Breathe It Will Be Ok Quotes

Take a shower, wash off the day. Drink a glass of water. Make the room dark. Lie down and close your eyes. Notice the silence. Notice your heart. Still beating. Still fighting. You made it, after all. You made it, another day. And you can make it one more. You’re doing just fine.

No, I’m not ok. But I haven’t been ok since I was 11, maybe 12. I am still here though. I’m still breathing. For me, sometimes, that will have to be enough.

A long time ago, before I even met you, someone replaced my chest with a broken record. For years, it’s been stammering through the same old tune. I want you to know I’m trying. I quit smoking. I’m doing yoga. And those days I wake up wishing for death are getting fewer and farther apart. No, I’m not ok. But I haven’t been ok since I was 11, maybe 12. I am still here though. I’m still breathing. For me, sometimes, that will have to be enough

I couldn’t breathe. She was so beautiful that it was unreal. All I could do was stare at her like an idiot. Oh crap, I’m staring! OK come on, Liam, say something. Say anything. Liam, freaking say SOMETHING. “Um… Hi, Angel,” I mumbled, my voice sounding tight. Wow, that was real smooth, Liam! God, I’m such a dick!

The obvious," Noah goes on, a little out of breath, "being that he is probably some super secret assassin or something. And I'm not as tough as I look." "That's OK," I tell him. "I'm way tougher than you look.

No, I’m not ok. But I haven’t been ok since I was 11, maybe 12. I am still here though. I’m still breathing. For me, sometimes, that will have to be enough.

Shigure: "Lemme guess; you lost your temper and yelled at her again, right? You know, you shouldn't do that if you're just going to regret it. Not too bright, now is it?" Kyo: "Save your breath. I'm just not meant to get along with other people. Period. End of story." Shigure: "Oh sure, some people just aren't. But you're not one of them. You lack experience, that's all. For example, I'm sure you could smash this table to bits with your bare hands. But I'm equally sure you could punch the table without breaking it. And why is that? Because I know your training has taught you to control your fists... at least I should hope so, after four months of fighting bears and-" Kyo: "I didn't fight bears!" Shigure: "My point is, it takes just as much training to get along with people. Only, training by yourself in the mountains won't do you any good. You need to surround yourself with others. As you get to know them, of course you take the chance that you'll end up hurting them, or they'll end up hurting you. One of those things might very well happen. That's the only way we learn... about others, and about ourselves. You're a black-belt in martial arts, but I'd guess you still a white-belt in social skills. Someday, you're going to meet someone that truly wants to be your friend, and you, theirs. But it if you don't keep training, you won't be ready when that happens." Kyo: "It'll never happen, anyways!" Shigure: "Uh-uh! Never say never." Kyo: "Ok, fine. Maybe if I meet someone with brain-damage... or something." Shigure: "That's the spirit!

You’re ok. Breathe. Just breathe. Open your eyes. Come back. It’s ok. It’s over now. You’re ok. Wake up. Please wake up. Don’t do this to me. Don’t do this to me. Don’t do this to me. I love you so fucking much. Come back.

It’s ok, Merrick. I get it. I’m sorry, I just...I just can’t handle it when people are upset with me and I can’t fix it somehow. I’ll stay out of your way, ok.” As I hopped down from the counter and turned to leave he grabbed my wrist and my skin immediately began to tingle. “You’re so blind,” he breathed shaking his head.

His smile wavers. I've been looking at him too long. 'Are you OK?' he says. I nod, take a deep breath. Then I lean over and kiss him.

He opened the door wearing an oversized wife-beater and dirty trunks to match. Funny, but he recognized me withouta struggle. Immediately, I assumed he was sober, which was a good thing. Yet, seeing me wasn’t expected or desired. For sure, I was the last person on his list of surprises. Jerry adjusted his head and sharpened his bloodshot eyes. It wasthen his booze-bated breath greeted me well before he did. Ok, he was in a stupor or maybe on the rebound. Next, soiled diapers stole the little oxygen I had left—and I was still OUTDOORS. Yet somehow, I mustered enough wind to greet my brother. I tried to beat him to the punch and said, “What’s up bruh?” What happened next stomped my soul me for years to come! He never bothered to truly acknowledge me. Yet, heresponded without hesitation, “You know I can’t have any company!” Then he violently slammed the door shut! Jerry was gone! I couldn’t differentiate from being stupid or dumbstruck. I just stood silent on his porch all alone for about five minutes. I’d dealt with Jerry’s nastiness many times before. But he would initially warm up before dropping his hammer. Without a doubt, l was lost, confused, and bewildered like a teen-age boy losing a prom date. Foolishly, I used logic to dissect my embarrassment. First, the guy scolded me as if I should’ve known better! To be fair, Jerry was the breadwinner. His wife left him years ago. That part I understood. Only a fool would have hung around his crazy ass. It was amazing they got together, let alone stayed that way long enough to create those children. Yet, all his kids were pushing the ages of twenty andabove. What the hell did he mean, “I can’t receive any company!” Of course, I heard those crying babies which madehim a granddaddy. That was strangely obvious to his existence. Yes, the cycle continues! Second, I really didn’t care to go inside. I didn’t want to be in his business. I just wanted his input on Aunt Kathy’s memorial.

Sometimes it’s ok if the only thing you did today was remember to breathe. Just breathe. Just start, anywhere, and then start again. Small steps.

As we see more and more people online, it can get difficult to remember that behind every text message, OkCupid profile, and Tinder picture there's an actual living, breathing, complex person, just like you.

I don't know what is going to happen next year, no one does. But that's OK. I can handle it, I decide. It's just a harder gear, and I am ready. All I have to do is take a deep breath and ride.

Yeah, I must have been really bad in a past life or something." He smiled, his eyes still in pain. Reaching up, he touched a strand of mt hair. " Don't leave, OK?" "Shhh. I'm not going anywhere." I kept stroking his forehead, trailing my fingers across it. His muscular shoulders gradually relaxed, his eyes closing again. His breathing slowed, became more regular. I could hear the TV on in the other room, the sound of voices. None of it mattered to me. I stayed there until long after Alex had fallen asleep-- gently caressing the vbrow of the boy I loved, trying to keep his pain at bay.

This is the fifty-seventh message. Fifty seven days. I’m sitting here staring out at the Gulf, like I used to do with you. Nothing is the same without you here. I can’t even go near the bar in my kitchen. Remembering what we did there is too difficult. Everything reminds me of you. If I could hear your voice tonight, Harlow, if I could just hear you tell me you’re OK . . . I would be better. I would be able to take a deep breath. Then I’d beg. I would beg you to love me. I would beg you to forgive me.

Lissette started cheesing so hard that she grabbed her pillow to cover her face. I loved seeing her so excited about this. She was like a breath of fresh air and I was loving every minute of it. “Ok,

Czar Nicholas the Second was overthrown by Lenin in 1917." I blink in surprise. "Yes," I say, "he was." "And do you think I want to know that? IT's not even on your exam syllabus. I never had to know that. So now it's your turn to pick up a few pairs of shoes and make ooh and aah sounds for me becuase Jo ate prawns and she's allergic and she got sick and couldn't come and I'm not sitting on a bus on my own for five hours, OK?" Nat takes a deep breath and I look at my hands in shame. I am a selfish, selfish person. I am also a very sparkly person; my hands are covered in gold glitter.

If you had one last breath - what would you say? If you had one hour to use your limbs before you would lose the use of them forever - would you sit there on the coach? If you knew that you wouldn't see tomorrow who would you make amends with? If you knew you had only an hour left on this earth - what would be so pressing that you just had to do it, say it, or see it? Well there is something that I can guarantee - that one day you will have one day, one hour and one breath left. Just make sure that before that day that you have said, done and experienced everything that you dream of doing now. Do it now - that is what today is for. So pick up the phone and call an old friend that you have fallen out of touch with. Get out and run a mile and use your body and sweat. Seek out someone in your life to say your sorry to. Seek someone In your life that you need to thank. Seek someone in your life that you need to express your feelings of love to. Then when that day comes you will be ok with it all.

OK?’ Eliot simply asks. ‘Fine.’ ‘Good. Only thing for it,’ he says, ‘hold on and hope for the best.’ ‘And that’s dancing, is it?’ ‘Well, yeah,’ says Eliot, then he leans in and says into my ear, breath tickling my neck, ‘And everything else, too, Emmie Blue.

I said it was OK, I said I loved her, I said not to worry about me. Her breathing became slower and more labored, and then just past noon, it stopped altogether. I laid my cheek on her chest and held her for a long time, not thinking anything, just being an animal that had lost its mother.

It’s ok to spend money, especially on the necessities and the normal pleasures of life. You should spend money with a knowing that as it flows out, it will flow right back in. Spending is just as natural as income. Income is the breathing in. And breathing out is either investing, spending, or saving. If you don’t breathe out, it will cause blockages that turn your money stagnant. We need the inhale and the exhale. It’s all about balance.

No, I’m not ok. But I haven’t been ok since I was 15, maybe 16. I am still here though. I’m still breathing. That will have to be enough.

Spiritual practices in any tradition, including mindfulness in its many forms, are meant to help you live what is yours to live, not make you rise above it. These tools are meant to help you feel companioned inside your grief. They're meant to give you a tiny bit of breathing room inside what is wholly unbearable. That's not at all the same thing as making your pain go away.

With enough room to breathe, to expand, to be itself, pain softens. No longer confined and cramped, it can stop thrashing at the bars of its cage, can stop defending itself against its right to exist.

Direct interference in a person's life does not enter our scope of activity, nor, on the other, tralatitiously speaking, hand, is his destiny a chain of predeterminate links: some "future" events may be likelier than others, O.K., but all are chimeric, and every cause-and-effect sequence is always a hit-and-miss affair, even if the lunette has actually closed around your neck, and the cretinous crowd holds its breath.

What if it ends?" "What if it does? It will still be ok. You will still keep on living, and moving forward with your life. All you can do is love them where they are at. Even when they choose to move on without you.

Being with Nell knocks my head back, makes my bones thrum, my blood ring and boil up until we are reaching, grabbing, smothering each other. And skin to skin our aching bodies press to find a way in - and I mean pressing, pressing, pressing. And there's teeth brawling, hands clutching, as we pour our way into each other until everything stops, gives way to soft kisses. quiet breaths of friendship, and I say, 'Are you OK?' and actually fucking mean it.

Just stop, ok? Can't you see we're slowly dying here? "People are slowly dying everywhere - they are continuously living. Every moment they draw breath, they can find glory I put here on Earth, if they look for it". TBH, this feels more like Hell.

The one-eyed man stood helplessly by. "I'll help ya if ya want," he said. "Know what that son-of-a-bitch done? He come by an' he got on white pants. An' he says, 'Come on, le's go out to my yacht.' By God, I'll whang him some day!" He breathed heavily. "I ain't been out with a woman sence I los' my eye. An' he says stuff like that." And big tears cut channels in the dirt beside his nose. Tom said impatiently, "Whyn't you roll on? Got no guards to keep ya here." "Yeah, that's easy to say. Ain't so easy to get a job - not for a one-eye' man." Tom turned on him. "Now look-a-here, fella. You got that eye wide open. An' ya dirty, ya stink. Ya jus' askin' for it. Ya like it. Lets ya feel sorry for yaself. 'Course ya can't get no woman with that empty eye flappin' aroun'. Put somepin over it an' wash ya face. You ain't hittin' nobody with no pipe wrench." "I tell ya, a one-eye' fella got a hard row," the man said. "Can't see stuff the way other fellas can. Can't see how far off a thing is. Ever'thing's jus' flat." Tom said, "Ya full of crap. Why, I knowed a one-legged whore one time. Think she was takin' two-bits in a alley? No, by God! She's gettin' half a dollar extra. She says, 'How many one-legged women you slep' with? None!' she says. 'O.K.,' she says. 'You got somepin pretty special here, an it's gonna cos' ya half a buck extry.' An' by God, she was gettin' 'em, too, an' the fellas comin' out thinkin' they're pretty lucky. She says she's good luck. An' I knowed a hump-back in - in a place I was. Make his whole livin' lettin' folk rub his hump for luck. Jesus Christ, an' all you got is one eye gone." The man said stumblingly, "Well, Jesus, ya see somebody edge away from ya, an' it gets into ya." "Cover it up then, goddamn it. Ya stickin' it out like a cow's ass. Ya like to feel sorry for yaself. There ain't nothin' the matter with ya. Buy yaself some white pants. Ya gettin' drunk and cryin' in ya bed, I bet." ... The one-eyed man said softly, "Think - somebody'd like - me?" "Why, sure," said Tom. "Tell 'em ya dong's growed sence you los' your eye.

Midori chugged down another glass of water, took a breath, and studied my face for a while. “Hey, what’s wrong with you?” she asked. “You’ve got this spaced-out look. Your eyes aren’t focused.” “I’m O.K.,” I said. “I just got back from a trip and I’m kinda tired.” “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.” “I see.

And I can’t come, can I?” I shake my head. “No, Princess. You can’t come. It’s the kind of place you can’t walk away from once you’re there.” A tear slides down her cheek. But she wipes it away and draws in some courage with her next deep breath. “OK,” she says. “But I’d like to go on record that I come from a family of badass bitches.

Nick grinned, swooping in for another kiss and then leaning back and scruffing his hair up. “Harriet Manners, I’m about to give you six stamps. Then I’m going to write something on a piece of paper and put it in an envelope with your address on it.” “OK …” “Then I’m going to put the envelope on the floor and spin us as fast as I can. As soon as either of us manage to stick a stamp on it, I’m going to race to the postbox and post it unless you can catch me first. If you win, you can read it.” Nick was obviously faster than me, but he didn’t know where the nearest postbox was. “Deal,” I agreed, yawning and rubbing my eyes. “But why six stamps?” “Just wait and see.” A few seconds later, I understood. As we spun in circles with our hands stretched out, one of my stamps got stuck to the ground at least a metre away from the envelope. Another ended up on a daisy. A third somehow got stuck to the roundabout. One of Nick’s ended up on his nose. And every time we both missed, we laughed harder and harder and our kisses got dizzier and dizzier until the whole world was a giggling, kissing, spinning blur. Finally, when we both had one stamp left, I stopped giggling. I had to win this. So I swallowed, wiped my eyes and took a few deep breaths. Then I reached out my hand. “Too late!” Nick yelled as I opened my eyes again. “Got it, Manners!” And he jumped off the still-spinning roundabout with the envelope held high over his head. So I promptly leapt off too. Straight into a bush. Thanks to a destabilised vestibular system – which is the upper portion of the inner ear – the ground wasn’t where it was supposed to be. Nick, in the meantime, had ended up flat on his back on the grass next to me. With a small shout I leant down and kissed him hard on the lips. “HA!” I shouted, grabbing the envelope off him and trying to rip it open. “I don’t think so,” he grinned, jumping up and wrapping one arm round my waist while he retrieved it again. Then he started running in a zigzag towards the postbox. A few seconds later, I wobbled after him. And we stumbled wonkily down the road, giggling and pulling at each other’s T-shirts and hanging on to tree trunks and kissing as we each fought for the prize. Finally, he picked me up and, without any effort, popped me on top of a high wall. Like Humpty Dumpty. Or some kind of really unathletic cat. “Hey!” I shouted as he whipped the envelope out of my hands and started sprinting towards the postbox at the bottom of the road. “That’s not fair!” “Course it is,” he shouted back. “All’s fair in love and war.” And Nick kissed the envelope then put it in the postbox with a flourish. I had to wait three days. Three days of lingering by the front door. Three days of lifting up the doormat, just in case it had accidentally slipped under there. Finally, the letter arrived: crumpled and stained with grass. Ha. Told you I was faster. LBxx

Song You’re wondering if I’m lonely: OK then, yes, I’m lonely as a plane rides lonely and level on its radio beam, aiming across the Rockies for the blue-strung aisles of an airfield on the ocean. You want to ask, am I lonely? Well, of course, lonely as a woman driving across country day after day, leaving behind mile after mile little towns she might have stopped and lived and died in, lonely If I’m lonely it must be the loneliness of waking first, of breathing dawn’s first cold breath on the city of being the one awake in a house wrapped in sleep If I’m lonely it’s with the rowboat ice-fast on the shore in the last red light of the year that knows what it is, that knows it’s neither ice nor mud nor winter light but wood, with a gift for burning.

If you see her Tell her we’re ok Tell her she’s everything I am She’s everything I say If you see her Tell her I’ll make her proud Tell her I’m no longer lost I’m no longer under a cloud If you see her Tell her she’s still mine Tell her I’ll love her forever And one day we’ll be better than fine If you see her Tell her that even though we are apart Tell her I love her so And that she is still my heart

So many beautiful people begin from a place of being broken... but let’s not call it broken – instead, let’s say that so many beautiful people who once weren’t able to move to the beat of their own drums then rise up to create breath-taking music on this earth. Their talents, their successes and their very beings inspire us. When we accept that it’s ok not to be ok, we start dancing to a rhythm of our own.

I walked over to the paper and bent as the pencil began scribbling across it. You look OK. Are you OK? “Liz?” A stupid question. Liz was the only poltergeist I knew. But if she was here, that meant. “Chloe?” My heart started thudding again. “Where’s Chloe. Did they—?” She’s outside. I took a deep breath. “Good. Okay. My dad’s there, too?” I watched the paper. Nothing happened. “Liz? My dad is with her, right? She called him, didn’t she?” Couldn’t. “What do you mean she couldn’t. She has her cell—” No, she didn’t. We hadn’t taken them into the forest. If Chloe had managed to follow me straight from there … I swore. “Tell her to get to a pay phone. Call collect. Get my dad and—” No time. They’re packing the van. “Then you ride with me. You can find out where we go, and return and Chloe—” We’re getting you out. “What? No. Absolutely not. Tell Chloe—” Girls rule :D

One fateful day, expecting high praise from my advisor for some work I felt great about, I instead heard from him: “Marilee, this is just not acceptable.” At that moment something new happened. Instead of tearfully wondering what was wrong with me, I took a deep breath, and becoming calm and curious, simply asked him “OK, how do I fix it?” That simple shift took me from feeling powerless to being confident enough to take constructive action.

Evelyn looks me in the eye, and I know she needs one more tiny push. “It’s OK, Evelyn. Really.” It’s a big deal. But it is OK. Things are different now from how they were then. Although still not entirely safe, either, I have to admit. But still. She can say it. She can say it to me. She can admit it, freely. Now. Here. “Evelyn, who was your great love? You can tell me.” Evelyn looks out the window, breathes in deeply, and then says, “Celia St. James.

Maybe one day we’ll look in the mirror and be happy with the fair-to-middling upright ape that eyes us back, and we’ll gather our breath and think: OK, we’re alone, so be it. Maybe that day is coming soon. Maybe the whole nature of things is one of precariousness, of wobbling on a pinhead of being, of decentring ourselves inch by inch as we do in life, as we come to understand that the staggering extent of our own non-extent is a tumultuous and wave-tossed offering of peace.

Take a look in the mirror. Who are you today? Discover yourself anew. Don’t assume you are the same person you were last week or last year. Don’t limit yourself with your history. Look at your partner with new eyes each day as well. Who is this person? Rediscover him. Don’t assume he is the same person that you were with last week or last year. Don’t jail him with your judgments or his past. You cannot control how your partner shows up. What you can control, however, is how you show up in relationship to him. Rather than a stale repetition of the good old days we all fight so hard to re-create, be open to the newness in each moment and give your relationship a chance to breathe. Trying hard to keep a relationship together is a classic sign that it’s falling apart. Don’t pretend everything is OK when it’s not or gloss over problems in order to save face. Welcome challenges and speak your truth. Every so-called problem is an opportunity in disguise for you to expand and express new levels of your irresistibility.

What the hell’s going on?” Rami demanded. “They won’t let me go!” Flynn yelled. “Get them off me, Rami, get them off me!” “Hold on, old chap. What on earth’s going on, Harry?” Whispering voices. “Get off me!” Flynn raged. More whispers. Then Rami’s hand on the back of his head, Rami’s face leaning down, wide-eyed, sweaty, a little out of breath. “OK, listen mate. I’m going to ask them to get off you on one condition. That you sit up and only sit up, not stand. If you stand up then both Harry and I will knock you to the floor and we’ll have to start all over again.” “Why?” Flynn yelled. “Why?” “It’s for your own good. ...

sometimes… letting go is just noticing. a little change in your breath. how it comes a little easier from your lungs. how you feel just a little different in your skin, like it holds a little less memory of what hurt you and a little more texture of who you are. it’s just finally surrendering. giving in to the loosening of your grip on what you can no longer hold on to because it just hurts too. much. to keep holding on. so you decide it might be ok- it might be essential to start letting go. and you let go just a little bit. and then a little bit more. and you let it fall through your fingers again and again and again until you finally feel free.

I listen to her and think about it, and I realize I would be an absolute moron to walk away from this, no matter what her terms are. I didn’t stay in New York and let David go to San Francisco because I like the Statue of Liberty. I did it because I want to climb the ladder as high as I possibly can. I did it because I want my name, the name my father gave me, in big, bold letters one day. This is my chance. “OK,” I say. “OK, then. Glad to hear it.” Evelyn’s shoulders relax, she picks up her water again, and she smiles. “Monique, I think I like you,” she says. I breathe deeply, only now realizing how shallow my breathing has been. “Thank you, Evelyn. That means a lot.

the sweet and wild rebellion in you… the poetry in those eyes… those dreamer's eyes learning to see in the dark. and all that beautiful madness tangled in your hair. toes dangling over the edge, testing a new universe. it's ok to take small steps and deep breaths, love… but also, let yourself start to take up your space. and don't you dare say you're sorry when you do. and you'll be rejected for these wings, these fires, for this sweet and wild rebellion in you. but these are such. beautiful. things. so keep choosing you… because nothing will matter if you reject you. if it needs you small, don't let it hold you anymore. don't let anything that needs you ordinary tame you ever again.

April 18 Dear Ryan, I'm considering writing to one of those advice columnists about us. That's how confused I still am. When we started this, I thought that I just needed some time away from you. I just needed time to breathe. I needed a chance to live on my own and appreciate you again by missing you. Those first few months were torture. I felt so lonely. I felt exactly what I wanted myself to feel, which was that I couldn't live without you. I felt it all day. I felt it when I slept in an empty bed. I felt it when I came home to an empty house. But somehow, one day, it sort of became OK. I don't know when that happened. I thought at one point that maybe if I learned who you truly are, then I could love you again. Then I thought maybe if I learn who I really am, what I really want, then I could love you again. I have been grasping at things for months, trying to learn a lesson big enough, important enough, all-encompassing enough that it would bring us back together. But mostly, I'm just learning lessons about how to live my life. I'm learning how to be a better sister. I'm learning just how strong my mother has always been. That I should take my grandmother's advice more often. That sex can be healing. That Charlie isn't such a little kid anymore. I guess what I'm saying is that I've started focusing on other things. I don't feel all that desperate to figure us out and fix this. I feel sort of OK that it's not fixed. That's not the direction this is supposed to go, is it? Love, Lauren

OK, OK, calm down, I tell myself. It's going to be all right. She's going to come back, isn't she? Except that she isn't. I am going to die, I realize. I am actually going to die. I put my hands over my face and start to sob. I feel like I am being slowly, carefully, ripped in two. I realize that this pain is worse than anything I could ever imagine. Worse than the deepest depression. I can hardly breathe with the strength of it. I feel sure that pain of this intensity cannot be sustained: any minute I will pass out. But I don't, and the pain keeps on growing, fresh waves of undiluted agony. I am sobbing so hard I can barely draw breath. My lungs feel as if they are ready to burst and the gasping, retching noises make me sound as if I am suffocating. Fear courses through my veins. Fear and pain in equal doses. She has to come back. She simply has to come back. I cannot live without her. I cannot, and I will not. So this is what they mean about dying of a broken heart. It is actually possible.

Loneliness covers the earth like a blanket. It flows in the stream down through the Callows to the lake. It's in the muck in the yard and the briars in the haggard and the empty outbuildings are bursting with it. It runs down the walls inside of the house like tears and grows on the walls outside like a poisonous choking weed. It's in the sky and the stones and the clouds and the grass. The air is thick with it: you breath it into your lungs and you feel like it might suffocate you. It runs into hollow places like rainwater. It settles on the grass and on trees and takes their shapes and all the earth is wet with it. It has a smell, like the inside of a saucepan: scrapped metal, cold and sharp. When it hits you, it feels like a rap of a hurl across your knuckles on a frosty winter's morning. in PE: sharp, shocking pain, but inside you, so it can't be seen and no one says sorry for causing it nor asks are you ok, and no kind teacher wants to look at it and tut-tut and tell you you'll be grand, good lad. But you know if another man stood where you're standing and looked at the same things he wouldn't see it or feel it.

Your pain needs space. Room to unfold. I think this is why we seek out natural landscapes that are larger than us. Not just in grief, but often in grief. The expanding horizon line, the sense of limitless space, a landscape wide and deep and vast enough to hold what is—we need those places. Sometimes grief like yours cannot be held by the universe itself. True. Sometimes grief needs more than an endless galaxy. Maybe your pain could wrap around the axle of the universe several times. Only the stars are large enough to take it on. With enough room to breathe, to expand, to be itself, pain softens. No longer confined and cramped, it can stop thrashing at the bars of its cage, can stop defending itself against its right to exist. There isn’t anything you need to do with your pain. Nothing you need to do about your pain. It simply is. Give it your attention, your care. Find ways to let it stretch out, let it exist. Tend to yourself inside it. That’s so different from trying to get yourself out of it. The way to come to pain is with open eyes, and an open heart, committed to bearing witness to your own broken place. It won’t fix anything. And it changes everything.

Then she called Gansey. It rang twice, three times, and then: "Hello?" He sounded boyish and ordinary. Blue asked, "Did I wake you up?" She heard Gansey fumble for and scrape up his wireframes. "No," he lied, "I was awake." "I called you by accident anyway. I meant to call Congress, but your number is one off." "Oh?" "Yeah, because yours has 6-6-5 in it." She paused. "Get it?" "Oh, you." "6-6-5. One number different. Get it?" "Yeah, I got it." He was quite for a minute then, though she heard him breathing. "I didn't know you could call hell, actually." "You can call in," Blue said. "The thing is that you can't call out." "I imagine you could send letters, though." "Never with enough postage." "No, faxes," Gansey corrected himself. "Pretend I didn't say letters. Faxes is funnier." Blue laughed into the pillow. "OK, that was all." "All what?" "All I had to say." "I learned a lot. I'm glad you misdialled." "Well, Easy mistake to make," she said. "Might do it again." A very, very long pause. She opened her mouth to fill it, then changed her mind and didn't. She was shivering again, even though she wasn't cold with the pillow on her legs. "Shouldn't," Gansey said finally. "But I hope you do.

Christina died of a stroke in the fall of 1971, at the age of sixty-one. June watched the nurses take her mother's body away. Standing there in the hospital, June felt like she'd been caught in an undertow. How had she ended up here? One woman all alone, with four kids, and a restaurant she had never wanted. The day after the funeral, June took the kids to school. She dropped Kit off at the elementary building and then drove Nina, Jay, and Hud to junior high. When they pulled into the drop-off circle, Jay and Hud took off. But Nina turned back, put her hand on the door handle, and looked at her mother. 'Are you sure you're OK?' Nina asked. 'I could stay home. Help you at the restaurant.' 'No, honey,' June said, taking her daughter's hand. 'If you feel up for going to school, then that's where you should be.' 'OK,' Nina said. 'But if you need me, come get me.' 'How about we think of it the other way around?' June said, smiling. 'If you need me, have the office call me.' Nina smiled. 'OK' June felt herself about to cry and so she put her sunglasses over her eyes and pulled out of the parking lot. She drove, with the window down, to Pacific Fish. She pulled in and put on the parking brake. She took a deep breath. She got out of the car and stood there, staring up at the restaurant with a sense of all that she had inherited. It was hers now, whatever that meant. She lit a cigarette.

And Ut Pictura Poesis Is Her Name" You can’t say it that way any more. Bothered about beauty you have to Come out into the open, into a clearing, And rest. Certainly whatever funny happens to you Is OK. To demand more than this would be strange Of you, you who have so many lovers, People who look up to you and are willing To do things for you, but you think It’s not right, that if they really knew you . . . So much for self-analysis. Now, About what to put in your poem-painting: Flowers are always nice, particularly delphinium. Names of boys you once knew and their sleds, Skyrockets are good—do they still exist? There are a lot of other things of the same quality As those I’ve mentioned. Now one must Find a few important words, and a lot of low-keyed, Dull-sounding ones. She approached me About buying her desk. Suddenly the street was Bananas and the clangor of Japanese instruments. Humdrum testaments were scattered around. His head Locked into mine. We were a seesaw. Something Ought to be written about how this affects You when you write poetry: The extreme austerity of an almost empty mind Colliding with the lush, Rousseau-like foliage of its desire to communicate Something between breaths, if only for the sake Of others and their desire to understand you and desert you For other centers of communication, so that understanding May begin, and in doing so be undone.

Go grab one of those little baskets over there,” I said to Connor as I pointed by the door. “You aren’t seriously buying that much, are you?” “Ok Mr. Black, if you must know the truth, it’s my PMS time.” He took a step back and put his hands up, “Whoa, enough said.” I grinned as I picked up a bag of Fritos, Cheetos, a Hersey bar(king size), a Twix bar, a small pack of chocolate donuts, 3 cans of coke, a bag of tiny twist pretzels and a jar of Nutella. Connor looked in the basket and then at me with a horrified look on his face. “Hey, you’re the one who wanted to take me on this road trip. I’m just trying to keep the peace because without these foods for a woman at that time of the month,” I waved my hand. “Well, you don’t really want to know.” I put the basket on the counter. The cashier overheard our conversation, she looked at Connor and said, “Trust her; we girls are two sheets short of psycho when it comes to our special little time.” He just stood there and looked at both of us, speechless, as she rang up the food. She gave me the total, and I looked at Connor. He looked at me in confusion, “Really? You want me to pay for this crap?” The cashier leaned over the counter and looked him straight in the eyes, “Remember, 2 sheets short of psycho.” He pulled out his wallet and paid as he was mumbling under his breath. He took the bag and headed out. I looked at the cashier and high fived her, “Thank you.

One thing I'm sure, you can't tell about love, or the lack of it, except from the outside, from the way two people look at each other, from the things they do. It's like the way you can tell about a house, about the people in it, whether they're happy, from the way it looks from the street: A small pot of marigolds, a couple of chairs in the shade, tells you pretty much everything you need to know. I could tell what they had. I could tell by the way he'd wrapped her up in that big coat of his that day in the rain, like he was a magician who could make them both disappear, by the way she'd walk next to him, or look at him when he talked to other people, that look saying, "This man is mine and I like how he is -- how he moves, how he laughs -- and he knows it and it's the two of us from here on, for everything." It was easy, unforced -- walking down the hall, she'd touch his elbow with a finger and he'd turn like a ship; she'd sigh and he'd look up. Sometimes at lunch, or in the library, you'd catch them looking at each other, a kind of calm in their eyes like after a smile, or before it, and know they were talking. She loved him -- what more is there to say? There were times I'd look at them and feel something in my chest and throat, an ache that made it harder to breathe, but I was OK with it. I can say that now. I was OK with it. I didn't know it then, but I loved them both. Who's to say which one of them more? It was the pot of flowers, the chair in the shade. . . .

Yes.” I sniff. I love him like you might love a star. “Yes, you did?” He stares over at me. I nod. “Yes.” His eyes go funny, sort of blurry—he blinks twice and then he yells “Fuck!” way too loudly to be anything close to discreet. My head pulls back and I tense up. “Shit.” He breathes out, shaking his head. “Fuck—” I watch on in mild horror. “Are you ok—” “Say it.” “What?” I stare over at him. “Can you, please? Say it?” he asks. “Now. Out loud—” He shakes his head at himself. “Just so I’ve heard you say it one time.” I open my mouth to protest for a reason I don’t know why and then I stop myself, swallow and look him in the eye. “I loved you.” He nods a couple of times then closes his eyes for a few seconds, blows some air out of his mouth. “I have to ask—” He looks back over at me, eyes all heavy now. “Was I ever in with a shot?” He is a star. Not the shooting kind. Not some flash-in-the-pan meteorite that burns up on entry into the atmosphere. And stars, they’re undeniably beautiful, kind of magical. Only come out at the nighttime. Easy enough to ignore. In a sky full of them, a single star can be difficult to tell apart from the others. They don’t affect our day-to-day lives, really. You might see it one night and not the next, and it bears no real consequence other than perhaps the sky is a little less wonderful on that particular evening. A star is a star. “In this world,” I give him a delicate look, “with BJ?” I shake my head. “I’m sorry.” “That’s—” He trails, letting out this hollow laugh that I kind of hate. It doesn’t suit him. His regular laugh is so wonderful. “—fine.” He nods. “That’s good to know, actually—” “I’m sorry,” I tell him. He shakes his head again. “No, don’t be.” But you see, the thing about stars is that in another galaxy, that star is also a sun. “If it wasn’t him, it would be you,” I tell him, for better and for worse. He blows some more air out of his mouth and catches my eye. “In another life, yeah?” I nod and offer him a weak smile. “I’ll meet you there.

As the boar’s tusk bore down, Talis leapt out of the way just in time. He thrust his spear down at the beast, piercing the back of its neck. The creature squealed in pain. Mara lunged at the boar and stabbed its side. It shrieked, swung its tusks around and rammed into her. She spun through the air and slammed onto the ground. A sickening feeling twisted in his stomach. What had they done?  “Mara!” he shouted and reached out for her, as if he could do anything from this range. Fury raged in his chest and he stabbed and prodded the boar, trying to keep it away from her, until thankfully the creature gave up and bounded away, howling and grunting in a mad rush. Gods, please let her be ok! He ran over and bent down next to her. Mara winced, her eyes vacant and bloodshot, but she was still conscious. She tried to lift herself up but he stopped her.  “Wait, don’t get up. Rest a moment.” He tried to discover where the tusk had struck her. “Where does it hurt? Wait, don’t close your eyes! Look at me, are you all right?” She coughed and inhaled a huge gulp of air and coughed again, a redness sweeping over her face. “It knocked my breath out… There are stars everywhere!” She started to laugh but crimped up in pain. After ten heartbeats she began to breathe normally. “We’ve got to go home before it gets dark,” Mara whispered, her face urgent now. “Can you help me?” “Are you sure you’re ok to walk?” “I have to try.” Talis helped her up, but she grit her teeth in pain at the pressure of standing. Why hadn’t he stopped her? It was insane for them to go after the boar. No time to think about that now. He had to focus and get Mara home to a healer. But how? She

His hands were clumsy as he leaned back and started to remove my flannel pants. He growled in appreciation when he saw that I wasn’t wearing any panties. I said nothing as he angrily pulled at my shirt to get it off of me. “I want to see your skin. I need you,” he kept repeating. Leaning up, I quickly pulled my camisole over my head. Instead of his usual slow sexual way, he fell on top of me again and quickly entered me. It caught me so off guard that I gasped. My body easily accepted him, so there was no pain, but it was so unlike Devin that for a brief minute I felt fear. Once I looked up into his face my fear melted away and all I wanted to do was make whatever was hurting him go away. He looked down at me and although there were no tears on his cheeks, he looked like he was about to cry. He buried his face in my neck so that I couldn’t see him anymore. Something was definitely wrong. I held on to him and my heart broke as he rocked against me over and over again. The couch creaked with his every thrust and the sound of our bodies smacking echoed throughout the room. “I only want to feel you, nothing else, just you,” he whispered into my hair. His movement became jerky as he sped up. He thrust into me over and over again, harder each time. His hot breath pounded against the side of my neck. I said nothing as he found comfort in my body. I just held him close to me and every now and again, kissed the side of his neck. I felt his body tense up as he growled out his release and slammed into me one final time. His full body weight pressed against me when his arms went weak and he dropped onto me completely. When he finally removed his face from my neck and looked down at me I could see the realization in his eyes of what had just occurred. I never said no, but he never really asked. Quickly, I cupped his cheeks with my hands and kissed him softly. “Did I hurt you? I never want to hurt you,” he said with a thick slur. “It’s OK, I’m OK,” I whispered. He said nothing. He just stared back at me like he was afraid I’d push him away and run for my life. Then his expression changed, and tears filled his eyes. I’d never seen a grown man cry in my life and my heart crushed inside my chest as he buried his face in my neck once more. “I’m going to lose you. I am. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me and I’m going to lose you.

His hands were clumsy as he leaned back and started to remove my flannel pants. He growled in appreciation when he saw that I wasn’t wearing any panties. I said nothing as he angrily pulled at my shirt to get it off of me. “I want to see your skin. I need you,” he kept repeating. Leaning up, I quickly pulled my camisole over my head. Instead of his usual slow sexual way, he fell on top of me again and quickly entered me. It caught me so off guard that I gasped. My body easily accepted him, so there was no pain, but it was so unlike Devin that for a brief minute I felt fear. Once I looked up into his face my fear melted away and all I wanted to do was make whatever was hurting him go away. He looked down at me and although there were no tears on his cheeks, he looked like he was about to cry. He buried his face in my neck so that I couldn’t see him anymore. Something was definitely wrong. I held on to him and my heart broke as he rocked against me over and over again. The couch creaked with his every thrust and the sound of our bodies smacking echoed throughout the room. “I only want to feel you, nothing else, just you,” he whispered into my hair. His movement became jerky as he sped up. He thrust into me over and over again, harder each time. His hot breath pounded against the side of my neck. I said nothing as he found comfort in my body. I just held him close to me and every now and again, kissed the side of his neck. I felt his body tense up as he growled out his release and slammed into me one final time. His full body weight pressed against me when his arms went weak and he dropped onto me completely. When he finally removed his face from my neck and looked down at me I could see the realization in his eyes of what had just occurred. I never said no, but he never really asked. Quickly, I cupped his cheeks with my hands and kissed him softly. “Did I hurt you? I never wanted to hurt you,” he said with a thick slur. “It’s OK, I’m OK,” I whispered. He said nothing. He just stared back at me like he was afraid I’d push him away and run for my life. Then his expression changed, and tears filled his eyes. I’d never seen a grown man cry in my life and my heart crushed inside my chest as he buried his face in my neck once more. “I’m going to lose you. I am. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me and I’m going to lose you.

The Internet has created the most precise mirror of people as a whole that we've yet had. It is not a summary prepared by a social scientist or an elite think tank. It is not the hagiography of an era, condensed by a romantic idealist or a sneering cynic. It is the real us, available for direct inspection for the first time. Our collective window shades are now open. We see the mundanity, the avarice, the ugliness, the perversity, the loneliness, the love, the inspiration, the serendipity, and the tenderness that manifest in humanity. Seen in proportion, we can breathe a sigh of relief. We are basically OK.

The Internet has created the most precise mirror of people as a whole that we've yet had. It is not a summary prepared by a social scientist or an elite think tank. It is not the hagiography of an era, condensed by a romantic idealist or a sneering cynic. It is the real us, available for direct inspection for the first time. Our collective window shades are now open. We see the mundanity, the avarice, the ugliness, the perversity, the loneliness, the love, the inspiration, the serendipity, and the tenderness that manifest in humanity. Seen in proportion, we can breathe a sigh of relief. We are basically OK. - Jaron Lanier

stop making me laugh,” Valkyrie said from the bed. “You’re not a kid. You’re a grown-up. What age are you?” “Ninety-three.” “You’re ninety-three years old, for God’s sake.” “I’m really sorry, Val. I’m really sorry, everyone. Best behaviour from here on out.” Militsa glanced at the others, then nodded. “OK,” she said. “This is your last chance.” “I’ll be good,” Tanith promised. “All right,” Onosa said. “Valkyrie, close your eyes. Calm yourself.” Valkyrie breathed deeply, her whole body relaxing with each exhalation. Tanith kept her mouth shut. Onosa placed a curious-looking candle on a saucer beside the bed. “This is a Jericho Candle,” she said. “Jericho came up with it, tried calling it something fancy, but what’s the point of inventing something if you don’t put your own name to it, I ask you? When it’s lit, Valkyrie, you’ll be able to smell it, even in your astral form, and it will guide you back to your body. There are only a handful of these in the world, and they are a lot of trouble to make, so we shall light it every hour you are gone, and keep it lit for five minutes.

You think you can not channel from the other side, but when you were first born, you didn’t think you could breathe, either. In fact, you screamed at your insistence to be put BACK into the warm waters of your mother’s womb, and it was in that moment that you remembered: ‘Oh yes, this again. I did this in my last life too–ok, right, this is normal.’ Yes, as normal as breathing, and so is channeling.

I have love your name, I have loved the way you call my name, it's ok if now we are not tougher I will love you till my last breath

Self-soothing is any set of behaviours that help you to feel safe and soothed as you experience a painful emotion. When your threat response is triggered, the message being received by your brain is, ‘We are not safe! All is not OK! Do something about this now!’ If we want that distressing emotion to stop escalating and start its process of coming back down to baseline, we need to feed our body and brain new information that we are safe. There are lots of ways we can do this, because your brain takes its information from each of your senses. That means you can use each of those to send messages to your brain that you are safe. Your brain also takes its information from the physical state of your body, including your heart rate, breathing rate and muscle tension.

Fortunately, I have neither coronavirus nor asthma and lung photos are Ok. Today my family doctor again checked but didn't see the medical issue, whereas a few days ago, night doctors sent an emergency ambulance for a checkup but also found nothing. I do not trust the doctors since they made a grave mistake and failed to diagnose metastatic prostate cancer early, and now I am suffering from it. I am taking four Xtandi tablets of 40 mg per day. As a result, I have short breathing and difficulty breathing; I called several times the hospital assistant of the oncologist, who didn't take it seriously while I searched Google for the reasons and truth; I found the Xtandi link with its side effects that states the breathing difficulties and to contact doctors; it creates anxiety, indeed. Whatever any suggestions in this regard: Additional input; however, as a history of black magic by Qadiyyanis followers of fake Jesus that Europe is still unaware of their deeds; I don't exclude the new attacks by them; it is my belief they will face consequences of their crimes accordingly the worldly law and penalty of the Divine.

He saw a dark shadow flit through the water above him. Then another. The whales paid him no attention. That’s right, thought Greywolf, I’m your friend. You won’t hurt me. He knew, of course, that the real explanation was more prosaic. They hadn’t noticed him. Orcas like those had no friends. They weren’t even orcas any more. They had been subjugated by a species that was as ruthless as mankind. But some day it would be OK again. The time would come. And the Grey Wolf would become an orca. He breathed out.

Again, we wake, our neighbor yelling at his son, poor kid standing by the porch. Tracking mud, he backs from the shouting, his father's raised fist. Later, I will see him sulking near our feed shed, knotting an old piece of garden hose, kicking dust. I'll smile, ask if he's OK. But right now, I listen to John's quiet breathing beside me. Faith, they say, is Abraham asked to slaughter his boy on a mountaintop. But sometimes it's just the peeling shed in gray weather, the leather harness softened, then gone rough. All day today, the back pond will teem with carp. The clover will brighten. For now, we lie together into late morning. Some days, it is enough.

Its ok not to breath, but sometimes its good to breath so the thing is....for you to JUST BREATH

Death hit people differently. She was getting by. He had all but given up. There was no middle ground as woman. She was used to it, but it still pissed her off. Frigid, or a slag. Girly, or one of the boys. Hrad, or emotionally unstable. When USA sneezed , the UK caught the cold. Her face was often difficult to read, but at that moment it told him whatever McEvoy found Margie Knight o not, she'd tear every dodgy sauna, massage parlour and tin-pot knocking shop in the city apart trying. It might have been a few minutes, it might have been an hour, when he heard Holland's voice... The mood she is in right now, Holland, if you're so much as suggest that it might be her time of the month, I'm guessing she'll kill you on the spot. I think the poison inside me has eaten away every ounce of courage there might ever have been. I need to find just a little more. "Look, I'm getting tired of saying sorry" "Well I'm not tired of hearing you say it, OK?" Maybe they bred them somewhere, taught then how to put their hair in a bun and look down their pointed noses, before sending them out into the world with a pair of bug glasses, a fondness for tweed and something uncomfortable up their backside. "I'm going to kill Holland. No, I'm going to make him listen to some proper country music and then I'm going to kill him." "Actually, fuck that, the music would be wasted on him anyway. I'll just kill him." "fuckfuckbullocksfuck..." "What? I make you sick? I make you want to hurt me?" "You knock, you wait, you get asked to come in, you come in. It's pretty bloody straightforward." ...sat at home like Tom Throne, trying to keep the rest of the world well away. Police officer and prison staff are old enemies. The finders and the keepers resenting each other. 'Everybody says it switches around when you get old and they have to look after you. The parent becomes the child...It's non sense though., it really is. Even when they're cooking for you and getting your shopping in, you know? Even when they're doing up the buttons on your pyjamas and pretending to listen to your stupid stories, even when they're wiping your arse, you're still the father--It never stops, never. You're still the father and he's still the son. Still the son...' A thin layer across the top of the cistern in the ladies, invisible unless used in some of the more drugs-conscious clubs. ...Depending on how it looks, thy either do nothing, or break it again, re-set it.' 'Do they need volunteers?' "Don't talk to me. Not like that, do you understand? Not 'are you all right?' Not 'sorry'..." "I don't..." "Talk to me like a murdered." Holland couldn't believe what he was hearing. Palmer? 'Sorry?' Throne shouted. 'Fucking sorry...?' 'Shut your fucking stupid cunt's mouth. I will kill you, is that clear? I'm not afraid, certainly not of you. I don't care what happens. He can shoot the pair of us, I don't give a fuck. But if I hear so much as a breath coming out of you before this is finished, a single poisonous whisper, I'll rip your face off with my bare hands. I'll take it clean off, Nicklin, I'll make you another nice, new identity...

Spiritual practices in any tradition, including mindfulness in its many forms, are meant to help you live what is yours to live, not make you rise above it. These tools are meant to help you feel companioned inside your grief. They’re meant to give you a tiny bit of breathing room inside what is wholly unbearable. That’s not at all the same thing as making your pain go away. Rather than help us rise above being human, teachings in any true tradition help us become more human: more connected, not less attached.

That’s the problem, two of us with issues, insecurities and baggage.’ He put on a high-pitched whiny voice. ‘Does my hair look OK, did I wear the right shoes, does my breath smell, does my bum look big?’ ‘Not all girls have those issues.’ ‘I wasn’t talking about her, I was talking about me

As we see more and more people online, it can get difficult to remember that behind every text message, OkCupid profile, and Tinder picture there’s an actual living, breathing, complex person, just like you.

Aren’t you going to finish?”               His grin grew. “I had breakfast.” He stood up. “The food was a ruse. I got what I wanted.”               I blushed.               He pushed the plate in front of me. “You can have my bacon.”               My tongue was tied.               “I will see you after then?”               I nodded dumbly.               “Thank you, Mrs. Winston,” he called, taking a sip of coffee. He was about to leave, but turned back, and leaned toward me.               I held my breath. His eyes softened on me. His eyes mesmerized me. They were a weapon on my defenses. Beautiful. He chuckled warmly and then snatched a piece of bacon from my plate.               “Max!” He took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, and smiled. “You’re right, it does taste better stolen.” Ok,

Ok Kevin," he said to himself, "We were born for this! If we are ever going to find Laura then we can't be scared of the dark, can we?" He knew he had to press on, for both their sakes. He felt so awful thinking of her alone and scared, and probably always in danger. He knew the best help he could give her right now was to never give up. He knew he would find her, but he also knew he needed more supplies. He was going to hurry to his base to stock up, and then resume his journey. Taking a deep breath he said aloud, "On the count of three we'll run... ONE...TWO ... GO!!!" Kevin sprang from the tunnel entrance and launched towards the direction of his home. As he zoomed through the valley, he was pretty sure he passed a dozen spiders, some skeletons (arrows whizzed past his head a few times), and definitely a few zombies (he could hear their deep moans all around him). But it didn't matter; he just kept on running, passing through low-hanging tree branches and leaves as he went. He was so intent on reaching his home that he didn't see the drop off just a few blocks ahead of him, and went flying over the edge before his mind even registered what was happening. Falling

Lungs heaving, Jon lay still for only a moment before he pulled out of Baltsaros. Hand on the captain’s shoulder, he roughly turned him onto his back. Jon’s eyes were dark as he leaned over him. “It’s Tom’s turn now,” he said quietly, his breathing ragged. Baltsaros frowned, wondering if he had misheard. “Jon?” said Tom. He sounded more confused than aroused. “It’s ok, Tom,” said Jon, gaze locked on Baltsaros. There was power there. A challenge… and yet, affection. “He’ll submit because I want him to and because he loves you. And… He loves me.” He stroked the side of Baltsaros’s face, lips barely moving as he spoke in a hush. “Baltsaros, I want to watch Tom take you.

That there is no consequence to massacring foreigners, our criminal rulers have long known, but they also know that when Pentagon guns are turned on Americans, a good portion of the world will break out in cheers, just as we've whooped and hollered as our tax-paid munitions splattered their loved ones. When blood darkens our streets, our victims will dance in theirs, no doubt, so why are our transfat asses still parked at this sad cul-de-sac as that day of reckoning looms? When you're broke, though, it's hard to move a mile, much less out of the country, so many of us will simply escape into our private universe, inside our various screens, and ignore, as best we can, an increasingly ugly reality. Moreover, some still believe there is no serious decline, while others that a unified fight is possible. For the most hopeless, there is always suicide. This month, a thirty-year-old Bensalem man and his fifty-nine-year-old mother attempted, it appears, a suicide pact by breathing toxic fumes from a borrowed generator. Only she died, however, so now he's charged with her murder. Neighbors said they had fallen on hard times and "had nothing left". Not that long ago, it was highly unusual to have young adults living with their parents, but not anymore. As this trend continues, many Americans will know exactly one house their whole lives, but at least they'll still have a home. Should you be homeless in greater Philadelphia, there is one place you can have a private bed and bathroom for a few hours, at minimal cost. Keep this information in mind, for you might need it. At Bensalem's Neshaminy Inn, you'll only have to cough up $34, including tax, if you check in after 7 a.m. and leave by 4 p.m. This will give you plenty of time to refresh yourself or even have sex, with or without a (paid) partner, many of whom routinely patrol the hallways. Dozing before dark will also spare you from the worst of the bedbugs, and don't even think of complaining about heroin addicts' bloodstains on the walls, no sheet on your bed or used condoms beneath it. You didn't pay much, OK?

I don’t know how you deal with anxiety attacks, but I tell myself is: OK. OK. It’s OK to feel you’re about to vomit. Let yourself feel like you can’t breathe. Don’t scold your feelings just because you’re not actually having an aneurism. Slash heart attack slash dengue fever. Let that feeling try itself.

and carefree. It is so good to have Greg back with us again, breathing the salty air, experiencing the breeze on his face. We spend at least an hour on that beach. Almost back at the car, Greg stops at a wooden bench that looks out onto the strand. ‘Let’s sit for a while.’ My stomach tightens. Greg settles at one end of the bench, Toby on his lap, Rachel next to them. I’m at the other. Bookends. ‘Guys,’ Greg says. ‘I want to explain why I’m in hospital.’ ‘It’s OK, Dad. We know,’ says Toby. ‘You’re exhausted.’ ‘Well, it’s a little more than that.’ He takes a breath. ‘I have a sickness that makes me sad sometimes. Other times it makes me very excited.’ They take time to digest that. Toby is first to speak. ‘But it’s OK to be sad, Dad. You said.’ He looks at Greg for confirmation. ‘I did. And it’s OK to cry when something happens to make you sad.’ ‘Yeah, you’re always telling us that.’ ‘It’s just that if there’s no reason to be sad and you’re sad anyway – all the time – well, that’s not good, is it?’ Toby shakes his head wildly. ‘No, that’d be…sad.’ ‘And not good,’ says Greg. ‘No,’ agrees Toby. Rachel’s quiet. Taking it all in. ‘And it’s OK to get excited too,’ continues Greg. ‘Lots of things are exciting…’ ‘Like Christmas and birthdays and fireworks and when you get onto the next level in a game.’ ‘Exactly.’ Greg smiles. ‘But being hyper isn’t good.’ ‘No.’ Toby shakes his head again. ‘When you have Coke or Skittles or something you get hyper. And that’s not good ‘cause you go bananas. Isn’t that right, Dad?’ ‘Yes, son.’ Greg kisses the top of his head. ‘But you eventually go back to normal, don’t you?’ ‘Yeah.’ Rachel, eyes fixed on her father, is oblivious to the breeze whipping her hair across her face. ‘Well,’ says Greg. ‘I have a sickness that makes me hyper for weeks. And that’s not good.’ ‘No.’ Toby squints. ‘Why not, again?’ ‘Well, it can make me do silly things, and can make

Logan pokes his head into the room. Everything ok? I nod. My mom said my presence is requested at a party tomorrow. I raise an eyebrow at him. Any chance you could go with me? He pulls his head back, his chin pushing toward his chest as he looks down at me. What kind of party? The really fancy kind. His gaze shoots toward his closet, and I can already see him trying to plan. My mom said she would send clothes for both of us. I hold my breath waiting for his response. I need clothes too. Is it important to you? Is it? No. It’s important to my father. I have to go. And if you don’t go, I’ll be stuck with Trip all night. I can see the look in his eyes when it’s settled. I’m going. You don’t have to. I’m going.

After catching my breath, I shook my head and let out an aggravated chuckle. See, this was one of the many things that I disliked about my mother. She was selfish and inconsiderate. My apartment had a one car garage, and somehow, she thought it was ok to park in my garage instead of the apartment’s parking lot. Yeah, she paid my rent because I couldn’t afford it and my car payment on a bagger’s salary.

Fab.” Suddenly I’m not so sure of myself. “Is it ok if I call you that?” She drags a breath deep into her lungs and tilts her head up, shining eyes almost a navy blue in the lighting backstage. “Yes, Bastian.” “Good, because I plan on using that name every day for the rest of our lives. Fab, I’m so sorry. For everything I did back in high school. And for not chasing after you. I should have fought for you. I thought that hockey was the only thing I needed in my life, but I was wrong. All I could think of during the game was you. Up here on stage. I needed to be here with you. That last goal I scored. It was for you. So I could show up for you, like you’ve shown up for me so many times. And from now on, every goal I score is for you. Every win is for you. Every day is for you. I will dedicate every single hour to convincing you I’m never going to leave you again. Never going to hurt you.” Her cheeks are soft under my hands. “If you’ll let me.” A few stray tears chase each other down her beautiful face. Is she trying to find the words to let me down easy? I lean in to whisper in her ear. “Well?” “Well, what?” “Don’t leave me hanging here. I love you.” “What? Oh.” She laughs through the tears. “I love you too. I think I always have.” “Thank fuck.

you're not getting this all wrong; being human is really hard, and things hurt so much because you're made of stuff that's so much better than this place. so it's ok to barely even know how to be human sometimes… just take it from one breath to the next

We’re going to be OK” was one of the most overused phrases, but also one of the truest. No matter what had happened, how deeply something hurt you, the world continued to spin, and you would continue to breathe. Things might be awful for a while—sometimes a long while—but eventually, you would be able to function again. I

This is exactly the bike that I wanted. It's the perfect present. But there are other things that I wished for even harder than I did for this bike, and I know I won't get them, no matter what. Important things, like wishing that Lolo wasn't sick and that everything could stay the same. Then again, staying the same means that Tia Ines might not have the chance to love Simon. It means Roli wouldn't go to college and get even smarter. It means that I wouldn't group up at all. Staying the same could be just as sad as Lolo changing. I don't know what is going to happen next year, no one does. But that's OK. I can handle it, I decide. It's just a harder gear, and I am ready. All I have to do is take a deep breath and ride.

sometimes, letting go is an exorcism. it's standing on a bridge in the mountains in the black of the night and screaming to the stars as you throw that necklace they gave you out into the canyon. and you watch it fall into every bit of the black below just to make sure to yourself that you will never, ever hold it again… to make sure you understand that they will never, ever hold you again. and it's chewing them out of your heart the way you used to bite down into their chest, and with that same intensity you used to feel when you were that close to them. an excruciating. exorcism. burning it all down and leaving it all behind and gutting yourself inside out until you remove every last trace. but sometimes… letting go is just noticing. a little change in your breath. how it comes a little easier from your lungs. how you feel just a little different in your skin, like it holds a little less memory of their fingertip touch and a little more texture of who you are. and then sometimes… it's finally surrendering. giving in to the loosening of your grip on what you can no longer hold on to because it just hurts too. much. to keep holding on. so you decide it might be ok- it might be essential to start letting go. and you let go just a little bit. and then a little bit more. and you let it fall through your fingers again and again and again until you finally feel free.

I retrieved the guys’ guns, plus a baseball cap and a pair of sunglasses. “I doubt the cavalry will arrive any time soon. But we should still get out of here.” “Where to?” “Somewhere private. We have a lot to talk about.” “OK.” Fenton made her way around to the driver’s side of her Jeep and flipped up the windshield. “My hotel.” She fired up the engine and shifted into Reverse, then sat with one foot on the brake and the other pressing down on the clutch. Both her hands were on the wheel. At the top. Pressed together at the twelve o’clock position. She was hanging on tight. Her knuckles were white. Veins and tendons began to bulge. She closed her eyes. Her chest heaved, like she was having trouble catching her breath. Then she regained control. Slowly. She relaxed her grip. She opened her eyes, which dislodged a couple of tears. “Sorry.” She brushed her cheeks then switched her right foot to the gas pedal and raised the clutch. “I was thinking of Michael. I can’t believe he’s gone.

There’s nothing more tedious than pretending happiness when your world is upside down. Don’t pretend. It’s ok not to smile when anxiety is controlling your life. But don’t let the misery envelop you. Take a deep breath and try to fix your world though it may take some time. Remember, there is a way out of despair. You are that way.

what if today i breathe easy here in my skin, and exhale, unafraid, trusting that there is a destiny-kissed grace saving me from any cruel wind that may blow back. i could stand a little stronger in my space… knowing that it’s universe-given and me-shaped. maybe i'll even glow a little here, be a little wider-winged and brighter-lighted. let myself consider that everything i am and all that i want to be is ok. and maybe not just ok… but what if i am perfectly on purpose. and what if i can trust that every next step is the one i'm meant to take and that even when i feel wayward, i'm still always on my destiny-blessed way.

Later in the day, Holly frowned at her reflection in the mirror. “This can’t be right!” Holly muttered to herself. She looked like a cross between a panda bear and a raccoon. She had tried to apply a more advanced version of makeup than she was used to, and it was not going well. “Smokey eye, my foot! I look like I have two black eyes.” She had not done the proper shading with her eye shadow, and now her large green eyes were encased with a deep black color that spanned her entire eyelid. “Maybe I should try a different one,” Holly mused aloud. She sat in William’s bedroom at his dresser. She already had on her pretty crushed velvet black dress and a small heart-shaped diamond pendant. It had been William’s birthday gift to her last year. “Let me re-read this article again to see if I can make sense of these instructions.” Holly read her magazine article out loud. “Which Greek Goddess are you? Athena, Venus, or Aphrodite? Check out our makeup tips below to turn heads at your next event!” “Hmmmm, that sounds soooooo good, if only I was better at applying makeup.” She had decided to try their Aphrodite look and had been trying to apply the eyeliner to give her a smoky eye effect. Holly had to wash her face four times already and start over because each time was worse than the last. “Concentrate, Holly, or you’ll be late for the gala. This is your last chance; it’s do or die time!” she warned her reflection in the mirror. “So, it says to put the light grey eyeshadow on the inner one-third of my eyelids. Hmmm, maybe that’s the problem. I don’t know where the inner third is.” She got an idea and went to William’s desk. Looking around, she found a ruler. “Ah-ha! Eureka, I got it!” She went back to her position at his dresser and closed her eyes for a quick, small prayer, then held the ruler up to measure her eye. “Ah-ha! Twenty-one millimeters. So, that means the inner one-third of my eye must be from my nose out seven millimeters . . . right about HERE!” Holly expertly applied the light grey eye shadow to the inner third of her eyelids. “What a big improvement already! Wow! I’m not a panda bear anymore! Ok, one-third down, two-thirds to go . . . I can do this!” Reading further, she said, “Ok, now apply the dark grey eye shadow to the next third of your eye, finishing with the dark brown eye shadow on the outer third of your eyelid.” Holly expertly followed the instructions and sat back in her chair, stunned. She looked beautiful! She had achieved the desired effect, and now her green eyes were enhanced to perfection. “Wow, wow, wow!” Holly felt encouraged to keep going. She read the next instructions. “‘Now, apply blush to your face with an emphasis on contouring your cheekbones.’” “‘Contouring my cheekbones? Who do they think I am, Rembrandt?” Holly said with a groan. Holly gingerly picked up her blush container as if it were about to bite her. She decided another quick prayer wouldn’t go amiss. With a deep breath she muttered, “Ok, I’m going in!” She glanced nervously at the picture in the magazine and tried her hardest to follow it along her cheekbones. “That turned out pretty good!” Holly turned her face this way and that, examining it. It may not have been exactly as in the picture, but the blush now accentuated her beautiful high cheekbones. “Whew! Only the lip left, thank goodness! You got this, Holly!” She encouraged her reflection in the mirror.

Start with curiosity and a space for the child to speak: ‘Are you OK? I thought it would be better to talk away from everything. I was wondering what was up.’ ■ Accept where we are: ‘I asked to speak to you because I noticed you were struggling to keep to our rules.’ ■ Signal where we are going: ‘This is just a pause – I want to get you back in and working.’ ■ Reset expectations: ‘We have agreed that “safe” is one of our rules. I need you to …’ ■ Offer help: ‘What do you need most right now to help you get back to learning?’ or just: ‘How can I help now?’ ■ Plan to go back in: ‘OK, breathe. We need to “go again”.’ Or ‘When I/we/you go back in, I’m going to make it easy for you to walk back in/move desk/save face.

Oh I brought you something,” Trey said.
 I eyed him with suspicion. 
 He pulled out a slightly crushed handful of dandelion flowers from his jacket pocket. My breath caught. He laid them on the exam table, and I knew he’d continued talking, but I wasn’t listening. I stared at the small, cheerful yellow flowers, overwhelmed with the flood of emotion sweeping over me. 
 “Bones?”
 I glanced up at Trey, startled when I realized he'd moved closer. He looked at me with concern.
 “You ok?”
 I nodded, gazing back at the flowers. My heart ached, and I didn’t think before I whispered, “My brother used to bring me these.

it's ok to take small steps and deep breaths, love… but you also have to learn to take up your own space. and to not say you're sorry when you do. and you're going to be rejected for these wings you're growing and these fires you're starting… for all of this sweet and wild rebellion in you… but these are such. beautiful. things. so you have to keep choosing you. because nothing will matter if you reject you. if it needs you small… you just can't let it hold you still anymore.

Ok, relax, it’s ok. Breathe... but not too deeply on account of the fumes. This is just phase one, ok?

Concerning the Principles of Human Knowledge The sky outside looks like rain looks like the sky looks like water. When I try and tell my story, I take a deep breath and vomit saplings of myself that tell translations of the same story. They dance dances to the music of the rain in the sky that looks like water. And I try and explain that all stories can coexist and I am many separate things that disagree with one another and that is ok. Because in the forest that is many other forests, I found my lungs. Because in the forest that is many other things, apart from other forests, I left my camera to record the sound of the rain falling from the sky that looks like water. I have that sound here. You can listen to it. It exists. And if we are seventy percent water does that mean that we are constantly falling from the sky? Towards forests that exist on paper. If I record us, would people hear us? All our many different selves hurtling towards the ground. Would they think we are extraordinary, dancing in the rain?

OK…I’ve been to the emergency room twelve times in the last two years. One hundred percent of those visits have been false alarms. I know that I suffer from panic attacks, and this is what they feel like, too. Let me take a few calming breaths, relax and wait a few minutes. I’ll begin to feel better.” The reassurance lasts all of five seconds. Then you start again. “But I don’t know. I don’t know for certain. If this is a heart attack I could die! Right now! There’s always a chance.

Two hunters are in the woods when one of them collapses. His hunting buddy immediately calls 911. "My friend isn't breathing," he shouts into the phone. "What should I do?" "Relax," the operator tells him. "I can help. First, let's make sure he's dead." There's silence, and then a gunshot. The guy gets back on the phone and says, "OK, now what?

Tell you what—I’ll continue to be the clown. You continue to be my peace. Ok?” Her breath caught at the suddenly vulnerable expression on his face. One hand rose to his cheek almost without thought. “Cam?” His smile was bittersweet. “I know I’m not exactly the most serious guy on the planet, definitely the least serious in PAVAD, Kyra. But I’m serious when I say that I want more with you. Just remember that.

If you want me to breathe in this wreckage, I have to lean into it, head-on. Place my whole weight in the wreckage, allow it to hold me up, hold me down. It means reliving every single moment. The hardest, darkest, sharpest ones. The happy ones before he died that bring a specific kind of pain. It means being pregnant all over again. Counting down the days. Filled with that exquisite excitement that is absolutely unique to the moment you meet your child. Sometimes I want to go looking for the pain. I want to marinate in it, allow it to soak into my skin. It’s a tonic of sorts. A flush of the system. A way to demolish the foundation and start from nothing. Which sometimes—dare I say it—can make you feel good on the other end. It rewards you to taste fearlessness. To have nothing to lose. The grief is disarming, but sometimes the afterward is intoxicating. Because what can you do to me now? This cockiness was hard-won. I’m new land craving to be built upon. KATE SUDDES, Writing Your Grief student, on the death of her son, Paul

So, here is my “open letter to myself: today, a loser, but tomorrow, probably not:” If you are reading this, it is because you are within ______ of your loss limit today. Let’s slow down and consider how we got here. There are three ways this usually happens. If you got here because you lost track of your risk on a trade or a number of trades, you are just an idiot and I can’t help you. It is also possible that you just aren’t seeing the market clearly today, for whatever reason. Think hard about that. If either of those things are true, maybe you should pack it in and just go home. Tomorrow is a new day. However, it is more likely that today’s market is not the kind of market that plays to your strengths. You have a specific skill set, and within this realm you are probably as good as anyone out there. You understand the ebb and flow of a trending market, and how to press trades in those markets to maximum advantage. You usually don’t get shaken out by noise—you can hold trades in this kind of market better than almost anyone else… and, more often than not, you catch the turn at the end so you know when to get out. You do need to remember that maybe 1 in 5 trading days really rewards this style of trading. Chances are, today is not one of those days or you wouldn’t be reading this right now. What do you do now? Well, first of all take a deep breath and go for a short walk. Now. You are not going to make a brilliant trade in the next 15 seconds. You do not have to be here. In fact, your brain chemistry is compromised so you aren’t quite in your right mind—you cannot make good decisions right now. There is a really good chance the next trade you make will be your last one for the day, and then you can sit there and think about what an idiot you are for the rest of the day. Not pleasant or productive, so go for that walk right now. When you come back to the screen, the right course of action is to chip away at this loss. Think carefully about your next trading decision. You are going to be tempted to put on a lot of risk to try to make a big dent in your loss, but you know that almost never works. On a day you’re really in sync with the market, you can recover this loss in a single trade in a few minutes, but this clearly is not that day or you wouldn’t be reading this right now. Make a few ticks on small size and then use that cushion to take larger risk. Make $10 at first… $5 is even ok. Green is good. Hit singles, not home runs.

Don’t even think about it, Mimi. You are not coming out with me if you have garlic breath.”   “But I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast. I could brush my teeth twice,” I offered.   “No. We don’t have time. You haven’t even finished your costume yet. We’re in and out, OK? Maybe Rachel’ll put some in the fridge for you.”   “You’re heartless.”   “Like that’s news to anyone. Stop whining.”   Rachel poked her head out of the kitchen, a baguette in her hand. She pointed it at Jack. Pointing is a Luci-family thing. Beatrice does it too, only she’s usually holding a sharp dental instrument, so it’s considerably scarier.   “Are you bullying Mio again?” Rachel demanded. The warm light from the kitchen made her pale brown skin glow, and her long, toffee-coloured hair – the same colour as Jack’s before she bleached it – gleam. Jack and Rachel’s grandmother was from Barbados, which means they both have an amazing all-year-round golden tan. Unlike me. According to the manga I read, if I lived in Japan, my naturally pale skin would be totally sexy. Shame it only counts as pasty in the UK.   “No,” Jack said.   “Yes.” I did my pitiful expression. “She won’t let me have any dinner.”   Behind trendy square glasses, Rachel narrowed her eyes at her sister. “If you’re thinking of developing an eating disorder, you’d better know right now that I will intervention your ass off, Jacqueline.” Rachel is a graduate psychology student. She likes to work that into the conversation as often as she can.   “Oh, save it,” Jack said, yawning for effect. “We’re just in a rush, that’s all. We’ve got a party to go to.