and soul open and inviting, ready to face the storm, willing to burn, able to withstand the wind with unfettered courage and faith and joy and gratitude, or have never been fierce enough to be as gentle as a warm rain on a cool, windless day, then you cannot say you have ever truly loved at all. I will do all of this and more. So much more. My love is the blazing sun, the howling wind, the freezing blizzard, the devouring sands, the falling mountains, the raging sea, the gentle breeze, the cool pond, the warm rain, the spring day, My love is the storm. Do not be afraid. - J.M. Greff |
06-12-2017, 08:18 AM | #19435 |
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She...
Don’t ever tell her she’s not the stuff of heroes and warriors simply because she’s a girl.
Don’t ever imply she’s weak or too delicate to overcome. She is a resilient being of flesh and light, the epitome of beauty—made up of thoughts and intellect, endurance and courage, her essence as unique as her dreams. She’ll tear away thorny vines and scale walls to climb her way through adversity. She’ll arise to challenge and will eat all the what ifs before they ever have a chance to consume her. She will go places. And everywhere she goes, the stars will be suffused by her shine. (~an excerpt from Susan Frybort's new book, 'Open Passages') |
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06-13-2017, 10:25 AM | #19436 |
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In love...
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06-13-2017, 10:29 AM | #19437 |
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my Person...
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06-13-2017, 10:31 AM | #19438 |
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shadows and Light...
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06-14-2017, 11:38 AM | #19439 |
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Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note By Amiri Baraka
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06-14-2017, 12:19 PM | #19440 |
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The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock By T. S. Eliot
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma percioche giammai di questo fondo Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero, Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo. Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question ... Oh, do not ask, “What is it?” Let us go and make our visit. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo. The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes, Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep. And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate; Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo. And indeed there will be time To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?” Time to turn back and descend the stair, With a bald spot in the middle of my hair — (They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”) My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin — (They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”) Do I dare Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. For I have known them all already, known them all: Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room. So how should I presume? And I have known the eyes already, known them all— The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? And how should I presume? And I have known the arms already, known them all— Arms that are braceleted and white and bare (But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!) Is it perfume from a dress That makes me so digress? Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl. And should I then presume? And how should I begin? Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? ... I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! Smoothed by long fingers, Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers, Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter, I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter; I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, And in short, I was afraid. And would it have been worth it, after all, After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, Would it have been worth while, To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball To roll it towards some overwhelming question, To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead, Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”— If one, settling a pillow by her head Should say: “That is not what I meant at all; That is not it, at all.” And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it have been worth while, After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor— And this, and so much more?— It is impossible to say just what I mean! But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: Would it have been worth while If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, And turning toward the window, should say: “That is not it at all, That is not what I meant, at all.” No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use, Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous— Almost, at times, the Fool. I grow old ... I grow old ... I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me. I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black. We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown. |
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