Immersion Sad Quotes

She was a genius of sadness, immersing herself in it, separating its numerous strands, appreciating its subtle nuances. She was a prism through which sadness could be divided into its infinite spectrum.

She was a genius of sadness, immersing herself in it, separating its numerous strands, appreciating its subtle nuances.

When I’m sad, I read. I can go on reading for hours. Reading quiets the turmoil I feel inside and brings me peace. Because when I’m immersed in the world of a book, no one can get hurt,

He knew, even back then, that she was prone to bouts of melancholy. It came to her in successive waves, an ebb and flow. When the first wave arrived, barely touching her toes, it was so light and translucent a ripple that you might be forgiven for thinking it insignificant, that it would vanish soon, leaving no trace. But then followed another wave, and the next one, rising as far as her ankles, and the one after that covering her knees, and before you knew it she was immersed in liquid pain, up to her neck, drowning. That's how depression sucked her in.

The anger and mutual disrespect that I find among both conservative and progressive Christians today is really quite disturbing. It feels aligned much more with political ideologies of Right and Left than any immersion in the beautiful love of God. Jihadism and Zionism have become the death knell of any remaining beauty in religion for many sincere seekers all over the world. It is all so sad that we could regress so far in the name of God, who wants only to lead us forward.

She was also the most lonely and sad. She was a genius of sadness, immersing herself in it, separating its numerous strands, appreciating its subtle nuances. She was a prism through which sadness could b divided into its infinite spectrum.

She saw it in her mind's eye like a movie playing, the haunting memories from her childhood she couldn't seem to shake blending together into one raw, aching image. Her mother lying in a darkened room for days, her face swollen with tears. The inevitable ashtray overrun with ashes, the acrid scent of pot smoke in the air. The bed or couch or futon may have been different from year to year as Evie moved them around from apartment to commune to funky cottage, but her mother was always the same. Falling hard for some man, immersing herself in romantic fantasies that were crushed when the guy left. And the guy always left. Her mother's inability to get a grasp on reality had too often left Mischa to care for her younger sister, to care for her mother, from too young an age. She remembered shaking Evie awake, trying to get her to eat. To get up and take a shower, take her and Raine to school. No kid should have to do that. No kid should have to witness the way Evie had allowed herself to be ravaged by love. No woman should allow that to happen.

The ringer looked at the girl’s bleeding face and at her bleeding feet. ‘Leave her alone, you bloody mucking bastards,’ he said angrily in his slow Queensland drawl. ‘I stole those mucking chickens, and I gave them to her. So what?’ Darkness was closing down in my London sitting-room, the early darkness of a stormy afternoon. The rain still beat upon the window. The girl sat staring into the fire, immersed in her sad memories. ‘They crucified him,’ she said quietly. ‘They took us all down to Kuantan, and they nailed his hands to a tree, and beat him to death. They kept us there, and made us look on while they did it.’ ‘My dear,’ I said.

Near Taksim he suddenly found himself inside a crowd of people leaving a movie theater. They were staring straight ahead, as if in a trance, walking down the stairs arm in arm or with their hands plunged in their pockets, and Galip was so overwhelmed by what he read in their faces and that his own nightmare faded into the background. What he read in their faces was peace: these people had been able to forget their own sadness by immersing themselves in a story. They were here, on this wretched street, but at the same time they were there, inside the story to which they'd so eagerly given themselves over. They had gone into theater with minds sucked dry by pain and defeat,but now their minds were full again with rich story that gave meaning to their memories and their melancholy. They can believe they're someone else! thought Galip longingly. For a moment he was tempted to go in to watch the film they'd just seen,to lose himself in the same story and become someone else. As they wandered down the street, stopping now and again to gaze into boring shop windows, Galip watched the return to the dull and dreary world they knew so well. They don't make much effort! Thought Galip.

I would like to turn in my skin and change it for a new epidermis. It feels as if I will never be able to rinse the sadness from my soul. All the while I am cognizant of the fact that I am trying to purge myself of my feelings. I start with my shell. I am in the water at least an hour. I immerse my head. My long, thick mane is so heavy, but I feel the lightness of my hair as it floats. I can hear my heart beating in my ears. I wonder what would happen if I died in this water. I drain the bathtub and refill it. I scrub my skin until it stings. I still don't feel clean. I close my eyes. I switch to lying on my back. I gaze at the heavens through the skylight on the ceiling above the tub. I am thinking about Isabella. I am struck by the feeling of uncleanness that I have been immersed in that day. I would imagine that this child feels unclean always, in body and in mind. I am hoping that the sheets in her foster home are snow white and fragrant. I am hoping that she felt safe. I am worried that she is so deeply alone and frightened. I know somewhere deep inside of me that the decisions and choices I made today were sound. I am praying, with eyes glued to the stars, that I will not awaken in the night with my heart beating out of my chest; that I will not be haunted by Francis's diseased body; that I will not perseverate on ever nuance of my day - the smells, the cockroaches, the piercing torment of Isabella's unseeing eye, her father's sore-ridden penis penetrating her tiny body. Yet in many ways this is an experience I hope never to forget. The pearls. I must not forget the pearls that I have promised her.

Happiness depends upon the quality of our thoughts and the purposefulness of our deeds. Unhappy people are the prisoners of their own thoughts, memories, and accumulated experiences. Only by finding joyfulness that rest within our deepest fissures are we truly free from earthy demons of sadness, anger, and hatred. We attain bliss by amicably immersing ourselves in all facets of life. Living joyfully is living life effortlessly by appreciating the enchanting beauty in each moment of our existence.

23 Emotions people feel, but can’t explain 1.    Sonder: The realization that each passerby has a life as vivid and complex as your own. 2.    Opia: The ambiguous intensity of Looking someone in the eye, which can feel simultaneously invasive and vulnerable. 3.    Monachopsis: The subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place. 4.    Énouement: The bittersweetness of having arrived in the future, seeing how things turn out, but not being able to tell your past self. 5.    Vellichor: The strange wistfulness of used bookshops. 6.    Rubatosis: The unsettling awareness of your own heartbeat. 7.    Kenopsia: The eerie, forlorn atmosphere of a place that is usually bustling with people but is now abandoned and quiet. 8.    Mauerbauertraurigkeit: The inexplicable urge to push people away, even close friends who you really like. 9.    Jouska: A hypothetical conversation that you compulsively play out in your head. 10.    Chrysalism: The amniotic tranquility of being indoors during a thunderstorm. 11.    Vemödalen: The frustration of photographic something amazing when thousands of identical photos already exist. 12.    Anecdoche: A conversation in which everyone is talking, but nobody is listening 13.    Ellipsism: A sadness that you’ll never be able to know how history will turn out. 14.    Kuebiko: A state of exhaustion inspired by acts of senseless violence. 15.    Lachesism: The desire to be struck by disaster – to survive a plane crash, or to lose everything in a fire. 16.    Exulansis: The tendency to give up trying to talk about an experience because people are unable to relate to it. 17.    Adronitis: Frustration with how long it takes to get to know someone. 18.    Rückkehrunruhe: The feeling of returning home after an immersive trip only to find it fading rapidly from your awareness. 19.    Nodus Tollens: The realization that the plot of your life doesn’t make sense to you anymore. 20.    Onism: The frustration of being stuck in just one body, that inhabits only one place at a time. 21.    Liberosis: The desire to care less about things. 22.    Altschmerz: Weariness with the same old issues that you’ve always had – the same boring flaws and anxieties that you’ve been gnawing on for years. 23.    Occhiolism: The awareness of the smallness of your perspective. John Koenig, The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows (Simon & Schuster, November 16, 2021)

to be happy This requires a round mirror and a photograph of yourself taken in happier times. The photograph should include no one but yourself. Prop the mirror so that it stands straight on its edge. Next, place the picture on a nearby table, the wall, a chair, or on some other object. The picture should be reflected within the mirror. Allow the mirror to reflect the photograph for at least three minutes. During this time, recall those happier days. Immerse yourself in them. Don’t allow your concentration to waver and melt into a sea of tears concerning your current state; keep your mind firmly fixed on those happier days. Now, sit within the mirror’s reflection, i.e., between the mirror and the picture. Stay there until your sadness truly blossoms into happiness. Repeat as needed.

A sixteenth-century poet, especially one who knew that he ought to be a curious and universal scholar, would possess some notions, perhaps not strictly philosophical, about the origin of the world and its end, the eduction of forms from matter, and the relation of such forms to the higher forms which are the model of the world and have their being in the mind of God. He might well be a poet to brood on those great complementary opposites: the earthly and heavenly cities, unity and multiplicity, light and dark, equity and justice, continuity--as triumphantly exhibited in his own Empress--and ends--as sadly exhibited in his own Empress. Like St. Augustine he will see mutability as the condition of all created things, which are immersed in time. Time, he knows, will have a stop--perhaps, on some of the evidence, quite soon. Yet there is other evidence to suggest that this is not so. It will seem to him, at any rate, that his poem should in part rest on some poetic generalization-some fiction--which reconciles these opposites, and helps to make sense of the discords, ethical, political, legal, and so forth, which, in its completeness, it had to contain. This may stand as a rough account of Spenser's mood when he worked out the sections of his poem which treat of the Garden of Adonis and the trial of Mutability, the first dealing with the sempiternity of earthly forms, and the second with the dilation of being in these forms under the shadow of a final end. Perhaps the refinements upon, and the substitutes for, Augustine's explanations of the first matter and its potentialities, do not directly concern him; as an allegorist he may think most readily of these potentialities in a quasi-Augustinian way as seeds, seminal reasons, plants tended in a seminarium. But he will distinguish, as his commentators often fail to do, these forms or formulae from the heavenly forms, and allow them the kind of immortality that is open to them, that of athanasia rather than of aei einai. And an obvious place to talk about them would be in the discussion of love, since without the agency represented by Venus there would be no eduction of forms from the prime matter. Elsewhere he would have to confront the problem of Plato's two kinds of eternity; the answer to Mutability is that the creation is deathless, but the last stanzas explain that this is not to grant them the condition of being-for-ever.

Dealing with the death of loved one is always difficult. No matter how much we know of death, of the process of Life, no amount of preparation to accept death is sufficient. When death comes calling in our circle, we are always caught struggling to cope. Immersing yourself in celebrating the Life of the one you lose is one better way of coping. In celebration, there is an uplifting energy. It helps you to look back at each moment you can recall with the person you lost and relive them. Or support causes they supported. Through these acts you heal yourself, you train your mind to let go and move on. It is a slow process, but it works. Important, don't try to fight your sadness. It is futile. Sadness is a natural response. Feeling sad is integral to the process of dealing with a loss. Instead understand your sadness, go its root, understand its futility...and then pluck it and discard it...

The wise men understood that this natural world is only an image and a copy of paradise. The existence of this world is simply a guarantee that there exists a world that is perfect. God created the world so that, through its visible objects, men could understand his spiritual teachings and the marvels of his wisdom. That’s what I mean by action.” “Should I understand the Emerald Tablet?” the boy asked. “Perhaps, if you were in a laboratory of alchemy, this would be the right time to study the best way to understand the Emerald Tablet. But you are in the desert. So immerse yourself in it. The desert will give you an understanding of the world; in fact, anything on the face of the earth will do that. You don’t even have to understand the desert: all you have to do is contemplate a simple grain of sand, and you will see in it all the marvels of creation.” “How do I immerse myself in the desert?” “Listen to your heart. It knows all things, because it came from the Soul of the World, and it will one day return there.” * * * They crossed the desert for another two days in silence. The alchemist had become much more cautious, because they were approaching the area where the most violent battles were being waged. As they moved along, the boy tried to listen to his heart. It was not easy to do; in earlier times, his heart had always been ready to tell its story, but lately that wasn’t true. There had been times when his heart spent hours telling of its sadness, and at other times it became so emotional over the desert sunrise that the boy had to hide his tears. His heart beat fastest when it spoke to the boy of treasure, and more slowly when the boy stared entranced at the endless horizons of the desert. But his heart was never quiet, even when the boy and the alchemist had fallen into silence. “Why do we have to listen to our hearts?” the boy asked, when they had made camp that day. “Because, wherever your heart is, that is where you’ll find your treasure.” “But my heart is agitated,” the boy said. “It has its dreams, it gets emotional, and it’s become passionate over a woman of the desert. It asks things of me, and it keeps me from sleeping many nights, when I’m thinking about her.” “Well, that’s good. Your heart is alive. Keep listening to what it has to say.

In the beginning years of my consciousness-awareness, during my long daily walks, I would start off just naturally thinking about all the things that were currently preoccupying the surface of my mind. It’s easy. You go with the stream of thought. However, rather than becoming blindly immersed in the thoughts, I would watch them. I didn’t stop them. I let them continue, but I would watch and ask myself certain questions:  'What are my fears at this moment? Am I sad or grieving anything? Am I angry with anyone? Do I want something? What are my thoughts telling me?'  Then, I would have something live to work with. If I noticed that I was angry with someone, I would let the angry thoughts have their way, for a while, and then I would reason with them and say,  'Come on now, you’ve had your way for a while. You know that everyone is doing the best that they can. There is no need to get so upset about this. You are safe. The Divine loves you.' We work with our thoughts, and we try to align them with a higher perspective. After a few years of practising this, the process becomes very effective, efficient, and effortless.

What are the options then? Immerse yourself in a regular job of work which will give you the illusion of solidity and safety through activity, so that you are prevented from ever having to address the real issues of your life...In this sense activity is the soul's worst enemy and should be avoided.

It's beautiful that when we find ourselves immersed in the majestic nature alone by ourselves, a sad tune crosses our mind due to a subconscious memory, and the moments just go by...

How sad indeed for someone who is already weighed down by sin to be denied the true remedy for the problem. That is what gay Christianity does. It denies the sexual sinner repentance and immerses her in the futile task of trying to domesticate her sin. Trying to deal with sin in your own flesh is what Pharisees always encourage. Jesus speaks to this: “Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you travel across sea and land to make a single proselyte, and when he becomes a proselyte, you make him twice as much a child of hell as yourselves” (Matt. 23:15).

When I'm sad, I read. I can go on reading for hours. Reading quiets the turmoil I feel inside and brings me peace. Because when I'm immersed in the world of a book, no one can get hurt.

This study will not always make for easy reading. As has already been mentioned, and will become clear in time, the depths of the Empire’s crimes were truly horrifying. They were also not always equally felt. Many planets and species suffered far more than those in the Core Worlds. Similarly, while some humans - such as the Alderaanians - lost everything to the Empire, the inherent prejudices of that regime often focused in on those who were not human. The Empire, and those who orchestrated it, often spoke with a mix of disdain and disgust about “aliens” across the galaxy. There is no hiding the fact that, as a human, I have no experience of living with this type of prejudice, which still, sadly, endures. There are, however, things that can - and should - be done to mitigate this. While it may be necessary to sometimes quote the words of the Galactic Empire regarding the targets of its violence, there is no need to replicate their mindsets and use of language outside of this. The term “non-human” is problematic in its own ways but in the absence of a better one it is infinitely more acceptable than the pejorative “alien” that the Empire was so fond of using. Furthermore, where possible, I have attempted to highlight the experiences, writings, and voices of those who actually suffered under the Empire’s prejudices and genocides. We should not follow the Empire’s lead when it comes to silencing the victims of its many crimes. These are not perfect solutions and I accept the knowledge that they may fall short of what is both expected and required by those across the galaxy who lost both loved ones and worlds to Imperial aggression. They have a right to criticize failings of my own making, and I apologize to them for any of my own shortcomings. I can imagine that there will be those within the field of history and elsewhere who will find a declaration of my own potential blind spots to be unnecessary, but to them I say simply, this is an integral part of being a historian. As I recognize and analyze the relevant sources for this study I must too recognize and analyze myself. The survivors of the Battle of Crait have become fond of saying, in moments of sorrow and loss, that “no one’s ever really gone.” It seems to bring them solace and I respect that. But I do not feel it. I have immersed myself in the existing records and writings and sources that relate to the Galactic Empire. And all I feel is the absence of lives that it brought. The multitudes who suffered and died. The further into this dark history I have gone the more horrified and haunted I have become. That is why this study now exists and why it is so important that you read it.

When the world one loves is seen to be dying, the viewer dies a little with it. A great American painter, Reginald Marsh, exemplifies this truism. Every day until his death at the age of 56, he sketched and painted the most earthy, sweaty and lusty examples of humanity he could lay his eyes upon. His productive voyeurism led him through the entire spectrum of cheap cafes, carnivals, amusement parks, skid rows, exclusive clubs, opera openings, coming-out parties and everything in-between. His super-realistic canvases were jammed with the kind of people he loved to watch in the environments he loved to haunt. As his closing years approached, Reginald Marsh grew depressed at the changing scene. New styles were emerging and it now became more difficult to immerse himself in the vistas from which he had so long drawn, both in his paintings and life itself. His canvases of lumpy women and pot-bellied men were too unappealing for the “think thin” era of the 1950s, and his floozies violated the then-current Grace Kelly/Ivory Soap look. His disdain for modern masters (“Matisse draws like a three-year-old, “Picasso ... a false front”) became exemplified as he summed up modern art as “high and pure and sterile — no sex, no drink, no muscles.” Marsh’s “out of date” feeling reached its zenith when he was asked to take part in an art symposium. The first speaker, who was a then-popular New York painter, enthusiastically championed current trends. Then followed a professor who advocated new and dynamic experimentation in visual appeal. At last it was Reginald Marsh’s turn to speak. He stood on the platform for a moment, as if trying to collect his thoughts. A sad look of resignation appeared in his eyes as he gazed down at the audience. The talented watcher of his innermost secret lusts and life-giving scintillations declared softly, “I am not a man of this century,” and sat down. He died shortly thereafter.

Let’s understand “you” and “your mind” as separate with the help of one example. Understanding this difference is so fundamental for hacking your mind, but it is entirely missing in our everyday lives. Sir John Hargrave, an entrepreneur, comedian, and author of the book Mind Hacking: How to Change Your Life in 21 Days, compares your mind with a movie. Assume you are watching a movie—a very engaging one—and you are completely immersed in the movie. It might happen that for few moments you will feel as if you are part of the movie. Maybe you’ll find yourself crying watching some sad scene in the movie or maybe you get spooked by watching some gory scenes there. But in reality, it’s you who is watching the movie being displayed only on the screen.