Drip Motivation Quotes

We all are an element of water With full of dripping emotions.

Oh, God, I would give anything to change the past,” he gasped. “To make it so that the last thing you saw was not me walking away from you. In your memories I am forever one and twenty, and cocky, and sneering, and looking self-righteous. And I’ve changed, Beth,” he gasped, choking on a sob he could not hide. “I want so damn much for you to see how I’ve changed. To see me now. There are no lies in my eyes. No motives other than to show you that I am not the callous man I was. And that I love you…. I love you so damn much.” He was crying. The tears trickled unchecked down his cheeks, dripping onto his lips. She touched them, wiped them away, which only caused them to spill faster and harder.

Life is like a cup; what drips out of it depends on what you have filled it with.

None of us can predict the final outcomes of our actions, and few of us even try; most of us just do what we do to prolong a moment's pleasure or to stop the pain. And even when we act for the noblest reasons, the last link of the chain all too often drips with someone's blood.

Paul was an attorney. And this was what his as yet brief career in the law had done to his brain. He was comforted by minutiae. His mortal fears could be assuaged only by an encyclopedic command of detail. Paul was a professional builder of narratives. He was a teller of concise tales. His work was to take a series of isolated events and, shearing from them their dross, craft from them a progression. The morning’s discrete images—a routine labor, a clumsy error, a grasping arm, a crowded street, a spark of fire, a blood-speckled child, a dripping corpse—could be assembled into a story. There would be a beginning, a middle, and an end. Stories reach conclusions, and then they go away. Such is their desperately needed magic. That day’s story, once told in his mind, could be wrapped up, put aside, and recalled only when necessary. The properly assembled narrative would guard his mind from the terror of raw memory. Even a true story is a fiction, Paul knew. It is the comforting tool we use to organize the chaotic world around us into something comprehensible. It is the cognitive machine that separates the wheat of emotion from the chaff of sensation. The real world is overfull with incidents, brimming over with occurrences. In our stories, we disregard most of them until clear reason and motivation emerge. Every story is an invention, a technological device not unlike the very one that on that morning had seared a man’s skin from his bones. A good story could be put to no less dangerous a purpose. As an attorney, the tales that Paul told were moral ones. There existed, in his narratives, only the injured and their abusers. The slandered and the liars. The swindled and the thieves. Paul constructed these characters painstakingly until the righteousness of his plaintiff—or his defendant—became overwhelming. It was not the job of a litigator to determine facts; it was his job to construct a story from those facts by which a clear moral conclusion would be unavoidable. That was the business of Paul’s stories: to present an undeniable view of the world. And then to vanish, once the world had been so organized and a profit fairly earned.

Boosting dopamine can lead to enthusiastic engagement with things that would otherwise be perceived as unimportant. For example, marijuana users have been known to stand in front of a sink, watching water drip from the faucet, captivated by the otherwise mundane sight of the drops falling over and over again. The dopamine-boosting effect is also evident when marijuana smokers get lost in their own thoughts, floating aimlessly through imaginary worlds of their own creation. On the other hand, in some situations marijuana suppresses dopamine, mimicking what H&N molecules tend to do. In that case, activities that would typically be associated with wanting and motivation, such as going to work, studying, or taking a shower, seem less important. IMPULSIVENESS

Moor was a thin young man with blond hair that was habitually somewhat long. He had pale blue eyes and very white skin. There were dark patches under his eyes and two deep lines around the mouth. He looked like a child, and at the same time like a prematurely aged man. His face showed the ravages of the death process, the inroads of decay in flesh cut off from the living charge of contact. Moor was motivated, literally kept alive and moving, by hate, but there was no passion or violence in his hate. Moor's hate was a slow, steady push, weak but infinitely persistent, waiting to take advantage of any weakness in another. The slow drip of Moor's hate had etched the lines of decay in his face. He had aged without experience of life, like a piece of meat rotting on a pantry shelf.

One potential solution for maintaining pleasure while limiting intake comes from recent evidence that a reduction in the motivation to eat a specific food can be induced without ever going near the real thing. Imagine that you are really craving buffalo wings. Now imagine a plate of twenty wings in front of you, all hot and crispy and dripping with buttery hot sauce. Now imagine eating the wings one at a time. Go through the whole sequence in your mind—picking up a drumette or a wingette and biting into it, going through your personal routine for stripping every juicy piece of meat off the bone—and then imagine doing this another nineteen times. By the time you’ve finished this mental exercise, your buffalo wing craving should have severely dissipated, and if a basket of buffalo wings were offered to you right now, you’d eat fewer than if that basket had been plopped in front of you the minute you started wishing for them. What you’ve just experienced is how you can make food less appealing using only your imagination.

At a certain level of self-awareness and under other accompanying circumstances favorable to observation it will necessarily happen regularly that one finds oneself abhorrent. Every standard of the good-however varied the opinions on it may be will appear too great. One will realize that one is nothing but a rat hole of wretched ulterior motives. Not the slightest action will be free of these ulterior motives. These ulterior motives will be so filthy that in a state of self-observation one will at first not even want to think them through, but rather content oneself with the sight of them from a distance. These ulterior motives will not consist merely of selfishness, compared to them selfishness will appear to be an ideal of the good and the beautiful. The filth one will find will be there for its own sake, one will recognize that one came into the world dripping with this burden and due to it will depart unrecognizably or all-too-recognizably. This filth will be the bottommost depth one will find, the bottommost depth will contain not lava but filth

Whenever negativity makes us drip, Inspiration creates a flip from Negative to Positive.-RVM

Struggling to lift up his own weight, he staggered down a dirt path. Pain radiated throughout his body, his spirit crushed by insult and mockery. Despite the excruciating affliction he continued to walk, knowing that his destination would led him to even more suffering. Heavy, splintering wood pressed against his back, joining in with gravity to pull this man to the dusty ground. Anguish gripped his heart, yet he walked. Blood dripped from raw wounds, yet he carried on. There was no rescue plan. This man knew that he would experience death, but only after the shock of agony pierced his flesh. Still, he walked on, headed towards the place where he would breathe his last. His motivation was you.   Jesus Christ was sacrificed for you and for all mankind. He endured harsh treatment that led to death on the cross, providing people redemption from sin and the only way to be reconciled to God. He made that walk in humiliation regardless of whether or not anyone accepts Him as Lord and Savior. He didn’t do it because you deserve it or because you earned it. There is only one way He could have endured that immense amount of pain: true, unconditional, selfless love.   Knowing that someone would go through so much for you regardless of how you respond strips away any reason apart from love. The power of that kind of love is transforming. It transforms those who believe in it, drawing them closer to God, thus transforming their character to be more like His.

If the human race ever wishes to master time travel then the answer is through chemical and not mechanical means. Speed is time travel. It will pilfer away at the space-time around you without your consent, propelling you forward through time. The human body is a vehicle of flux. It is exhilarating to move rhythmically, pulsing, stepping through pockets of your existence in fluid motions. The time that speed steals from you, it gives back with interest, cold and hard on a Monday morning. It brings with it a terrifying despair that creeps upon you. It is a black, slow-motion suicide. The ceiling begins to drip and ooze grey-brown sludge. Aural hallucinations, the demons of psychosis, speak wordless words of pure dread... Sometimes I would laugh and giggle hysterically at inane nonsensical stories that would play out in my mind. I would watch them unfold, like a lucid dream, weird images, Boschian forms, twisted nightmares... And I would weep. I would weep for nothing with salty tears, rivers of anguish and existential pain running down my face, dripping quietly onto the carpet. Day after day, I would unravel myself, dissect, and analyse my life over and over until I was exhausted and insane. Speed is not an insightful drug. It will not delude you into a false sense of spirituality like hallucinogens. It is the aftermath and the come down from speed that will rip open your ego and show you the bare, horrible bones of yourself. It will open the beautiful black doorway inside you and it will show you nothing. Through the darkness of internal isolation, the amphetamine comedown will show you no god, no spirituality, no soul, just your own perishable flesh, and your own animal self-preservation. It will show you clearly just how ugly you really are inside. In the emptiness of yourself, there is only the knowledge of your eventual death. When you have truly faced yourself and recognised yourself as purely animal then you become liberated from the societal pretence that you are above or better than any other creature. You are a human animal. You are naturally motivated to be selfish. Everything you do, every act you partake of, is in its essence an act of survival. No act of the human-animal happens without the satisfaction of the ego’s position in existence…

Whenever negativity makes us drip, Inspiration creates a flip from Negative to Positive.

Living Life without a Purpose is like having an Ice cream cone in your hand, letting it melt and drip without eating it. It was yours to Enjoy, but you lost it!-RVM

Whenever negativity makes us drip, Inspiration creates a flip from Negative to Positive. -RVM

You might find storms exhilarating, or you might find them a pain, but they are inevitable. Each storm will etch its indelible path on you and when you come out on the other side, dripping yet triumphant, one thing is certain: You would never be the same again.

Kaiyo lay in bed and thought about taking a shower. He could see each step unfurling before him. How he would have to make all his muscles move to drag himself out of bed. How he would have to get up, undress, walk to the bathroom. How he would have to turn the water on and wait for it to heat. How he would have to step under the spray, wash his hair, his body, his soul. How he would somehow have to find the will to get out of the warmth again. How he would have to dry himself, dress himself, have his reflection waiting for him behind the mist on the mirror. How his hair would be wet and chill the nape of his neck. That last detail got stuck in his mind. How that would feel, that dripping wetness. The inconvenience of it. On top of everything else, it seemed utterly unimaginable to deal with. Each imagined step weighed him down. It was a series of fragments to make an impossible whole. Suddenly, the rest of his life stretched out before him, a series of impossible steps. Step after step in action after action after action. How he would have to get up every single morning and go to class and complete his projects. How he would have to think about what he wanted to do with his life. How he would have to find a job and work and make money. How he would have to go to the grocery store and cook and eat. How he would have to talk to people and build bridges and live with the fear that they would break. Every day he would have to exist. There would be no respite from himself. Existing was a series of exhausting steps. His head filled with the thought of having another emotion, of having to contend with his morality, with his conscience, with having to have a sense of purpose. He couldn’t breathe. Everything was so unimaginably exhausting. The nothingness around him was almost better. The absence of feeling, of motivation, of self. He closed his eyes, and for the very first time, the thought of just stopping, stopping it all once and for all, entered his mind with shape and substance. He would do it, he thought. He would do it…if suicide weren’t another intolerable series of steps.

Insufficient hope. Please deposit more faith to make a withdrawal. - Those dark feelings might not be so dark. They might actually mean something. They may be a flashing red warning: “Do that other thing.” Or “Don’t settle here forever.” - It’s okay to take a risk on your own, and dream big. - God endorses your dissatisfaction with the world’s self-concept package: “Large, with a side of self-doubt and a sprinkle of guilt". - Find the fire. Our twenties can be an anesthesia — they can numb us to pain and motivation. If we can stop the morphine drip of despondency, we will find that our unbearable existential angst is not a doom — it is the pain of depressurization, rising out of the depths.  - God does not expect you to be a Wall Street executive. God does not wish you were making six figures. God does not wish you had a happy-go-lucky personality. God does not wish you would just “Get yourself together already!” You can depend on Him for love, affirmation, affection, correction, a guiding hand, and His never-forsaking care. Breathe. - The possibilities for embarrassment and greatness exist in the same space. - Everything passes. Nobody gets anything for keeps. And that’s how we’ve got to live. Appreciate the moment, every loved one. here now.

To the right the reptilian bodies flew up and aside, as if bulldozed. Someone strong and very motivate was tearing down the battlefield. "What the hell is that?" Alix said. "That's my honey-bunny." Curran burst into the open, a seven-and-a-half-foot-tall monster clothed in steel muscle and gray fur. Faint stripes crossed his limbs like dark whip marks. Blood dripped from his clawed hands. On the left side, a patch of his skin was missing, muscle exposed and raw. He grabbed the nearest lizard, twisted it with a loud snap, and tossed it aside. "Hey, baby." "Hi." I beheaded a lizard. "Where are the kids?" "With the MSDU." He disemboweled a beast with a quick swipe of his claws. "You're having all this fun without me." "I'm not doing much. Just having tea and cookies." I cut at another lizard. "Thinking deep thoughts." I love you. "Then I'll join you." He loved me, too.

A good man is a rare gem. His love is like pure honey dripping from the hive—sweet and golden. His passion is like an eagle soaring towards the skies—genuine and driven.

The house fell into disrepair. Little things at first - dripping faucets and loose doors and scummy walls, a blackgreen bathroom, the annoyances and blemishes and dirt and grime people put up with without much complaining, aware that it should be better, but with no real motivation to keep up, especially when at the center of the home there's a sense of hopelessness.

direction. If he or one of his cop friends spots me, my whole escape plan is blown. Then I race away, slipping repeatedly in my flip flops. "Miss! Stop!" Chad yells, his voice shifting from confusion to alarm. I hear a car door slam and heavy footsteps behind me. "Mr. Pavlov! She's running!" Shit. I dig deeper, forcing my legs to move faster. The realization that Oleg and his buddies now know I've bolted sends a fresh surge of desperation through me. I push harder, weaving through startled tourists, ignoring the stares my bikini-clad body attracts. I'm hyper-aware of my surroundings—every potential exit, every cluster of tourists I can blend into. My time with Drew taught me something useful after all: When you're prey, you develop instincts. I make for the most populated area of the marina, hoping to disappear into the crowd. Sweat drips down my back despite the sea breeze, my breath coming in short, painful gasps. My body hasn't fully recovered from days of hiding and barfing on that yacht, but fear is one hell of a motivator.