Dull Your Shine Quotes

Never dull your shine for somebody else.

Let go of the people who dull your shine, poison your spirit, and bring you drama. Cancel your subscription to their issues.

You see that life will become a thing made of holes. Absences. Losses. Things that were there and are no longer. And you realise, too, that you have to grow around and between the gaps, though you can put your hand out to where things were and feel that tense, shining dullness of the space where the memories are.

Be like the sun; never let the opinions of those who hate you dull your shine.

Run,” he whispered. “Run.” “No, Rand,” I said, brushing the dirt from his face. “I’m tired of running.” “Forgive me, please.” He clutched my hand as his eyes beseeched me through tears of pain. “You’re forgiven.” He sighed once, then stopped breathing. The shine in his brown eyes dulled. I pulled his hood over his head.

He shakes his head. “No, Auren. You’re the one that needs to burn. You need to spark to life and fight. Stop letting him dull you, stop letting the whole fucking world trample you,” he shouts, making me flinch from the vehement demand. “If you tried, you could shine brighter than the fucking sun. Instead, you’ve chosen to sit back and wither.

If you use too much paint, you'll not only obscure your savvy completely, but most everything else in life will become dull and uninteresting for you too. You can't get rid of part of what makes you you and be happy...So a well-scumbled savvy gives you clarity and control...You have to let your own know-how, your own unique color, shine through as a something-special others can't quite put a finger on." —Momma

If my twelve-year-old self, of whom I had grown rather fond, thinking about him, were to reproach me: 'Why have you grown up such a dull dog, when I gave you such a good start? Why have you spent your time in dusty libraries, catologuing other people's books instead of writing your own? What had become of the Ram, the Bull and the Lion, the example I gave you to emulate? Where above all is the Virgin, with her shining face and curling tresses, whom I entrusted to you'- what should I say? I should have an answer ready. 'Well, it was you who let me down, and I will tell you how. You flew too near to the sun, and you were scorched. This cindery creature is what you made me.' To which he might reply: 'But you have had half a century to get over it! Half a century, half the twentieth century, that glorious epoch, that golden age that I bequeathed to you!' 'Has the twentieth century,' I should ask, 'done so much better than I have? When you leave this room, which I admit is dull and cheerless, and take the last bus to your home in the past, if you haven't missed it - ask yourself whether you found everything so radiant as you imagined it. Ask yourself whether it has fulfilled your hopes. You were vanquished, Colston, you were vanquished, and so was your century, your precious century that you hoped so much of.

Let go of the people who dull your shine, poison your spirit, and bring you drama. Cancel your subscription to their issues

Accept that not everyone will understand you... every soul has a unique signature. It's okay to be temporarily accommodating in situations where you're being helpful and extending kindness and compassion, but you shouldn't change who you are. Live authentically, don't dumb down or dull your shine just to "fit in" or "get along" with anyone, including friends and even family you've outgrown.

To everyone who has ever felt ready to fold themselves in half to fit somebody else’s idea of who they should be… Don’t dull your shine for anyone. The right people will want to bask in your sunshine, not steal it. Until then, soak it all in. You, exactly as you are, are enough.

The Words, Kaladin. That was Syl’s voice. You have to speak the Words! I FORBID THIS. YOUR WILL MATTERS NOT! Syl shouted. YOU CANNOT HOLD ME BACK IF HE SPEAKS THE WORDS! THE WORDS, KALADIN! SAY THEM! “I will protect even those I hate,” Kaladin whispered through bloody lips. “So long as it is right.” A Shardblade appeared in Moash’s hands. A distant rumbling. Thunder. THE WORDS ARE ACCEPTED, the Stormfather said reluctantly. “Kaladin!” Syl’s voice. “Stretch forth thy hand!” She zipped around him, suddenly visible as a ribbon of light. “I can’t…” Kaladin said, drained. “Stretch forth thy hand!” He reached out a trembling hand. Moash hesitated. Wind blew in the opening in the wall, and Syl’s ribbon of light became mist, a form she often took. Silver mist, which grew larger, coalesced before Kaladin, extending into his hand. Glowing, brilliant, a Shardblade emerged from the mist, vivid blue light shining from swirling patterns along its length. Kaladin gasped a deep breath as if coming fully awake for the first time. The entire hallway went black as the Stormlight in every lamp down the length of the hall winked out. For a moment, they stood in darkness. Then Kaladin exploded with Light. It erupted from his body, making him shine like a blazing white sun in the darkness. Moash backed away, face pale in the white brilliance, throwing up a hand to shade his eyes. Pain evaporated like mist on a hot day. Kaladin’s grip firmed upon the glowing Shardblade, a weapon beside which those of Graves and Moash looked dull. One after another, shutters burst open up and down the hallway, wind screaming into the corridor. Behind Kaladin, frost crystalized on the ground, growing backward away from him. A glyph formed in the frost, almost in the shape of wings. Graves screamed, falling in his haste to get away. Moash backed up, staring at Kaladin. “The Knights Radiant,” Kaladin said softly, “have returned.

Let no one dull your shine! People willing to dilute themselves for the sake of others is one of the great tragedies of our time. BE your best. DO your best. LIVE your best. Make every day count and you’ll see how exponentially more exciting, thrilling, successful, happy and full your life will be.

Not every ray of sun brings light. Not every day it shines bright. Sometimes, it dulls its own light giving us the message, "Why burn? When you can Twinkle Your Shine.

A star never lets anything dull its sparkle, not even darkness.

Learn from stars; when dark times try to dull your sparkle, shine.

Never, ever dull your shine, Angel, not for me, not for anyone. You make the world a brighter place.

There is a time in life when you expect the world to be always full of new things. And then comes a day when you realise that is not how it will be at all. You see that life will become a thing made of holes. Absences. Losses. Things that were there and are no longer. And you realise, too, that you have to grow around and between the gaps, though you can put your hand out to where things were and feel that tense, shining dullness of the space where the memories are.

Have you ever done anything so significantly outrageous, so beautiful and insane, that on days when your life feels dull, these shining moments leap out? Do you have an answer to the question 'Did I live? Did I touch the world?'" (Vin)

Never allow anyone or anything to demise or dull your truest identity. Hurtful words and harsh judgments have no impact when your north star, your guiding light, shines from the center of your chest and beats from your own truest heart.

You’re hard sometimes, but you’re genuine and easy to love.  You give people everything you have to give, Silas.  You’re a rough diamond amongst pearls.  You look like a dirty stone amongst the sheen, but your value far exceeds the silky dull shine of a pearl.

A trinket can be lost,’ he answered. I suppressed the fuming reply I wanted to give. ‘It can be stolen, it can be twisted or tarnished and lose its lustre,’ he went on. ‘I want no gift that I give to you to be so transient. And so I took it from your head, where it can only look dull in comparison to your radiance, and I put it somewhere it will shine forever.’ He cupped my cheek in his hand and lifted my chin to the dark bowl of the night sky. ‘See the new constellation there?’ In the eternity of night, I saw the brand new pinpricks of light that shone in a sweeping arc. The lustre of my crown, now a fiery illumination against the darkness. ‘Just as you will never lose me, you will never lose your crown,’ he murmured, his arms wrapped tightly around me.

Has it ever occurred to you, Master Ninefingers, that a sword is different from other weapons? Axes and maces and so forth are lethal enough, but they hang on the belt like dumb brutes." He ran an eye over the hilt, plain cold metal scored with faint grooves for a good grip, glinting in the torchlight. "But a sword... a sword has a voice." "Eh?" "Sheathed it has little to say, to be sure, but you need only put your hand on the hilt and it begins to whisper in your enemy's ear." He wrapped his fingers tightly round the grip. "A gentle warning. A word of caution. Do you hear it?" Logen nodded slowly. "Now," murmured Bayaz, "compare it to the sword half drawn." A foot length of metal hissed out of the sheath, a single silver letter shining near the hilt. The blade itself was dull, but its edge had a cold and frosty glint. "It speaks louder, does it not? It hisses a dire threat. It makes a deadly promise. Do you hear it?" Logen nodded again, his eye fastened on that glittering edge. "Now compare it to the sword full drawn." Bayaz whipped the long blade from its sheath with a faint ringing sound, brought it up so that the point hovered inches from Logen's face. "It shouts now, does it not? It screams defiance! It bellows a challenge! Do you hear it?" "Mmm," said Logen, leaning back and staring slightly crosseyed at the shining point of the sword. Bayaz let it drop and slid it gently back into its scabbard, something to Logen's relief. "Yes, a sword has a voice. Axes and maces and so forth are lethal enough, but a sword is a subtle weapon, and suited to a subtle man. You I think, Master Ninefingers, are subtler than you appear." Logen frowned as Bayaz held the sword out to him. He had been accused of many things in his life, but never subtlety. "Consider it a gift. My thanks for your good manners.

Only what is in the dark tries to dull the light of what shines.

Light never lets darkness dull its shine, be likewise.

Sara, you are not plain. Or dull.” He framed my cheek with his hand. “Yes, I am.” “No, babe, you’re not.” He bent and brushed his lips against mine. “You shine.

Joffrey called out, “Dog!” Sandor Clegane seemed to take form out of the night, so quickly did he appear. He had exchanged his armor for a red woolen tunic with a leather dog’s head sewn on the front. The light of the torches made his burned face shine a dull red. “Yes, Your Grace?” he said. “Take my betrothed back to the castle, and see that no harm befalls her,” the prince told him brusquely. And without even a word of farewell, Joffrey strode off, leaving her there. Sansa could feel the Hound watching her. “Did you think Joff was going to take you himself?” He laughed. He had a laugh like the snarling of dogs in a pit. “Small chance of that.” He pulled her unresisting to her feet. “Come, you’re not the only one needs sleep. I’ve drunk too much, and I may need to kill my brother tomorrow.” He laughed again. He was mocking her, she realized. “No one could withstand him,” she managed at last, proud of herself. It was no lie. Sandor Clegane stopped suddenly in the middle of a dark and empty field. She had no choice but to stop beside him. “Some septa trained you well. You’re like one of those birds from the Summer Isles, aren’t you? A pretty little talking -bird, repeating all the pretty little words they taught you to recite.” “ Take your look.” His fingers held her jaw as hard as an iron trap. His eyes watched hers. Drunken eyes, sullen with anger. She had to look. The right side of his face was gaunt, with sharp cheekbones and a grey eye beneath a heavy brow. His nose was large and hooked, his hair thin, dark. He wore it long and brushed it sideways, because no hair grew on the other side of that face. The left side of his face was a ruin. His ear had been burned away; there was nothing left but a hole. His eye was still good, but all around it was a twisted mass of scar, slick black flesh hard as leather, pocked with craters and fissured by deep cracks.

She dances, She dances around the burning flames with passion, Under the same dull stars, Under the same hell with crimson embers crashing, Under the same silver chains that wires, All her beauty and who she is inside, She's left with the loneliness of human existence, She's left questioning how she's survived, She's left with this awakening of brutal resilience, Her true beauty that she denies, As much she's like to deny it, As much as it continues to shine, That she doesn't even have to admit, Because we all know it's true, Her glory and success, After all she's been through, Her triumph and madness, AND YET, SHE STANDS. Broken legs- but she's still standing, Still dancing in this void, You must wonder how she's still dancing, You must wonder how she's not destroyed, She doesn't even begin to drown within the flames, But little do you realize, Within these chains, She weeps and she cries, But she still goes on, And just you thought you could stop her? You thought you'd be the one? Well, let me tell you, because you thought wrong. Nothing will ever silence her, Because I KNOW, I know that she is admiringly strong, Her undeniable beauty, The triumph of her song, She's shining bright like a ruby, Reflecting in the golden sand, She's shining brighter like no other, She's far more than human or man, AND YET, SHE STANDS. She continues to dance with free-spirit, Even though she's locked in these chains, Though she never desired to change it, Even throughout the agonizing pain, Throughout all the distress, Anxiety, depression, tears and sorrow, She still dances so beautify in her dress, She looks forward to tomorrow, Not because of a fresh start but a new page, A new day full of opportunities, Despite being trapped in her cage, She still smiles after being beaten so brutally, A smile that could brighten anyone's day, She's so much more than anyone could ask for, She's so much more than I could ever say, She's a girl absolutely everyone should adore, She never gets in the way, Even after her hearts been broken, Even after the way she has been treated, After all these severe emotions, After all all the blood she's bled, AND YET, SHE STANDS. Even if sometimes she wonders why she's still here, She wonders why she's not dead, But there's this one thing that had been here throughout every tear, Throughout the blazing fire leaving her cheeks cherry red, Everyday this thing has given her a place to exist, This thing, person, these people, Like warm sunlight it had so softly kissed, The apples of her cheeks, Even when she's feeling feeble, Always there at her worst and at her best Because of you and all the other people, She has this thing deep inside her chest, That she will cherish forever, Even once you're gone, Because today she smiles like no other, Even when the sun sets at dawn, Because today is the day, She just wants you to remember, In dark and stormy weather, It gets better. And after what she's been through she knows, Throughout the highs and the lows, Because of you and all others, After crossing the seas, She has come to understand, You have formed this key, This key to free her from this land, This endless gorge that swallowed her, Her and other men, She had never knew, nor had she planned, That because of you, She's free. AND YET, THIS VERY DAY, SHE DANCES. EVEN IN THE RAIN.

Certain coincidence is wonderful. Certain meetings are memorable. Sometimes you meet some people for just a moment and they leave indelible footprints on your mind. They give you the reasons to ponder over and over. They become your food for thought. Though they go, their presence is felt within the innermost of the heart and the soul; especially when such people were a reason for a smile, or they were a perfect fit for a vacuum or probably they were a heavenly sent or maybe they were an epitome of a great union; when their light could shine to brighten the dark side of our lives; when they knew how to arouse interest even in the face of dull atmosphere; when they did understand silence and know the value and power of words; when even their absence is felt more than their presence. You can’t just forget about such people. Though they leave, they live within our hearts, mind, body and soul.

What You Should Know to be a Poet" all you can know about animals as persons. the names of trees and flowers and weeds. the names of stars and the movements of planets and the moon. your own six senses, with a watchful elegant mind. at least one kind of traditional magic: divination, astrology, the book of changes, the tarot; dreams. the illusory demons and the illusory shining gods. kiss the ass of the devil and eat sh*t; fuck his horny barbed cock, fuck the hag, and all the celestial angels and maidens perfum’d and golden- & then love the human: wives husbands and friends children’s games, comic books, bubble-gum, the weirdness of television and advertising. work long, dry hours of dull work swallowed and accepted and lived with and finally lovd. exhaustion, hunger, rest. the wild freedom of the dance, extasy silent solitary illumination, entasy real danger. gambles and the edge of death.

You will leave your home: nothing will hold you. You will wear dresses of gold; skins of silver, copper and bronze. The sky above you will shift in meaning each time you think you understand. You will spend a lifetime chipping away layers of flesh. The shadow of your scales will always remain. You will be marked by sulphur and salt. You will bathe endlessly in clear streams and fail to rid yourself of that scent. Your feet will never be your own. Stone will be your path. Storms will follow in your wake, destroying all those who take you in. You will desert your children kill your lovers and devour their flesh. You will love no one but the wind and ache of your bones. Neither will love you in return. With age, your hair will grow matted and dull, your skin will gape and hang in long folds, your eyes will cease to shine. But nothing will be enough. The sea will never take you back.

She dances, She dances around the burning flames with passion, Under the same dull stars, Under the same hell with crimson embers crashing, Under the same silver chains that wires, All her beauty and who she is inside, She's left with the loneliness of human existence, She's left questioning how she's survived, She's left with this awakening of brutal resilience, Her true beauty that she denies, As much she's like to deny it, As much as it continues to shine, That she doesn't even have to admit, Because we all know it's true, Her glory and success, After all she's been through, Her triumph and madness, AND YET, SHE STANDS. Broken legs- but she's still standing, Still dancing in this void, You must wonder how she's still dancing, You must wonder how she's not destroyed, She doesn't even begin to drown within the flames, But little do you realize, Within these chains, She weeps and she cries, But she still goes on, And just you thought you could stop her? You thought you'd be the one? Well, let me tell you, because you thought wrong. Nothing will ever silence her, Because I KNOW, I know that she is admiringly strong, Her undeniable beauty, The triumph of her song, She's shining bright like a ruby, Reflecting in the golden sand, She's shining brighter like no other, She's far more than human or man, AND YET, SHE STANDS. She continues to dance with free-spirit, Even though she's locked in these chains, Though she never desired to change it, Even throughout the agonizing pain, Throughout all the distress, Anxiety, depression, tears and sorrow, She still dances so beautify in her dress, She looks forward to tomorrow, Not because of a fresh start but a new page, A new day full of opportunities, Despite being trapped in her cage, She still smiles after being beaten so brutally, A smile that could brighten anyone's day, She's so much more than anyone could ask for, She's so much more than I could ever say, She's a girl absolutely everyone should adore, She never gets in the way, Even after her hearts been broken, Even after the way she has been treated, After all these severe emotions, After all all the blood she's bled, AND YET, SHE STANDS. Even if sometimes she wonders why she's still here, She wonders why she's not dead, But there's this one thing that had been here throughout every tear, Throughout the blazing fire leaving her cheeks cherry red, Everyday this thing has given her a place to exist, This thing, person, these people, Like warm sunlight it had so softly kissed, The apples of her cheeks, Even when she's feeling feeble, Always there at her worst and at her best Because of you and all the other people, She has this thing deep inside her chest, That she will cherish forever, Even once you're gone, Because today she smiles like no other, Even when the sun sets at dawn, Because today is the day, She just wants you to remember, In dark and stormy weather, It gets better. And after what she's been through she knows, Throughout the highs and the lows, Because of you and all others, After crossing the seas, She has come to understand, You have formed this key, This key to free her from this land, This endless gorge that swallowed her, Her and other men, She had never knew, nor had she planned, That because of you, She's free. AND YET, THIS VERY DAY, SHE STILL DANCES, EVEN IN THE RAIN.

He was right. At the heart of the branch was a dark, five-pointed star. “Your people have a story about this,” he said to Mose. “They say that all the stars in the sky are actually made inside the earth. Then they seek out the roots of cottonwood trees and slip into the wood, where they wait, real patient. Inside the cottonwood, they’re dull and lightless, like you see here. Then, when the great spirit of the night sky decides that more stars are needed, he shakes the branches with his wind and releases the stars. They fly up and settle in the sky, where they shine and sparkle and become the luminous creations they were always meant to be.” He looked at the star in that cottonwood branch with a kind of reverence. “And we’re like that, too. Dreams shook loose. You boys and me and everybody else on God’s earth. Your people, Geronimo, they got a lot of wisdom

Last Words to Miriam ~ By D. H. Lawrence Yours is the shame and sorrow But the disgrace is mine; Your love was dark and thorough, Mine was the love of the sun for a flower He creates with his shine. I was diligent to explore you, Blossom you stalk by stalk, Till my fire of creation bore you Shrivelling down in the final dour Anguish—then I suffered a balk. I knew your pain, and it broke My fine, craftsman’s nerve; Your body quailed at my stroke, And my courage failed to give you the last Fine torture you did deserve. You are shapely, you are adorned, But opaque and dull in the flesh, Who, had I but pierced with the thorned Fire-threshing anguish, were fused and cast In a lovely illumined mesh. Like a painted window: the best Suffering burnt through your flesh, Undressed it and left it blest With a quivering sweet wisdom of grace: but now Who shall take you afresh? Now who will burn you free, From your body’s terrors and dross, Since the fire has failed in me? What man will stoop in your flesh to plough The shrieking cross? A mute, nearly beautiful thing Is your face, that fills me with shame As I see it hardening, Warpening the perfect image of God, And darkening my eternal fame.

Has it ever occurred to you, Master Ninefingers, that a sword is different from other weapons? Axes and maces and so forth are lethal enough, but they hang on the belt like dumb brutes.” He ran an eye over the hilt, plain cold metal scored with faint grooves for a good grip, glinting in the torchlight. “But a sword… a sword has a voice.” “Eh?” “Sheathed it has little to say, to be sure, but you need only put your hand on the hilt and it begins to whisper in your enemy’s ear.” He wrapped his fingers tightly round the grip. “A gentle warning. A word of caution. Do you hear it?” Logen nodded slowly. “Now,” murmured Bayaz, “compare it to the sword half drawn.” A foot length of metal hissed out of the sheath, a single silver letter shining near the hilt. The blade itself was dull, but its edge had a cold and frosty glint. “It speaks louder, does it not? It hisses a dire threat. It makes a deadly promise. Do you hear it?” Logen nodded again, his eye fastened on that glittering edge. “Now compare it to the sword full drawn.” Bayaz whipped the long blade from its sheath with a faint ringing sound, brought it up so that the point hovered inches from Logen’s face. “It shouts now, does it not? It screams defiance! It bellows a challenge! Do you hear it?

Dr. Kerry said he'd been watching me. "You act like someone who is impersonating someone else. And it's as if you think your life depends on it." I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing. "It has never occurred to you," he said, "that you might have as much right to be here as anyone." He waited for an explanation. "I would enjoy serving the dinner," I said, "more than eating it." Dr. Kerry smiled. "You should trust Professor Steinberg. If he says you're a scholar-'pure gold,' I heard him say-then you are." "This is a magical place," I said. "Everything shines here." "You must stop yourself from thinking like that," Dr. Kerry said, his voice raised. "You are not fool's gold, shining only under a particular light. Whomever you become, whatever you make yourself into, that is who you always were. It was always in you. Not in Cambridge. In you. You are gold. And returning to BYU, or even to that mountain you came from, will not change who you are. It may change how others see you, it may even change how you see yourself-even gold appears dull in some lighting-but that is the illusion. And it always was." I wanted to believe him, to take his words and remake myself, but I'd never had that kind of faith. No matter how deeply I interred the memories, how tightly I shut my eyes against them, when I thought of my self, the images that came to mind were of that girl, in the bathroom, in the parking lot. I couldn't tell Dr. Kerry about that girl. I couldn't tell him that the reason I couldn't return to Cambridge was that being here threw into great relief every violent and degrading moment of my life. At BYU I could almost forget, allow what had been to blend into what was. But the contrast here was too great, the world before my eyes too fantastical. The memories were more real-more believable-than the stone spires. To myself I pretended there were other reasons I couldn't belong at Cambridge, reasons having to do with class and status: that it was because I was poor, had grown up poor. Because I could stand in the wind on the chapel roof and not tilt. That was the person who didn't belong in Cambridge: the roofer, not the whore. I can go to school, I had written in my journal that very afternoon. And I can buy new clothes. But I am still Tara Westover. I have done jobs no Cambridge student would do. Dress us any way you like, we are not the same. Clothes could not fix what was wrong with me. Something had rotted on the inside. Whether Dr. Kerry suspected any part of this, I'm not sure. But he understood that I had fixated on clothes as the symbol of why I didn't, and couldn't, belong. It was the last thing he said to me before he walked away, leaving me rooted, astonished, beside that grand chapel. "The most powerful determinant of who you are is inside you," he said. "Professor Steinberg says this is Pygmalion. Think of the story, Tara." He paused, his eyes fierce, his voice piercing. "She was just a cockney in a nice dress. Until she believed in herself. Then it didn't matter what dress she wore.

It’s a soulful Sunday, somehow I found myself pulling out my journal and started writing a letter to Sensuality. And it goes like this: Sensuality... You’ve opened me up to a world of possibilities and set me on an adventure that has never ceased to amaze me. You have led me through unfounded territories. Through the highest highs and lowest lows I’ve felt your current, sometimes raging like an angry sea and at times blowing as gentle as a cool summer breeze. You’ve filled me with such an insatiable desire, which has been both a curse and a blessing. You’ve sensitized my soul, made it to feel even the most gentle touch of the lightest feather. You daily seduce me into your deep waters, waters so deep I find myself drowning, yet not losing my breath. Sensuality... I love how you soothe me when I’m hurting. I love how you comfort and put me back together when I’m feeling broken. I love how you whisper in my ear and say ‘do not despair, I’m here.’ You uncover my deepest desires and set my soul on fire. You light me up and make me shine like the brightest star on a clear summer night. There’s never a dull moment with you. Just when I think there can’t possibly be more, you show me again and again that there’s always another level... another layer... another blessing. Your mysteries never run out. I’ve come know you like God’s very own presence. Indeed, you are His very own favour to my soul. His divine beauty, passion and wisdom have I come to know through you. Through you I’ve learned how to stand in my worthiness rather than in my shame. That’s why I love you and will forever hold you close... very close... to my heart. Xoxo.

Find someone who makes even your dull pieces shine.

One bright star is better than a thousand dull moons.

Later, when he arrived in Seoul, Ki-yong saw Stanley Kubrick's The Shining. Watching Jack Nicholson go crazy in a cabin in the snow-covered Rockies, he remembered his mother, which he hadn't done in a long time. As Jack Nicholson typed, "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy," over and over on several hundred pages, he imagined Mother, sitting alone in her store, tittering like an idiot.

WE CARRY ON If you are feeling lonely and lost As your eyes meet my words On the page of the book you hold On glass screens on some device This was meant to be You connecting with me Are you feeling the life fatigue That gaping void and ennui From all the sudden changes In the slow and stuck life cycles Your sparkle subdued With postponed dreams Does it dull your shine When you think about your existence And wonder about the grand purpose With no real answers Lost and drowning Looking for a spark Know you are not alone, never alone With a glowing spirit inside, vibrant life outside You matter, have every right live Don’t you give up, for I too am trying Not knowing what comes next Living and loving as I know how ~June Samuel

Some people say that migraines feel like bad hangovers. And some people say that migraines feel like headaches that pulse. And some people say that migraines feel like stomach flu in your head. But what migraines really feel like is being tied to a railroad track while the worlds longest, loudest, freight train thunders over you. It starts with a bright light in the corner of your vision. Very bright. Like someone is standing beside you and shining a flashlight in your eye, but you can't back a light away. Can't turn your head from it. Then you hear the train's shrill whistle, the dull angry clank of the bell, the roar of its engine. By then you're tied to the train track. Hopefully the track is your bed and not a bus stop bench or restaurant table. And you can only try to flatten yourself as the train rushes toward you. Its light flashing and horn blaring. Finally you feel the hot breath of its arrival. Feel the smoky burning exhaust fill your lungs. And then it's thundering over you. Of course the train, the noise, and the light, and the fumes is all in your head. But that's the problem. It's ALL IN YOUR HEAD! You can't escape it. You can only lie on the track, waiting for the roaring, shrieking, light splintering pain to pass. And remember, this is the world's longest train. You'll be here for hours. in this exact position. In this much pain. Lifting your head, even if you were capable of that, which you're not, results in instant decapitation. But decapitation would at least stop the pain and sometimes you wish for it.

My lips pull back into a snarl. ‘Go to hell!’ He shakes his head. ‘No, Auren. You’re the one that needs to burn. You need to spark to life and fight. Stop letting him dull you, stop letting the whole fucking world trample you,’ he shouts, making me flinch from the vehement demand. ‘If you tried, you could shine brighter than the fucking sun. Instead, you’ve chosen to sit back and wither.

THE GENEALOGY OF MORALS: A POLEMIC The three essays which constitute this genealogy are, as regards expression, aspiration, and the art[Pg 117] of the unexpected, perhaps the most curious things that have ever been written. Dionysus, as you know, is also the god of darkness. In each case the beginning is calculated to mystify; it is cool, scientific, even ironical, intentionally thrust to the fore, intentionally reticent. Gradually less calmness prevails; here and there a flash of lightning defines the horizon; exceedingly unpleasant truths break upon your ears from out remote distances with a dull, rumbling sound,—until very soon a fierce tempo is attained in which everything presses forward at a terrible degree of tension. At the end, in each case, amid fearful thunderclaps, a new truth shines out between thick clouds. The truth of the first essays the psychology of Christianity: the birth of Christianity out of the spirit of resentment, not, as is supposed, out of the "Spirit,"—in all its essentials, a counter-movement, the great insurrection against the dominion of noble values. The second essay contains the psychology of conscience: this is not, as you may believe, "the voice of God in man"; it is the instinct of cruelty, which turns inwards once it is unable to discharge itself outwardly. Cruelty is here exposed, for the first time, as one of the oldest and most indispensable elements in the foundation of culture. The third essay replies to the question as to the origin of the formidable power of the ascetic ideal, of the priest ideal, despite the fact that this ideal is essentially detrimental, that it is a will to nonentity and to decadence. Reply: it flourished not because God was active behind the priests, as is generally believed, but because it was[Pg 118] a faute de mieux—from the fact that hitherto it has been the only ideal and has had no competitors. "For man prefers to aspire to nonentity than not to aspire at all." But above all, until the time of Zarathustra there was no such thing as a counter-ideal. You have understood my meaning. Three decisive overtures on the part of a psychologist to a Transvaluation of all Values.—This book contains the first psychology of the priest.

THE GENEALOGY OF MORALS: A POLEMIC The three essays which constitute this genealogy are, as regards expression, aspiration, and the art of the unexpected, perhaps the most curious things that have ever been written. Dionysus, as you know, is also the god of darkness. In each case the beginning is calculated to mystify; it is cool, scientific, even ironical, intentionally thrust to the fore, intentionally reticent. Gradually less calmness prevails; here and there a flash of lightning defines the horizon; exceedingly unpleasant truths break upon your ears from out remote distances with a dull, rumbling sound,—until very soon a fierce tempo is attained in which everything presses forward at a terrible degree of tension. At the end, in each case, amid fearful thunderclaps, a new truth shines out between thick clouds. The truth of the first essays the psychology of Christianity: the birth of Christianity out of the spirit of resentment, not, as is supposed, out of the "Spirit,"—in all its essentials, a counter-movement, the great insurrection against the dominion of noble values. The second essay contains the psychology of conscience: this is not, as you may believe, "the voice of God in man"; it is the instinct of cruelty, which turns inwards once it is unable to discharge itself outwardly. Cruelty is here exposed, for the first time, as one of the oldest and most indispensable elements in the foundation of culture. The third essay replies to the question as to the origin of the formidable power of the ascetic ideal, of the priest ideal, despite the fact that this ideal is essentially detrimental, that it is a will to nonentity and to decadence. Reply: it flourished not because God was active behind the priests, as is generally believed, but because it was[Pg 118] a faute de mieux—from the fact that hitherto it has been the only ideal and has had no competitors. "For man prefers to aspire to nonentity than not to aspire at all." But above all, until the time of Zarathustra there was no such thing as a counter-ideal. You have understood my meaning. Three decisive overtures on the part of a psychologist to a Transvaluation of all Values.—This book contains the first psychology of the priest.

Before you know it, you are bound to Prakriti by her twisted, three-stranded rope; you begin to believe that what happens in Prakriti unconsciously – birth, death, pain, pleasure, desire, anger – is real, that it is all done by you, felt by you, made to happen by you. Or that they are all happening to you. Both are not true.’ ‘A three-stranded rope?’ Arjuna frowned. ‘What do You mean, Lord?’ ‘Know this, Mahabahu,’ said Krishna. ‘Goodness (Sattva), Rajas (passion) and Tamas (dullness) are the three strands of Nature’s rope, which bind down the soul. Rajas is part of Nature’s creative side – birth, energy, movement, change, action, the season of spring. Tamas is part of Nature’s destructive side – death, decay, inertia, heaviness, winter. Sattva is the state in between – harmony, wholesomeness, lucidity, stillness, summer. ‘Of these, Sattva, pure and good, can illuminate your soul in its shining light, but even Sattva is a golden shackle. Once you enjoy that happy state of Sattva – good health, knowledge, harmony and peace – you get attached to it, not willing to let it go, yearning for it when it is gone, as it will. ‘Rajas springs from desire, yearning, dissatisfaction with the way things are. It prompts you to action, and once you act, it attaches you to the result of your action, makes you want a particular outcome, makes you happy when you get it, unhappy when you don’t. Beware, Kaunteya, for Rajas binds your soul tight. ‘Tamas is born of ignorance - it confuses, deludes, makes you negligent. It binds your soul to indolence, sleep, sloth, laziness. ‘The power of goodness makes slaves of the happy, makes them constantly hunger for peace and harmony. Passion enslaves the doers, traps them in an unending cycle of wanting something and then acting to get it. Dullness enslaves the careless and negligent, who never want to leave that torpid state of ignorance and lethargy.’ Too true, mused Arjuna. No wonder human life was so full of torment. ‘Goodness, passion and dullness are present in all beings, Arjuna,’ Krishna went on, ‘combined in different ways, constantly in motion, rising and falling, one following the other. They are all present in you; they are your nature. Sometimes goodness prevails over the other two, making you feel calm, radiant, happy, at peace, fulfilled; sometimes passion prevails, making you feel restless, greedy, impatient, excited, excitable, full of energy. At other times, dullness prevails, which destroys clear thinking – anger, fear, grief, confusion arise in this state.

When I say you're mine. A butterfly flies so soft, Wings silent but tender, The Roses dance gentle in the wind, Flows love into the fields, My face hits the sweet air in a feeling I cannot describe, Only touch with my heart, Only feel in my spirit, Only hear in a silent smile. When I say you're mine, Longing in a world, Tenderness gone away as dried dust in the winds, Feet walked on sands of despair, Sore from love gone, Legs tired from walking on ever ending roads, Roads to longing for a hand, Longing for a touch, Longing vote a voice in this cold world, To say, 'I love you'. When I say you're mine. Once the passing of many moons, So long ago, so far ago, Making the world not a home, Making the so life so barren, Dry, loveless, careless, The moon no longer had her beauty of sliver, No longer had magic in the shine, Now dull, now dark, now lonely, When I say you're mine, Sun and earth together, One needs the other, The sun needs earth, The earth needs the sun, Life, love..balance out, Love grows, love flows, Perfect, perfect as you, Orbit, love, life, From heaven, from destiny, For eternity. When I call you mine. You, are my world, You, are my moon, You, are my sun, You, are my earth, Back, perfect, love..is back.. When I say you're mine, It is because my dear, I am all yours.....

It cannot be otherwise, for it is bitterly disheartening to see that which your inmost soul believes to be right and true, to see this Truth reviled and struck in the face by the meanest camp follower in the victorious army, to hear her called vile names, while you can do nothing at all except to love her even more faithfully, kneel to her in your heart with even deeper adoration, and see her beautiful face as radiantly beautiful as ever and as full of majesty, shining with the same immortal light, no matter how much dust is whirled up around her white forehead, no matter how thickly the poisonous fog closes around her halo. It is bitterly disheartening, and your soul suffers injury inevitably, for it is so easy to hate until your heart is weary, or to draw around you the cold shadows of contempt, or to be dulled by pain and let the world go its own way.-- Of course, if there is that within you which makes you not choose the easiest way nor evade the whole matter, but walk upright with all your faculties tense and all your sympathies wide awake, taking the blows and stings of defeat as the scourge falls on your back again and again, and still keep your bleeding hope from dropping, while you listen for the distant rumblings that presage revolution, and look for the faint, distant dawn that some day-- some time, perhaps ... If you have that within you!--but don't try it, Lyhne. Imagine what the life of such a man must be, if he is to be true to himself.

I’ve got to get Brittany alone if I’m gonna have any chance of saving face and saving my Honda. Does her freakout session mean she really doesn’t hate me? I’ve never seen that girl do anything not scripted or 100 percent intentional. She’s a robot. Or so I thought. She’s always looked and acted like a princess on camera every time I’ve seen her. Who knew it’d be my bloody arm that would crack her. I look over at Brittany. She’s focused on my arm and Miss Koto’s ministrations. I wish we were back in the library. I could swear back there she was thinking about getting it on with me. I’m sporting la tengo dura right here in front of Miss Koto just thinking about it. Gracias a Dios the nurse walks over to the medicine cabinet. Where’s a large chem book when you need one? “Let’s hang Thursday after school. You know, to work on the outline,” I tell Brittany for two reasons. First, I need to stop thinking about getting naked with her in front of Miss Koto. Second, I want Brittany to myself. “I’m busy Thursday,” she says. Probably with Burro Face. Obviously she’d rather be with that pendejo than me. “Friday then,” I say, testing her although I probably shouldn’t. Testing a girl like Brittany could put a serious damper on my ego. Although I caught her at a time when she’s vulnerable and still shaking from seeing my blood. I admit I’m a manipulative asshole. She bites her bottom lip that she thinks is glossed with the wrong color. “I can’t Friday, either.” My hard-on is officially deflated. “What about Saturday morning?” she says. “We can meet at the Fairfield Library.” “You sure you can pencil me into your busy schedule?” “Shut up. I’ll meet you there at ten.” “It’s a date,” I say while Miss Koto, obviously eavesdropping, finishes wrapping my arm with dorky gauze. Brittany gathers her books. “It’s not a date, Alex,” she says over her shoulder. I grab my book and hurry into the hallway after her. She’s walking alone. The loudspeaker music isn’t playing so class is still on. “It might not be a date, but you still owe me a kiss. I always collect debts.” My chem partner’s eyes go from dull to shining mad and full of fire. Mmm, dangerous. I wink at her. “And don’t sweat about what lip gloss to wear on Saturday. You’ll just have to reapply it after we make out.

After all, he was afraid in his inmost heart of this mighty thing called passion. This storm-wind sweeping away everything settled and authorized and acquired in humanity as if it were dead leaves. He did not like it! This roaring flame squandering itself in its own smoke — no, he wanted to burn slowly. And yet this living on at half speed in quiet waters, always in sight of land, seemed so paltry. Would that the storm and waves would come! If he only knew how, his sails should fly to the yards for a merry run over the Spanish Main of life! Farewell to the slowly dripping days, farewell to the pleasant little hours! Peace be with you, you dull moods that have to be furbished with poetry before you can shine, you lukewarm emotions that have to be clothed in warm dreams and yet freeze to death! May you go to your own place! I am headed for a coast where sentiments twine themselves like luxuriant vines around every fibre of the heart—a rank forest; for every vine that withers, twenty are in blossom; for each one that blossoms, a hundred are in bud. Oh, that I were there!

It is an insult to the world to water yourself down, to shallow your waters, to dull your shine. --Insult

You are not fool's gold, shining only under a particular light. Whomever you become, whatever you make yourself into, that is who you always were. It was always in you. [Your past] might change how others see you, it may even change how you see yourself--even gold appears dull in some lights--but THAT is the illusion. And it always was.

Like a star you shine bright, like the moon you throw light, make your own luminosity so strong that no one ever dulls your life...

In my head, you’re like sunshine. Just this beacon of light that no one can help being drawn to. You’re warmth and kindness and laughter. It’s intoxicating. For someone like me who always feels dull, you’re like a miracle—the way you’ve always made me feel so much when nothing else does. Nothing or no one even stands a chance in comparison. You shine too bright.

You shine too bright for some asshole to come along and dull your sparkle.

To everyone just trying to tread water, you got this. Your chaos shines brightly, don’t dull it for anyone. Let your flames burn wildly and rattle the world with your inner beast. Set the world on fire, and rise from the ashes smiling. You are brutally beautiful in your own way.

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Dear Daughter, When you are in the spotlight, there will be those who aim to dull your shine. Be cautious at all times and aim to shine no matter what.

Has it ever occurred to you, Master Ninefingers, that a sword is different from other weapons? Axes and maces and so forth are lethal enough, but they hang on the belt like dumb brutes." He ran an eye over the hilt, plain cold metal scored with faint grooves for a good grip, glinting in the torchlight. "But a sword... a sword has a voice." "Sheathed it has little to say, to be sure, but you need only put your hand on the hilt and it begins to whisper in your enemy's ear." He wrapped his fingers tightly round the grip. "A gentle warning. A word of caution. Do you hear it?" Logen nodded slowly. "Now," murmured Bayaz, "compare it to the sword half-drawn." A foot length of metal hissed out of the sheath, a single silver letter shining near the hilt. The blade itself was dull, but its edge had a cold and frosty glint. "It speaks louder, does it not? It hisses a dire threat. It makes a deadly promise. Do you hear it?" Logen nodded again, his eye fastened on that glittering edge. "Now compare it to the sword full drawn." Bayaz whipped the long blade from its sheath with a faint ringing sound, brought it up so that the point hovered inches from Logen's face. "It shouts now, does it not? It screams defiance! It bellows a challenge! Do you hear it?

She dances, She dances around the burning flames with passion, Under the same dull stars, Under the same hell with crimson embers crashing, Under the same silver chains that wires, All her beauty and who she is inside, She's left with the loneliness of human existence, She's left questioning how she's survived, She's left with this awakening of brutal resilience, Her true beauty that she denies, As much she's like to deny it, As much as it continues to shine, That she doesn't even have to admit, Because we all know it's true, Her glory and success, After all she's been through, Her triumph and madness, AND YET, SHE STANDS. Broken legs- but she's still standing, Still dancing in this void, You must wonder how she's still dancing, You must wonder how she's not destroyed, She doesn't even begin to drown within the flames, But little do you realize, Within these chains, She weeps and she cries, But she still goes on, And just you thought you could stop her? You thought you'd be the one? Well, let me tell you, because you thought wrong. Nothing will ever silence her, Because I KNOW, I know that she is admiringly strong, Her undeniable beauty, The triumph of her song, She's shining bright like a ruby, Reflecting in the golden sand, She's shining brighter like no other, She's far more than human or man, AND YET, SHE STANDS. She continues to dance with free-spirit, Even though she's locked in these chains, Though she never desired to change it, Even throughout the agonizing pain, Throughout all the distress, Anxiety, depression, tears and sorrow, She still dances so beautify in her dress, She looks forward to tomorrow, Not because of a fresh start but a new page, A new day full of opportunities, Despite being trapped in her cage, She still smiles after being beaten so brutally, A smile that could brighten anyone's day, She's so much more than anyone could ask for, She's so much more than I could ever say, She's a girl absolutely everyone should adore, She never gets in the way, Even after her hearts been broken, Even after the way she has been treated, After all these severe emotions, After all all the blood she's bled, AND YET, SHE STANDS. Even if sometimes she wonders why she's still here, She wonders why she's not dead, But there's this one thing that had been here throughout every tear, Throughout the blazing fire leaving her cheeks cherry red, Everyday this thing has given her a place to exist, This thing, person, these people, Like warm sunlight it had so softly kissed, The apples of her cheeks, Even when she's feeling feeble, Always there at her worst and at her best Because of you and all the other people, She has this thing deep inside her chest, That she will cherish forever, Even once you're gone, Because today she smiles like no other, Even when the sun sets at dawn, Because today is the day, She just wants you to remember, In dark and stormy weather, It gets better. And after what she's been through she knows, Throughout the highs and the lows, Because of you and all others, After crossing the seas, She has come to understand, You have formed this key, This key to free her from this land, This endless gorge that swallowed her, Her and other men, She had never knew, nor had she planned, That because of you, AND YET, THIS VERY DAY, SHE DANCES. EVEN IN THE RAIN.

Only what is dark tries to dull the light of what shines.

More like a vault -- you pull the handle out and on the shelves: not a lot, and what there is (a boiled potato in a bag, a chicken carcass under foil) looking dispirited, drained, mugged. This is not a place to go in hope or hunger. But, just to the right of the middle of the middle door shelf, on fire, a lit-from-within red, heart red, sexual red, wet neon red, shining red in their liquid, exotic, aloof, slumming in such company: a jar of maraschino cherries. Three-quarters full, fiery globes, like strippers at a church social. Maraschino cherries, maraschino, the only foreign word I knew. Not once did I see these cherries employed: not in a drink, nor on top of a glob of ice cream, or just pop one in your mouth. Not once. The same jar there through an entire childhood of dull dinners -- bald meat, pocked peas and, see above, boiled potatoes. Maybe they came over from the old country, family heirlooms, or were status symbols bought with a piece of the first paycheck from a sweatshop, which beat the pig farm in Bohemia, handed down from my grandparents to my parents to be someday mine, then my child's? They were beautiful and, if I never ate one, it was because I knew it might be missed or because I knew it would not be replaced and because you do not eat that which rips your heart with joy.

I trust in my own incomprehension that gives me life free of understanding, I lost friends, I don’t understand death. The horrible duty is to go to the end. And counting on no one. To live your life yourself. And to suffer as much to dull myself a bit. Because I can no longer carry the sorrows of the world. What can I do when I feel totally what other people are and feel? I live them but no longer have the strength. I don’t want to tell even myself certain things. It would be to betray the is-itself. I feel that I know some truths. Which I already foresee. But truths have no words. Truths or truth? I’m not going to speak of the God, He is my secret. The sun is shining today. The beach was full of a nice wind and a freedom. And I was on my own. Without needing anybody. It’s hard because I need to share what I feel with you. The calm sea. But on the lookout and suspicious. As if a calm like that couldn’t last. Something’s always about to happen. The unforeseen, improvised and fatal, fascinates me. I have started to communicate so strongly with you that I stopped being while still existing. You became an I. It’s so hard to speak and say things that can’t be said. It’s so silent. How to translate the silence of the real encounter between the two of us? So hard to explain: I looked straight at you for a few instants. Such moments are my secret. There was what’s called perfect communion. I call it an acute state of happiness. I’m terribly lucid and it seems I’m reaching a higher plane of humanity. Or of unhumanity—the it.

Your teeth,” she blurted. There was a reason she was touching him, and it was so she wasn’t afraid of him anymore. So she wouldn’t be scared to lean on him, to use him to keep her safe. “Open your eyes, kefi. If you are afraid of my teeth, then you need to look at them.” She didn’t want to open her eyes. Ace wanted to stay in this world where nothing existed but darkness and touch. But then he leaned closer, hesitating where the heat of his breath brushed against the junction of her shoulder and neck. She heard the ragged breath he sucked in before his lips were suddenly pressed to the soft skin there. She could feel the imprint of his teeth through his lips. The sharp edges of them were dulled by warm heat that spread throughout her body like a wildfire. Then those lips parted. She could feel the sharp tips of his teeth pressing against her flesh before he leaned back once more. Just the barest hint of them, and she was ashamed to admit she wanted more. So she opened her eyes, blinking in the glaring white overhead lights before meeting his dark gaze. He parted his lips, baring those teeth for her eyes. Maketes even let her look her fill before he spoke. “I am made like a weapon. But many of my kind are more terrifying than me. I promise you, with every part of who I am and every part of who I will be, I would never hurt you. You have made every part of me shine with light, sweet achromo. You are brave and wild and free, and I would be a fool to try and dampen that light.” The same hand that held her fingers to his gills took her touch to his lips. Then he released her, never pushing her to do anything she didn’t want to do. Because of that, Ace found she wanted to touch. She gently ran her finger along his plush lower lip, tracing the outline of the cushion of it. She could see where he had been biting the soft flesh, as though he was as nervous about her touching him as she had been. Again, those lips parted. He even opened his mouth slightly so she could run that same finger over the sharp points of his teeth. They weren’t as razor sharp as she’d thought. Perhaps there would have to be more force to a bite to tear flesh like he had with the others. It should have frightened her. Instead, a heat bloomed deep in her body. A heat she almost didn’t recognize because it had been so long since she’d felt it.