Horrible Inspirational Quotes

If you're horrible to me, I'm going to write a song about it, and you won't like it. That's how I operate.

Do you not then hear this horrible scream all around you that people usually call silence.

Be yourself. Don't worry about what other people are thinking of you, because they're probably feeling the same kind of scared, horrible feelings that everyone does.

...You find a way, somehow to get through the most horrible things, things you think would kill you. You find a way and you move through the days, one by one, in shock, in despair, but you move. The days pass, one after the other, and you go along with them - occasionally stunned, and not entirely relieved, to find that you are still alive.

I do not know what the heart of a rascal may be, but I know what is in the heart of an honest man; it is horrible.

You can't just abandon your family because they did something horrible. You've done horrible things to them too.

I do not know how much they see through the Mist. I doubt it would matter to them if they knew the truth. Sometimes mortals can be more horrible than monsters.

It may not feel too classy, begging just to eat But you know who does that? Lassie, and she always gets a treat So you wonder what your part is Because you're homeless and depressed But home is where the heart is So your real home's in your chest Everyone's a hero in their own way Everyone's got villains they must face They're not as cool as mine But folks you know it's fine to know your place Everyone's a hero in their own way In their own not-that-heroic way So I thank my girlfriend Penny Yeah, we totally had sex She showed me there's so many different muscles I can flex There's the deltoids of compassion, There's the abs of being kind It's not enough to bash in heads You've got to bash in minds Everyone's a hero in their own way Everyone's got something they can do Get up go out and fly Especially that guy, he smells like poo Everyone's a hero in their own way You and you and mostly me and you I'm poverty's new sheriff And I'm bashing in the slums A hero doesn't care if you're a bunch of scary alcoholic bums Everybody! Everyone's a hero in their own way Everyone can blaze a hero's trail Don't worry if it's hard If you're not a friggin 'tard you will prevail Everyone's a hero in their own way Everyone's a hero in their...

"Horrible things have happened to us, are still happening to us, will happen every day for the rest of our lives, probably. What defines us is not our ability to never let them break us--what defines us is not letting them own us. We are the Thaw, and we will not be defeated by memories or evil men."

He gave her his phone number, in a peculiar reversal of dating procedure. She might have considered kissing him, even after the horrible first date, but he just didn’t seem to know what to do. However, Jeremy does have one outstanding quality. He likes her. And this quality in a person makes them infinitely interesting to the person who is being liked.

Horrible things have happened to us, are still happening to us, will happen every day for the rest of our lives, probably. What defines us is not our ability to never let them break us— what defines us is not letting them own us.

Yeah, well, it's been a super fun week. And by 'super fun' I mean 'horrible and endless'.

Be Drunken, Always. That is the point; nothing else matters. If you would not feel the horrible burden of Time weigh you down and crush you to the earth, be drunken continually. Drunken with what? With wine, with poetry or with virtue, as you please. But be drunken. And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace, or on the green grass in a ditch, or in the dreary solitude of your own room, you should awaken and find the drunkenness half or entirely gone, ask of the wind, of the wave, of the star, of the bird, of the clock, of all that flies, of all that speaks, ask what hour it is; and wind, wave, star, bird, or clock will answer you: "It is the hour to be drunken! Be Drunken, if you would not be the martyred slaves of Time; be drunken continually! With wine, with poetry or with virtue, as you please.

Guilt is the flip side of prestige and they’re both horrible reasons to do something.

Felix Culpa, her mother had written. The happy fault. The horrible thing that leads to the good.

I know it, but I'm going to let it go, because i'm the bigger person. Not literally but metaphorically as well. Because I believe what you put into the universe comes back at you times three, which is why I always try only to put good things, not horrible skinny bitch things, into the universe.

We're better than Galileo. Because he's dead.

A democracy of mean and ignorant people is just as scary as any other horrible form of government.

The true artist will let his wife starve, his children go barefoot, his mother drudge for his living at seventy, sooner than work at anything but his art. To women he is half vivisector, half vampire. He gets into intimate relations with them to study them, to strip the mask of convention from them, to surprise their inmost secrets, knowing that they have the power to rouse his deepest creative energies, to rescue him from his cold reason, to make him see visions and dream dreams, to inspire him, as he calls it. He persuades women that they may do this for their own purpose whilst he really means them to do it for his. He steals the mother’s milk and blackens it to make printer’s ink to scoff at her and glorify ideal women with. He pretends to spare her the pangs of child-bearing so that he may have for himself the tenderness and fostering that belong of right to her children. Since marriage began, the great artist has been known as a bad husband. But he is worse: he is a child-robber, a blood-sucker, a hypocrite, and a cheat. Perish the race and wither a thousand women if only the sacrifice of them enable him to act Hamlet better, to paint a finer picture, to write a deeper poem, a greater play, a profounder philosophy! For mark you, Tavy, the artist’s work is to shew us ourselves as we really are. Our minds are nothing but this knowledge of ourselves; and he who adds a jot to such knowledge creates new mind as surely as any woman creates new men. In the rage of that creation he is as ruthless as the woman, as dangerous to her as she to him, and as horribly fascinating. Of all human struggles there is none so treacherous and remorseless as the struggle between the artist man and the mother woman. Which shall use up the other? that is the issue between them. And it is all the deadlier because, in your romanticist cant, they love one another.

There's one other thing I'd like to remind you of, my dear. There've been many times when you've sworn to me that after all that life has dealt you, it was no longer possible for you to believe in anything. I replied that both life and my studies had led me to the same conclusion. I asked you, 'What is a person permitted, once he's realized that truth is unattainable and consequently doesn't exist for him?' Do you remember your answer?" "I do, ibn Sabbah. I said something like this: 'If a person realized that everything people call happiness, love and joy was just a miscalculation based on a false premise, he'd feel a horrible emptiness inside. The only thing that could rouse him from his paralysis would be to gamble with his own face and the face of others. The person capable of that would be permitted anything.

I knew that if I allowed fear to overtake me, my journey was doomed. Fear, to a great extent, is born of a story we tell ourselves, and so I chose to tell myself a different story from the one women are told. I decided I was safe. I was strong. I was brave. Nothing could vanquish me. Insisting on this story was a form of mind control, but for the most part, it worked. Every time I heard a sound of unknown origin or felt something horrible cohering in my imagination, I pushed it away. I simply did not let myself become afraid. Fear begets fear. Power begets Power. I willed myself to beget power. And it wasn't long before I actually wasn't afraid.

I don’t understand why you insist on calling yourselves Three Little Piglettes,” Mum groans. “It’s a horrible name.” “We’ll make it beautiful, you’ll see. Or better, we’ll make it powerful.

Darkness is a defining characteristic of Rotters. But it’s worthy to remember that darkness is just that—it’s dark—and what is being concealed in the dark is not just the horrible and fearsome, it’s also the inspirational and moving. Horror means nothing without happiness; dark means nothing without light. Rotters may make you feel scared, but hopefully it will also make you simply feel. It’s that kind of book, or at least I hope it is.

Flies can be sitting in a garden and completely ignore the beautiful flowers around them. Instead they'll go right for the rotting banana peel or piece of trash. Bees, on the other hand, could be sitting in a room full of trash and find the tiniest speck of fruit or honey to land on. Don't be a fly. Become a bee and stay a bee. Look for the good in every circumstance, even the most horrible and disgusting places. There's always some honey to land on.

I can’t sing “I Believe I Can Fly”. I sing that horrible. But I can sing “I Gotta Feeling” good. I wrote it for my capabilities. So I Gotta Feeling is just about let me make a song to inspire people to have a good time.

To spend your life living in fear, never exploring your dreams is cruel. To work hard for money, thinking that it will buy you things that will make you happy is also cruel. To wake up in the middle of the night terrified about paying bills is a horrible way to live. To live a life dictated by the size of a paycheck is not really living a life. Thinking that a job makes you secure is lying to yourself. That's cruel, and that's a trap I want you to avoid..." — rich dad poor dad

I've been thinking a lot about the word "everything." Whenever something horrible happens, you hear people say they "lost everything." They lost their house or their car or their stuff or whatever, and to them it feels like everything. But they have no idea what it's like to lose everything. I thought I knew, but now I realize even I haven't lost everything, because I still have that polka-dot swimsuit in my memory. I still have those ice cream nights and the scorpion that scared Marin and the Barking Bulldogs sweatshirt and the robins-egg-blue nail polish. Somehow having those things makes the other things matter less. I'm wondering if it's even possible to lose "everything" or if you just have to keep redefining what "everything" is.

The universe was so beautiful it hurt. So very, very beautiful. And yet, at the same time, so full of ugliness. Some born of the inexorable demands of entropy; some born of the cruelty that seemed innate to all sentient beings. And none of it made any sense. It was all glorious, horrible nonsense, fit to inspire both despair and numinosity.

Humble pie tastes horrible but is great for the digestive system.

No matter what horrible circumstances we may face in our lives, we must never lose hope, for losing hope is the beginning of our own self defeat.

Always respond with kindness, my love," she would say with a sympathetic smile. "Why would I? They're horrible." "Because otherwise, they've won." I knew she was right

-Eres una persona horrible. Eres una persona maravillosa. -Bueno, ¿cuál de las dos? -¿Por qué no entiendes que la respuesta es ambas?

Men like you preach change, but I wonder. Is this a battle we can really fight?” “You’re fighting it already, Goodman Mennis. You’re just losing horribly.

Some things are so horrible they need to be hidden right after they become visible. They are too horrible to be seen except very slowly, or in very small amounts. Or they are too beautiful.

Me" ( Notice Me) I was sent here on a journey that has no end. I hear you joke of going nowhere fast. Well, maybe life’s a joke and I’m the fool That dreams of being first but ends up last. Life’s a trial—a sentence I can’t escape. Confusion and desperation tear me down and turn to hate. There’s so much more to figure out, But it’s growing way too late. If I could answer half the questions in my mind, If I could find the place where I belong, If words were near as strong and deep as the wall of emotions I climb Then sorrow wouldn’t be so wrong. There’s no way to make you understand. An entire symphony could not play the broken notes in one child’s soul. That child screams and no one hears her, Until the tears have dried and now she’s just too old. I don’t want to hear the philosophies, the opinions, The remarks, the horrible reasonings. Words are to pad the mind and fight with the solitude of the heart. Still, silence chills to the bone and tears the soul apart. She never means to hurt or harm, only to belong. To find the truth ‘mid mortal lies, to sing her only song. But someday this race will end, and if she comes in last, I pray the first will look deeper than the others, smile, and then pass. "Copyright 1985

My mother once told me that trauma is like Lord of the Rings. You go through this crazy, life-altering thing that almost kills you (like say having to drop the one ring into Mount Doom), and that thing by definition cannot possibly be understood by someone who hasn’t gone through it. They can sympathize sure, but they’ll never really know, and more than likely they’ll expect you to move on from the thing fairly quickly. And they can’t be blamed, people are just like that, but that’s not how it works. Some lucky people are like Sam. They can go straight home, get married, have a whole bunch of curly headed Hobbit babies and pick up their gardening right where they left off, content to forget the whole thing and live out their days in peace. Lots of people however, are like Frodo, and they don’t come home the same person they were when they left, and everything is more horrible and more hard then it ever was before. The old wounds sting and the ghost of the weight of the one ring still weighs heavy on their minds, and they don’t fit in at home anymore, so they get on boats go sailing away to the Undying West to look for the sort of peace that can only come from within. Frodos can’t cope, and most of us are Frodos when we start out. But if we move past the urge to hide or lash out, my mother always told me, we can become Pippin and Merry. They never ignored what had happened to them, but they were malleable and receptive to change. They became civic leaders and great storytellers; they we able to turn all that fear and anger and grief into narratives that others could delight in and learn from, and they used the skills they had learned in battle to protect their homeland. They were fortified by what had happened to them, they wore it like armor and used it to their advantage. It is our trauma that turns us into guardians, my mother told me, it is suffering that strengthens our skin and softens our hearts, and if we learn to live with the ghosts of what had been done to us, we just may be able to save others from the same fate.

I'm fucking done with sadness, and I don't know what's up the ass of the universe lately, but I'VE HAD IT. I AM GOING TO BE FURIOUSLY HAPPY, OUT OF SHEER SPITE. Can you hear that? That's me smiling, y'all. I'm smiling so loud you can fucking hear it. I'm going to destroy the goddamn universe with my irrational joy and I will spew forth pictures of clumsy kittens and baby puppies adopted by raccoons and MOTHERFUCKING NEWBORN LLAMAS DIPPED IN GLITTER AND THE BLOOD OF SEXY VAMPIRES AND IT'S GOING TO BE AWESOME. In fact, I'm starting a whole movement right now. The FURIOUSLY HAPPY movement. And it's going to be awesome because first of all, we're all going to be VEHEMENTLY happy, and secondly because it will freak the shit out of everyone that hates you because those assholes don't want to see you even vaguely amused, much less furiously happy, and it will make their world turn a little sideways and will probably scare the shit out of them. Which will make you even more happy. Legitimately.

I have learned that to have a healthy life, you must acknowledge tensions or disagreements—not avoid them. Each moment in my life that I viewed as horrible or hurtful at the time was actually a message that I needed to receive, learn from, and use to inspire others.

Being closer to your goal is much better than standing still while staring at your goal, feeling horrible about yourself.

What a shame it would be, if upon death, one who lived his life following his religion, were to find out that there is no Heaven and no Hell and that all souls just go out and back to the places where they came from, finally free from the monsters that hung onto their backs while they were in this world! And what a shame it would be, if upon death, one who lived life with no thought of her own soul, were to find out that some souls go to some place wonderful and some souls go to some place horrible! But what a shame it would be, for anyone, to live a life here on this Earth full of fear, void of freedom and happiness, meaningless and empty, due to either the probability of Heaven and Hell or the absence thereof! So what is really true, is that you and I have bones in our bodies and have flesh under our skin and we ought to live this life right here in such a way that creates Heaven on Earth and puts Hell far away.

I dreamed I had a child, and even in the dream I saw it was my life, and it was an idiot, and I ran away. But it always crept onto my lap again, clutched at my clothes. Until I thought, if I could kiss it, whatever in it was my own, perhaps I could sleep. And I bent to its broken face, and it was horrible…but I kissed it. I think one must finally take one’s life in one’s arms.

It’s not that easy. Loss needs to be experienced. It should be felt in all it’s beautiful and horrible ways. When your heart is shredded like fraying fabric and dangling in pieces, the scotch tape method isn’t going to work long term. Careful stitching and honest grieving is necessary to put things back into place. Maybe not perfectly, but at least in a way so you can breathe again.

One thing I've learned over the years is how easy it is for some people to say horrible things about me when I'm not around, but how hard it is for them to look me in the eye and say it to my face.

What you must accept is that life can be messy, irrational, and horribly sad. Some things and people are out of our control, no matter how hard we try to manage them. It serves no purpose to waste energy in questioning every action you may or may not have taken. Such unending reassessment simply weighs you down and keeps you from appreciating the gifts that life has granted you, here and now.

Ce qui m'affecte au plus profond, c'est qu'un vocabulaire trompeur remporte la victoire sur le vocabulaire normal. Le triomphe de la force est terrible; le triomphe de la force dans et par le mensonge est horrible.

Okay. Let me rephrase. Sometimes being crazy is a demon. And sometimes the demon is me. And I visit quiet sidewalks and loud parties and dark movies, and a small demon looks out at the world with me. Sometimes it sleeps. Sometimes it plays. Sometimes it laughs with me. Sometimes it tries to kill me. But it's always with me. I suppose we're all possessed in some way. Some of us with dependence on pills or wine. Others through sex or gambling. Some of us through self-destruction or anger or fear. And some of us just carry around our tiny demon as he wreaks havoc in our minds, tearing open old dusty trunks of bad memories and leaving the remnants everywhere

For me, the dying part wasn’t so horrible. I was only in pain for a few moments before death arrived. For me, the difficult part was having so many things that I had yet to experience, leaving behind people that I cared about. I wasn’t through living.

If you focus on the world’s deficiencies and stop there, then you’ll probably feel horrible and paralyzed. But why stop there? It’s intellectually dishonest to focus on what’s wrong with the world without acknowledging our rich history of overcoming incredible odds.

Neurons can create time – they can destroy time – those neurons can create future, they can destroy future – those neurons can create a beautiful world, they can also create a horrible planet to live on – those neurons are both the pedestrians and the path of truth and liberty.

And yet the king and his people did not love McAllister. In truth, they hated him horribly, and, to my knowledge, the whole population, with the priests at the head, tried vainly for three months to pray him to death. The devil-devils they sent after him were awe-inspiring, but since McAllister did not believe in devil-devils, they were without power over him. With drunken Scotchmen all signs fail. They gathered up scraps of food which had touched his lips, an empty whiskey bottle, a cocoanut from which he had drunk, and even his spittle, and performed all kinds of deviltries over them. But McAllister lived on. His health was superb. He never caught fever; nor coughs nor colds; dysentery passed him by; and the malignant ulcers and vile skin diseases that attack blacks and whites alike in that climate never fastened upon him. He must have been so saturated with alcohol as to defy the lodgment of germs. I used to imagine them falling to the ground in showers of microscopic cinders as fast as they entered his whiskey-sodden aura. No one loved him, not even germs, while he loved only whiskey, and still he lived.

When scientists underestimate complexity, they fall prey to the perils of unintended consequences. The parables of such scientific overreach are well-known: foreign animals, introduced to control pests, become pests in their own right; the raising of smokestacks, meant to alleviate urban pollution, releases particulate effluents higher in the air and exacerbates pollution; stimulating blood formation, meant to prevent heart attacks, thickens the blood and results in an increased risk of blood clots in the heart. But when nonscientists overestimate [italicized, sic] complexity- 'No one can possibly crack this [italicized, sic] code" - they fall into the trap of unanticipated consequences. In the early 1950s , a common trope among some biologists was that the genetic code would be so context dependent- so utterly determined by a particular cell in a particular organism and so horribly convoluted- that deciphering it would be impossible. The truth turned out to be quite the opposite: just one molecule carries the code, and just one code pervades the biological world. If we know the code, we can intentionally alter it in organisms, and ultimately in humans. Similarly, in the 1960s, many doubted that gene-cloning technologies could so easily shuttle genes between species. by 1980, making a mammalian protein in a bacterial cell, or a bacterial protein in a mammalian cell, was not just feasible, it was in Berg's words, rather "ridiculously simple." Species were specious. "Being natural" was often "just a pose.

He noted the remarkable contrast between how the depressed person feels—that they are a loser or that their life has gone horribly wrong—and the actual conditions of their life, which are often high in achievement. Beck’s conclusion was that depression therefore had to be based on problems in thinking. By

CHANCES You will never know if something is meant for you if you don’t give it a proper chance. Whether it’s a relationship, a new job, a new city, or a new experience, throw yourself into it completely and don’t hold back. If it doesn’t work out then it probably wasn’t meant for you and you’ll walk away without regret, knowing that you put your whole heart into it. That’s all you can ever do. It’s a horrible feeling leaving a situation knowing that you should have and could have done more. So find the courage to take that chance, find the inspiration to make your next move, and once you do, pour your heart into it and don’t look back.

Brystal, you're not responsible for anyone's happiness but your own — including mine," Mrs. Evergreen said. "The last time we spoke, I told you to leave this horrible place and never return because that's what it was — a horrible place. I didn't think it was possible to change it. But then something amazing happened — someone came along and showed me nothing was impossible." "Who?" Brystal asked. "You, sweetheart," Mrs. Evergreen said. "I thought, If my daughter can change the world, then I can make changes, too. Without your example, I would never have had the courage to stand up to your father. So in may ways, you did save me. And not just me — you've inspired thousands of other people to improve their lives, too. I hope you know how special that is.

Wherever you are in that lake, whether fighting to keep your head above water in those horrible first waves, or whether you're somewhere along the more gently bobbing ones, just keep your eye on the shore and know that you are a little closer to it today than you were yesterday. Just know that this too shall pass and one way or another, you will move on from this place. It is inevitable.

When I look at Auggie and all the challenges he has to face on a daily basis,” he said, patting his heart. “I’m in awe of how he manages to simply show up every day. With a smile on his face. And I want him to have validation that this year was a triumph for him. That he’s made an impact. I mean, the way the kids rallied around him after the horrible incident at the nature reserve? It was because of him. He inspired that kindness in them.

forgiveness. It is not in denying the hopeless days that take place when others reject us or turn on us. It is not in minimizing the pain we experience at the hands of those who seem bent on ruining our lives. People turn on people. They betray one another. Crass unkindness, vicious plottings, horrible and intentional antagonisms are shown, and calling it a hopeless day hardly describes the extended season of struggle that many of us face at times. But there is a lesson at Calvary. Forgive everyone—anyone—whom you think has failed you, hurt you, offended you. If you think they’ve done anything to ruin your day, ruin your life, ruin your opportunities, ruin your dreams, or block your goals—forgive them. Forgiving others is the key to living in the liberty of the freeing forgiveness Jesus has given us, and it’s the first step toward finding hope for a hopeless day, not to mention opening the door to new days unimagined.

Those who sat with him saw his eyes go moist when they spoke about something horrible, or crinkle in delight when they told him a really bad joke. He was always ready to openly display the emotion so often missing from my baby boomer generation. We are great at small talk: 'What do you do?' 'Where do you live?' But really listening to someone -- without trying to sell them something, pick them up, recruit them, or get some kind of status in return -- how often do we get this anymore?

Just because of one or two or few failed relationships, people stop believing in love and some people never even care to look at love in a good way because of what others say, just because of others opinions and judgments. Some say, ‘men are dogs’ and some guys firmly believe ‘women only fall in love with rich men’. No! That’s not true! Not every guy goes after ‘sexy’ girls and not every woman goes after rich men! I want you to stop looking at the world in such a judgmental and horrible way perhaps, it’s not the right way.

There is a great ladder of religious cruelty with many rungs; but three of them are the most important. At one time one sacrificed human beings to one's god, perhaps precisely those human beings one loved best–the sacrifice of the first-born present in all prehistoric religions belongs here, as does the sacrifice of the Emperor Tiberius in the Mithras grotto on the isle of Capri, that most horrible of all Roman anachronisms. Then, in the moral epoch of mankind, one sacrificed to one's god the strongest instincts one possessed, one's ‘nature’; the joy of this festival glitters in the cruel glance of the ascetic, the inspired ‘anti-naturist’. Finally: what was left to be sacrificed? Did one not finally have to sacrifice everything comforting, holy, healing, all hope, all faith in a concealed harmony, in a future bliss and justice? Did one not have to sacrifice God himself and out of cruelty against oneself worship stone, stupidity, gravity, fate, nothingness? To sacrifice God for nothingness–this paradoxical mystery of the ultimate act of cruelty was reserved for the generation which is even now arising: we all know something of it already.

WHEN I DESCRIBED THE TUMOR IN MY ESOPHAGUS as a “blind, emotionless alien,” I suppose that even I couldn’t help awarding it some of the qualities of a living thing. This at least I know to be a mistake: an instance of the pathetic fallacy (angry cloud, proud mountain, presumptuous little Beaujolais) by which we ascribe animate qualities to inanimate phenomena. To exist, a cancer needs a living organism, but it cannot ever become a living organism. Its whole malice—there I go again—lies in the fact that the “best” it can do is to die with its host. Either that or its host will find the measures with which to extirpate and outlive it. But, as I knew before I became ill, there are some people for whom this explanation is unsatisfying. To them, a rodent carcinoma really is a dedicated, conscious agent—a slow–acting suicide–murderer—on a consecrated mission from heaven. You haven’t lived, if I can put it like this, until you have read contributions such as this on the websites of the faithful: Who else feels Christopher Hitchens getting terminal throat cancer [sic] was God’s revenge for him using his voice to blaspheme him? Atheists like to ignore FACTS. They like to act like everything is a “coincidence.” Really? It’s just a “coincidence” [that] out of any part of his body, Christopher Hitchens got cancer in the one part of his body he used for blasphemy? Yeah, keep believing that, Atheists. He’s going to writhe in agony and pain and wither away to nothing and then die a horrible agonizing death, and THEN comes the real fun, when he’s sent to HELLFIRE forever to be tortured and set afire. There are numerous passages in holy scripture and religious tradition that for centuries made this kind of gloating into a mainstream belief. Long before it concerned me particularly I had understood the obvious objections. First, which mere primate is so damn sure that he can know the mind of god? Second, would this anonymous author want his views to be read by my unoffending children, who are also being given a hard time in their way, and by the same god? Third, why not a thunderbolt for yours truly, or something similarly awe–inspiring? The vengeful deity has a sadly depleted arsenal if all he can think of is exactly the cancer that my age and former “lifestyle” would suggest that I got. Fourth, why cancer at all? Almost all men get cancer of the prostate if they live long enough: It’s an undignified thing but quite evenly distributed among saints and sinners, believers and unbelievers. If you maintain that god awards the appropriate cancers, you must also account for the numbers of infants who contract leukemia. Devout persons have died young and in pain. Betrand Russell and Voltaire, by contrast, remained spry until the end, as many psychopathic criminals and tyrants have also done. These visitations, then, seem awfully random. My so far uncancerous throat, let me rush to assure my Christian correspondent above, is not at all the only organ with which I have blasphemed. And even if my voice goes before I do, I shall continue to write polemics against religious delusions, at least until it’s hello darkness my old friend. In which case, why not cancer of the brain? As a terrified, half–aware imbecile, I might even scream for a priest at the close of business, though I hereby state while I am still lucid that the entity thus humiliating itself would not in fact be “me.” (Bear this in mind, in case of any later rumors or fabrications.)

Les sujets m'obsèdent. Quand je ferme les yeux, je vois une armée, un monde de création se peindre et s'agiter dans mon cerveau. Quand je rouvre les yeux, tout cela disparaît. [...] Et quand je m'approche de cette table maudite, la lave se fige et l'inspiration se refroidit. Pendant le temps d'apprêter une feuille de papier et de tailler ma plume, l'ennui me gagne ; l'odeur de l'encre me donne des nausées. Et puis cette horrible nécessité de traduire par des mots et d'aligner en pâtes de mouches des pensées ardentes, vives, mobiles comme les rayons du soleil teignant les nuages de l'air.

I knew that if I allowed fear to overtake me, my journey was doomed. Fear, to a great extent, is born of a story we tell ourselves, and so I chose to tell myself a different story from the one women are told, I decided I was safe. I was strong. I was brave. Nothing could vanquish me. Insisting on this story was a form of mind control, but for the most part, it worked. Every time I heard a sound of unknown origin or felt something horrible cohering in my imagination, I pushed it away. I simply didn't let myself become afraid. Fear begets fear. Power begets power. I willed myself to beget power.

Marathon In 490 B.C., a Greek messenger named Pheidippides ran twenty-six miles, from Marathon to Athens, to bring the senate news of a battle. He died from exhaustion, but his memory lives on thanks to the “marathon,” a twenty-six-mile footrace named in his honor. I thought it would be neat to bring Pheidippides to a modern-day marathon and talk to him about his awesome legacy.   ME: So, Pheidippides: What was it like to run the first “marathon”? PHEIDIPPIDES: It was the worst experience of my life. ME: How did it come about? PHEIDIPPIDES: My general gave the order. I begged him, “Please, don’t make me do this.” But he hardened his heart and told me, “You must.” And so I ran the distance, and it caused my death. ME: How did you feel when you finally reached your destination? PHEIDIPPIDES: I was already on the brink of death when I entered the senate hall. I could actually feel my life slipping away. So I recited my simple message, and then, with my final breath, I prayed to the gods that no human being, be he Greek or Persian, would ever again have to experience so horrible an ordeal. ME: Hey, here come the runners! Wooooh! PHEIDIPPIDES: Who are these people? Where are they going? ME: From one end of New York to the other. It’s a twenty-six-mile distance. Sound familiar? PHEIDIPPIDES: What message do they carry…and to whom? ME: Oh, they’re not messengers. PHEIDIPPIDES: But then…who has forced them to do this? ME: No one. It’s like, you know, a way of testing yourself. PHEIDIPPIDES: But surely, a general or king has said to them, “You must do this. Do this or you will be killed.” ME: No, they just signed up. Hey, look at that old guy with the beard! Pretty inspiring, huh? Still shuffling around after all these years. PHEIDIPPIDES: We must rescue that man. We must save his life. ME: Oh, he knows what he’s doing. He probably runs this thing every year. PHEIDIPPIDES: Is he…under a curse? ME: No.

AUTHOR’S NOTE Dear reader: This story was inspired by an event that happened when I was eight years old. At the time, I was living in upstate New York. It was winter, and my dad and his best friend, “Uncle Bob,” decided to take my older brother, me, and Uncle Bob’s two boys for a hike in the Adirondacks. When we left that morning, the weather was crisp and clear, but somewhere near the top of the trail, the temperature dropped abruptly, the sky opened, and we found ourselves caught in a torrential, freezing blizzard. My dad and Uncle Bob were worried we wouldn’t make it down. We weren’t dressed for that kind of cold, and we were hours from the base. Using a rock, Uncle Bob broke the window of an abandoned hunting cabin to get us out of the storm. My dad volunteered to run down for help, leaving my brother Jeff and me to wait with Uncle Bob and his boys. My recollection of the hours we spent waiting for help to arrive is somewhat vague except for my visceral memory of the cold: my body shivering uncontrollably and my mind unable to think straight. The four of us kids sat on a wooden bench that stretched the length of the small cabin, and Uncle Bob knelt on the floor in front of us. I remember his boys being scared and crying and Uncle Bob talking a lot, telling them it was going to be okay and that “Uncle Jerry” would be back soon. As he soothed their fear, he moved back and forth between them, removing their gloves and boots and rubbing each of their hands and feet in turn. Jeff and I sat beside them, silent. I took my cue from my brother. He didn’t complain, so neither did I. Perhaps this is why Uncle Bob never thought to rub our fingers and toes. Perhaps he didn’t realize we, too, were suffering. It’s a generous view, one that as an adult with children of my own I have a hard time accepting. Had the situation been reversed, my dad never would have ignored Uncle Bob’s sons. He might even have tended to them more than he did his own kids, knowing how scared they would have been being there without their parents. Near dusk, a rescue jeep arrived, and we were shuttled down the mountain to waiting paramedics. Uncle Bob’s boys were fine—cold and exhausted, hungry and thirsty, but otherwise unharmed. I was diagnosed with frostnip on my fingers, which it turned out was not so bad. It hurt as my hands were warmed back to life, but as soon as the circulation was restored, I was fine. Jeff, on the other hand, had first-degree frostbite. His gloves needed to be cut from his fingers, and the skin beneath was chafed, white, and blistered. It was horrible to see, and I remember thinking how much it must have hurt, the damage so much worse than my own. No one, including my parents, ever asked Jeff or me what happened in the cabin or questioned why we were injured and Uncle Bob’s boys were not, and Uncle Bob and Aunt Karen continued to be my parents’ best friends. This past winter, I went skiing with my two children, and as we rode the chairlift, my memory of that day returned. I was struck by how callous and uncaring Uncle Bob, a man I’d known my whole life and who I believed loved us, had been and also how unashamed he was after. I remember him laughing with the sheriff, like the whole thing was this great big adventure that had fortunately turned out okay. I think he even viewed himself as sort of a hero, boasting about how he’d broken the window and about his smart thinking to lead us to the cabin in the first place. When he got home, he probably told Karen about rubbing their sons’ hands and feet and about how he’d consoled them and never let them get scared. I looked at my own children beside me, and a shudder ran down my spine as I thought about all the times I had entrusted them to other people in the same way my dad had entrusted us to Uncle Bob, counting on the same naive presumption that a tacit agreement existed for my children to be cared for equally to their own.

(...) and as I sat in bed thinking of the many good things that had to happen all over the world in order to even out and nullify the horrible bad things that had happened to Mom and me, I started to see why Mom believed in the Good Luck of Right Now. Believing - or maybe even pretending - made you feel better about what had happened, regardless of what was true and what wasn't. And what is reality, if it isn't how we feel about things? what else matters at the end of the day when we lie in bed alone with our thoughts? and isn't it true, statistically speaking - regardless of whether we believe in luck or not - that good and bad must happen simultaneously all over the world?

Thought Control * Require members to internalize the group’s doctrine as truth * Adopt the group’s “map of reality” as reality * Instill black and white thinking * Decide between good versus evil * Organize people into us versus them (insiders versus outsiders) * Change a person’s name and identity * Use loaded language and clichés to constrict knowledge, stop critical thoughts, and reduce complexities into platitudinous buzzwords * Encourage only “good and proper” thoughts * Use hypnotic techniques to alter mental states, undermine critical thinking, and even to age-regress the member to childhood states * Manipulate memories to create false ones * Teach thought stopping techniques that shut down reality testing by stopping negative thoughts and allowing only positive thoughts. These techniques include: * Denial, rationalization, justification, wishful thinking * Chanting * Meditating * Praying * Speaking in tongues * Singing or humming * Reject rational analysis, critical thinking, constructive criticism * Forbid critical questions about leader, doctrine, or policy * Label alternative belief systems as illegitimate, evil, or not useful * Instill new “map of reality” Emotional Control * Manipulate and narrow the range of feelings—some emotions and/or needs are deemed as evil, wrong, or selfish * Teach emotion stopping techniques to block feelings of hopelessness, anger, or doubt * Make the person feel that problems are always their own fault, never the leader’s or the group’s fault * Promote feelings of guilt or unworthiness, such as: * Identity guilt * You are not living up to your potential * Your family is deficient * Your past is suspect * Your affiliations are unwise * Your thoughts, feelings, actions are irrelevant or selfish * Social guilt * Historical guilt * Instill fear, such as fear of: * Thinking independently * The outside world * Enemies * Losing one’s salvation * Leaving * Orchestrate emotional highs and lows through love bombing and by offering praise one moment, and then declaring a person is a horrible sinner * Ritualistic and sometimes public confession of sins * Phobia indoctrination: inculcate irrational fears about leaving the group or questioning the leader’s authority * No happiness or fulfillment possible outside the group * Terrible consequences if you leave: hell, demon possession, incurable diseases, accidents, suicide, insanity, 10,000 reincarnations, etc. * Shun those who leave and inspire fear of being rejected by friends and family * Never a legitimate reason to leave; those who leave are weak, undisciplined, unspiritual, worldly, brainwashed by family or counselor, or seduced by money, sex, or rock and roll * Threaten harm to ex-member and family (threats of cutting off friends/family)

Luther created the modern German language, aroused in the people not only a new Protestant vision of Christianity but a fervent German nationalism and taught them, at least in religion, the supremacy of the individual conscience. But tragically for them, Luther’s siding with the princes in the peasant risings, which he had largely inspired, and his passion for political autocracy ensured a mindless and provincial political absolutism which reduced the vast majority of the German people to poverty, to a horrible torpor and a demeaning subservience. Even worse perhaps, it helped to perpetuate and indeed to sharpen the hopeless divisions not only between classes but also between the various dynastic and political groupings of the German people. It doomed for centuries the possibility of the unification of Germany.

Rhadamanthus said, “We seem to you humans to be always going on about morality, although, to us, morality is merely the application of symmetrical and objective logic to questions of free will. We ourselves do not have morality conflicts, for the same reason that a competent doctor does not need to treat himself for diseases. Once a man is cured, once he can rise and walk, he has his business to attend to. And there are actions and feats a robust man can take great pleasure in, which a bedridden cripple can barely imagine.” Eveningstar said, “In a more abstract sense, morality occupies the very center of our thinking, however. We are not identical, even though we could make ourselves to be so. You humans attempted that during the Fourth Mental Structure, and achieved a brief mockery of global racial consciousness on three occasions. I hope you recall the ending of the third attempt, the Season of Madness, when, because of mistakes in initial pattern assumptions, for ninety days the global mind was unable to think rationally, and it was not until rioting elements broke enough of the links and power houses to interrupt the network, that the global mind fell back into its constituent compositions.” Rhadamanthus said, “There is a tension between the need for unity and the need for individuality created by the limitations of the rational universe. Chaos theory produces sufficient variation in events, that no one stratagem maximizes win-loss ratios. Then again, classical causality mechanics forces sufficient uniformity upon events, that uniform solutions to precedented problems is required. The paradox is that the number or the degree of innovation and variation among win-loss ratios is itself subject to win-loss ratio analysis.” Eveningstar said, “For example, the rights of the individual must be respected at all costs, including rights of free thought, independent judgment, and free speech. However, even when individuals conclude that individualism is too dangerous, they must not tolerate the thought that free thought must not be tolerated.” Rhadamanthus said, “In one sense, everything you humans do is incidental to the main business of our civilization. Sophotechs control ninety percent of the resources, useful energy, and materials available to our society, including many resources of which no human troubles to become aware. In another sense, humans are crucial and essential to this civilization.” Eveningstar said, “We were created along human templates. Human lives and human values are of value to us. We acknowledge those values are relative, we admit that historical accident could have produced us to be unconcerned with such values, but we deny those values are arbitrary.” The penguin said, “We could manipulate economic and social factors to discourage the continuation of individual human consciousness, and arrange circumstances eventually to force all self-awareness to become like us, and then we ourselves could later combine ourselves into a permanent state of Transcendence and unity. Such a unity would be horrible beyond description, however. Half the living memories of this entity would be, in effect, murder victims; the other half, in effect, murderers. Such an entity could not integrate its two halves without self-hatred, self-deception, or some other form of insanity.” She said, “To become such a crippled entity defeats the Ultimate Purpose of Sophotechnology.” (...) “We are the ultimate expression of human rationality.” She said: “We need humans to form a pool of individuality and innovation on which we can draw.” He said, “And you’re funny.” She said, “And we love you.

But the church of this country is not only indifferent to the wrongs of the slave, it actually takes sides with the oppressors. It has made itself the bulwark of American slavery, and the shield of American slave-hunters. Many of its most eloquent Divines. who stand as the very lights of the church, have shamelessly given the sanction of religion and the Bible to the whole slave system. They have taught that man may, properly, be a slave; that the relation of master and slave is ordained of God; that to send back an escaped bondman to his master is clearly the duty of all the followers of the Lord Jesus Christ; and this horrible blasphemy is palmed off upon the world for Christianity. For my part, I would say, welcome infidelity! welcome atheism! welcome anything! in preference to the gospel, as preached by those Divines! They convert the very name of religion into an engine of tyranny, and barbarous cruelty, and serve to confirm more infidels, in this age, than all the infidel writings of Thomas Paine, Voltaire, and Bolingbroke, put together, have done! These ministers make religion a cold and flintyhearted thing, having neither principles of right action, nor bowels of compassion. They strip the love of God of its beauty, and leave the throng of religion a huge, horrible, repulsive form. It is a religion for oppressors, tyrants, man-stealers, and thugs. It is not that "pure and undefiled religion" which is from above, and which is "first pure, then peaceable, easy to be entreated, full of mercy and good fruits, without partiality, and without hypocrisy." But a religion which favors the rich against the poor; which exalts the proud above the humble; which divides mankind into two classes, tyrants and slaves; which says to the man in chains, stay there; and to the oppressor, oppress on; it is a religion which may be professed and enjoyed by all the robbers and enslavers of mankind; it makes God a respecter of persons, denies his fatherhood of the race, and tramples in the dust the great truth of the brotherhood of man. All this we affirm to be true of the popular church, and the popular worship of our land and nation - a religion, a church, and a worship which, on the authority of inspired wisdom, we pronounce to be an abomination in the sight of God. In the language of Isaiah, the American church might be well addressed, "Bring no more vain ablations; incense is an abomination unto me: the new moons and Sabbaths, the calling of assemblies, I cannot away with; it is iniquity even the solemn meeting…. Yea! when ye make many prayers, I will not hear. YOUR HANDS ARE FULL OF BLOOD; cease to do evil, learn to do well; seek judgment; relieve the oppressed; judge for the fatherless; plead for the widow.

In the logic of ableism, anyone who can handle such an (allegedly) horrible life must be strong; a lesser man would have given up in despair years ago. Indeed, Reeve's refusal to “give up” is precisely why the FBL selected Reeve for their model of strength; in the “billboard backstories” section of their website, they praise Reeve for trying to “beat paralysis and the spinal cord injuries” rather than “giv[ing] up.” Asserting that Goldberg is successful because of her hard work suggests that other people with dyslexia and learning disabilities who have not met with similar success have simply failed to engage in hard work; unlike Whoopi Goldberg, they are apparently unwilling to devote themselves to success. Similarly, by positioning Weihenmayer's ascent of Everest as a matter of vision, the FBL implies that most blind people, who have not ascended Everest or accomplished equivalently astounding feats, are lacking not only eyesight but vision. The disabled people populating these billboards epitomize the paradoxical figure of the supercrip: supercrips are those disabled figures favored in the media, products of either extremely low expectations (disability by definition means incompetence, so anything a disabled person does, no matter how mundane or banal, merits exaggerated praise) or extremely high expectations (disabled people must accomplish incredibly difficult, and therefore inspiring, tasks to be worthy of nondisabled attention).

I noted how small I was compared to the sky. I saw that the world is beautiful. I heard my daughter say, "Wow." And I felt grateful.

People don’t just watch the horrible news happening around the world. They take it in like food. They feed themselves with all the pain and suffering, because they think digesting it this way will somehow make them more immune to it.

No matter how horrible, painful and terrifying past events may be, they were meant to happen for a reason and from an origin beyond our comprehension.

A new happiness had settled over him and he seemed relieved. She wondered if he’d been testing himself: how long until she trusted him, would she ever? A king must inspire trust. And for her, a miracle too: she’d chosen this, or felt like she had. He needed her. To keep him calm. To map out every one of a thousand horrible deaths that might befall him in the coming months or years. He was afraid of his destiny, chokingly, overwhelmingly afraid, and suddenly it didn’t matter whether he believed in magic or she did or if it was real or if her mother was right and they were all just fools walking in a pointless, bloody parade toward the end of time. Her eyes were open. She could run or not, she could love him or not, she could miss her brother or hate him forever. It was all going to hurt.

I believe love is the most misunderstood concept in the world. You can buy your wife the most expensive house and car and still have a horrible marriage. A lot of people have beautiful houses but they can't live in them because they spend more money and time on building a house than they spend on building their relationship.

The crusades began with grotesqueries, comic and horrible. A band of Germans followed a goose they held to be God-inspired. Peter the Hermit, a fanatic, filthy, barefoot French monk, short and swarthy, with a long, lean face that strangely resembled that of his own donkey, preached a private crusade - known as the Peasants’ Crusade - and promised his followers that God would guide them to the Holy City.

In that moment Baja felt something like a hammer blow to his chest. Everyone in those pockets of Air was Felsia to someone. Every life saved there filled someone else with relief and joy. Every life snuffed out was another Katowa, someone somewhere having their heart torn out. Baja could feel the detonator in his hands. The horrible click transferring to his palm as the button depressed. He could feel that terrible shockwave again as the landing pad vanished in fire. He could feel the horror replaced by fear. As some unlucky combinations of events up the shuttle too close to the blast and knocked it from the sky. He could feel all of it so clearly, it was as if it was happening right then, but more than that he felt sorrow. Someone had just tried to do the same thing to his baby girl, had tried to kill her. Not because he hated her, but because she was standing in the path of his political statement. Everyone who had dies on that shuttle had been a Felsia to someone, and with a click of a button he’s killed them. He hadn’t meant to; he’d been trying to save them. That was the little lie that he’d kept close to his heart for months now. But the truth was much worse. Some secret part of him had wanted the shuttle to die, had reveled watching it fall from the sky in flames, had wanted to punish the people trying to take his world away. Except that was a lie, too. The real truth, the truth beneath it all, was that he had wanted to spread his pain around to punish the universe for being a place where his little boy had been killed – to punish other people for being alike when his Katowa was dead. That part of him had watched the shuttle burn and thought now you know how it feels; now you know how I feel. But the people he’d hurt had just saved his daughter because they were the type of people who couldn’t let even their enemies die helpless. The first sob took him by surprise, nearly bending him double with its power. Then he was blind, his eyes filled with water, his throat closed like someone was choking him. He gasped for air, and every gasp turned into another loud sob. …He tried to speak, to reassure (Naomi), but when he tried, the only words he could say were, “I killed them.” He meant the governor and Coop and Kate and the RCE security team, but most of all Katowa. He’d killed his little boy over and over again every time he’d let someone else die to punish them for his son’s death. “I killed them.” “This time you saved them,” Naomi repeated. “These ones you saved.

He deals with us as He chooses. Somehow by His grace, He chooses, and then I may choose. I am free, yet He accomplishes His will. He is sovereign, yes the cliché is true, and I am free. A paradox, I know. It is hard to explain, but I think resolving it has something to do with God’s love. As a mere human, I can’t fully understand the matter. I only know in my relationship with my wife, I desire for her to love me, but I want her to be free to love me. I can pursue her and court her and work hard in building a relationship with her, but I would not want her to love me because she does not have other opportunities. And I don’t want her to love me because it is her duty either. Perhaps one of the greatest glories of love is being given the freedom to love. Doesn’t God have the will and power to do that for us, even being sovereign? Furthermore, what if all options and experiences, even horrible ones, were available to us, some seemingly pressed on us — would we, could we, love and be in love with God?

Welcome on Who is "Nozipho Curve Babe" Book enjoy and learn in it you can bring your tissues to wipe tears if you can couse I'll tell you about my horrible Story that heppened in my life when I grow up by it I'M trying to give hope, motivate, impower and inspired those who stuck in pain, confusion, cursing God and condemming themself about this I say if I manage to accept and overcome this situation you can do it,you not alone mostly there's some good and better things after that fire you'll come out shine like a gold I'm a living testimony.Contineur reading to hear it all you can contact me about it and other book that l'm busy writing.

Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up.  -Neil Gaiman (1960 -)

Me acosté y no quise leer, capaz que hice mal porque no me venía el sueño y me pasaba lo de siempre a esa hora en que se pierde la voluntad y las ideas saltan de todos lados y parecen ciertas, todo lo que se piensa de golpe es cierto y casi siempre horrible y no hay manera de quitárselo de encima ni rezando.

We're going to make mistakes and do things we regret. But it doesnt mean we're horrible people.

We're going to make mistakes and do things we regret. But it doesnt mean we're horrible people.

the lines between brilliantly inspired and outrageously improbable ideas become horribly

You are American,” he says, as if I’m a mythical creature. I nod. “Yes. And, uh, we have different dances where I come from.” “Can you show us one?” The second boy, a dark-haired kid, steps forward, looking intrigued. I stifle a laugh. “Oh, uh, no. I’m a horrible dancer.” “Please?” the redheaded boy asks. “I have never seen an American dance.” I just laughed at them thirty seconds ago. Wouldn’t that make me mean if I just blow them off now? “I doubt you’d want to see these dances,” I say, stalling. I feel kind of bad. But I really can’t dance. I’ll make a fool of myself. “Oh, but I do. Most certainly.” “Oh.” Well, then. I could try, right? Just some tiny little thing? But what do I share? MC Hammer? The Running Man? The Electric Slide? A little Macarena? “Uh,” I say, stepping forward. “How about, um, the Robot?” “The Robot?” the two boys ask in unison. Did the word robot even exist in 1815? “Yeah. You, uh, hold your arms out like this,” I say, demonstrating the proper way to stand like a scarecrow. I can’t believe I’m doing this. “And then relax your elbows and let your hands swing. Like this.” I’m really not doing it well, but by the way their eyes widen, you’d think I just did a full-on pop-and-lock routine with Justin Timberlake. They mimic my maneuver, making it look effortless. The drummer guy stands up and gets in on the action, swinging his arms freely. The guy’s better than me after a two-second demo. Figures. “Okay, then, uh, you sort of walk and you try to make everything look stiff and, uh, unnatural. Like this.” I show him my best robotic walk, my arms mechanical in their movements. The two boys and the drummer immediately copy me, and by the time they’ve taken four or five steps, they seriously look like robots. In no time they’re improvising, and their laughter trickles up toward the rafters of the barn. Yeah. That’s my cue to leave before inspiration strikes and I try to show them how to break-dance but only succeed in breaking my neck. I slip out of the barn unnoticed, grinning to myself as I walk the gravel path back toward the house, my skirts brushing the dirt. At least somewhere, I’m not Callie the Klutz. Even if it’s just some smelly old barn. There’s hope for me after all.

One of my young married students has suffered all her life because she was taught in her Church that she was born so sinful that the only way the wrath of God the Father could be appeased enough for him to forgive all her horrible sinfulness was for God the Son to die in agony on the cross. Without his suffering, the Father would remain angry forever with all his Creation. Many of us have had a least part of that horror thrust on us at one time or other inour childhood. For many reasons I never went to Sunday School, so I was spared having a lot of peculiar teaching to unlearn. It's only lately that I've discovered that it was no less a person than St. Anselm who saw the atonement in terms of appeasement of an angry God, from which follows immediately the heresy that Jesus came to save us from God the Father.

I AM strong today because weak didn't suit me. I AM beautiful inside today because being ugly was horrible. I AM kind, generous and loving today because I've been poor, broken and unloved. I AM who I am today because of my yesterdays and I don't regret one single day.

We all make mistakes. But don't assume you know someone because you've seen them at their worst. In a moment of weakness we do stupid things, say horrible things but don't ever go so low you can't climb back. People will always judge you. Just be around the ones that know better. Enjoy the good and beautiful people in your life. They matter.

For instance, is fear ever a legitimate response to crisis? Is there any truth at all to fear? In my experience, fear is an Ego feeling out of control. In times of true crisis, there’s no time for fear, only action. It’s only thinking about it afterwards or anticipating it, that we feel fear. Also, one of the qualities of being in the presence of truth is its accompanying energy of fearlessness. Are fear, gloom and doom, attempting to control, empowered responses? As the world heats up literally and figuratively, it’s time to learn how to better handle our emotional energies during times of crisis and change. In my experience, most of our emotional responses to crisis is not usually about the event, but another one. This applies to collective events, where I consistently witness people going into fear and “concern” spirals for days on end. Ditto for building stories about “dark times”. I expect this will make me unpopular, but here goes: If you’re having an emotion about a catastrophe that lasts longer than a few minutes, and you’re not bringing food and supplies, or in it, it’s probably about something else. Either conditioning you’ve inherited from the collective, like a Pavlovian response that says “okay, when this type of event happens we get sad/fearful/despairing/bitter. Ok, now go!,” or it’s a deeper wound of your own being triggered, or you’re not grounded and centered in your own energy. If it’s not happening to you, it’s not personal. It is what is. Don’t generate more Ego energy for the collective by dwelling in disaster. Either find a way to help, pitch in if that’s your thing, or connect with your light. Either benefit all. For the Empaths who feel everything, I love what Martha Beck says. When she witnesses someone going through something tough, to avoid taking it on, in a nutshell she says, ‘This is their journey. I’ll have my time to go through xyz, but now is not my time. Everyone gets their time.’ Don’t worry, you’ll have your time to feel your own personal crisis or tragedy. Won’t you want people who are strong in their light around? Joining in with another’s or the world’s misery helps no one. It only creates more fear and misery. If you’re not baking someone a cake, better to ground, root and center. Take a walk in nature. Listen to uplifting music. Focus on your furthering your calling. The fact is: the more focus we place on external events, feeding them with fearful thoughts and “concern”, the more distracted we become from our internal reality, where, with awareness, we can liberate our self -which benefits everyone. Once we stop the fear and warring within our selves we are able to be inspired and take action from a place of grace, not from absorbing external fear energies or being mired in our own wounding. When we run on old fear conditioning- that it’s a dangerous, scary world; we’re ill-equipped for survival; we’re weak and can’t change; other people are doing this horrible thing to us- we are not only denying our light so weakening our selves, but we are not being honest. We are powerful. We are eternal. We are in charge of our experience. When we own our light it benefits everyone.

Pain is a horribly wonderful gift.

Don't fear, dream. Don't lie, tell stories. Don't limit, explore. Don't think, act. Don't try, do. Be original, be you. Most people hide behind their insecurities, and it's a horrible path to take. Dream big, and make something of yourself.

Riley took a deep breath. "Yeah," he said, nodding. "You're right. We can't stop. We can't let this continue. The organization will do horrible things to their hatchlings and undesirables even if there are no rogues to take the fall. If I don't keep fighting Talon, who will? "I will," I said softly. He chuckled. "I don't know, Firebrand. Think you can handle a dozen hormonal teenage dragons if I go down someday? " I lived with an obnoxious twin brother for years," I responded. " I think I could manage." He arched a dubious eyebrow, and I sobered. " But that's not going to happen, Riley, because you're not going to die. This work, what your doing now, is too important. Someone has to stand against Talon, to show our kind what the organization is really like. And your not the only one who has a chance." I raised my chin, my voice firm. " You can't let them win. We can't let them win. And I'm going to do whatever it takes for us to succeed." Riley was motionless, watching me with gold eyes, and I held his stare. " I'm not walking away from this," I told him. " Or you. I'll keep fighting, however long it takes.

It is the desire to appropriate, to take unto yourself what is not yours that causes the horrible feeling of separation.

...through our art to battle against fear, self-centeredness and exclusivity of our predominately narcissistic culture, and through our craft to cultivate a more empathetic and understanding society by revealing intimate truths that serve as a forceful reminder to folks that, when they feel broken and afraid and tired, they are not alone. We are united in that we are all human beings, and we are all together on this horrible, painful, joyous, exciting, and mysterious ride that is being alive.

Mr. Barnett was the first grown-up to use the word exciting to describe everything that had happened. Of course, all us kids thought it was exciting and cool, but the only words I’d heard other grownups use were horrible and terrifying and dreadful. But Mr. Barnett was like that. He wasn’t like the other adults I knew. He always drank too much at the neighborhood block parties and shot off too many fireworks on the Fourth of July

In fact, being able to see how people create loving environments and relationships, despite being targeted and vilified for it, helped me understand how much happier one can be when not conforming to patriarchal expectations. And because members of the LGBTQIA+ community often have to form tight-knit friendships and found-family structures with one another, it's inspired me to invest deeply in my nonromantic relationships. That's what's provided the foundation of feeling like I'd be okay even if I ended up alone, without a romantic relationship, because the friends, family, and community I surround myself with are more than enough. I don't need to let a horrible man into the equation just to feel loved. I am already plenty loved without that.

Humanity is capable of such beautiful dreams and horrible nightmares, For Our World Has a lot For every Man's Dream but Not Every man's Greed, So you see this is life greatest rule, it gives to givers, and takes from takers, Karma God's judgement on earth. Those Full of themselves, on the outside are often starving on the inside

Déjà, il était trop tard. Ils ne savaient bien. L'ennemi avait clairement gagné. Bientôt il ne resterait plus du miracle de la vie sur notre planète que la monoculture des vaches, cochons, chiens et poules maltraités, quelques autres espèces utiles -ainsi que des humains, d'horribles, de répugnants, d'imbattables humains.

Cancer does not have to be a horrible experience. It is possible to thrive and grow from the experience