In The Depths Of Your Despair Quotes

You're not eating anything," said Marilla sharply, eying her as if it were a serious shortcoming. Anne sighed. I can't. I'm in the depths of despair. Can you eat when you are in the depths of despair?" I've never been in the depths of despair, so I can't say," responded Marilla. Weren't you? Well, did you ever try to IMAGINE you were in the depths of despair?" No, I didn't." Then I don't think you can understand what it's like. It's very uncomfortable a feeling indeed.

Tova knew there was a bottom to those depths of despair. Once your soul was soaked through with grief, any more simply ran off, overflowed, the way maple syrup on Saturday morning pancakes always cascaded onto the table whenever Erik was allowed to pour it on himself.

Tova wonders sometimes if it’s better that way, to have one’s tragedies clustered together, to make good use of the existing rawness. Get it over with in one shot. Tova knew there was a bottom to those depths of despair. Once your soul was soaked though with grief, any more simply ran off, overflowed, the way maple syrup on Saturday-morning pancakes always cascaded onto the table whenever Erik was allowed to pour it himself.

There are those among you who, although young, have already suffered a full measure of grief and sorrow. My heart is filled with compassion and love for you. How dear you are to the Church. How beloved you are of your Heavenly Father. Though it may seem that you are alone, angels attend you. Though you may feel that no one can understand the depth of your despair, our Savior, Jesus Christ, understands. He suffered more than we can possibly imagine, and He did it for us; He did it for you. You are not alone.

What is your name?' she asked. The youth ignored her, lowering his eyelids against the sun. She repeated her question. Again he ignored her, so she touched his arm, and he turned his head and looked at her, suddenly back from his own world, his eyes wary, half afraid. But he saw no anger in her; only the stains of tears, and an awful despair. His face changed, and a look of profound sorrow and compassion came over him. Very slowly he lifted his hand and wiped the tears from her cheeks. No other man could have touched her that morning; but the mad youth, with his extraordinary tenderness, gave such a depth of consolation that she found herself leaning her cheek against his hand, and sobbing. He wept with her, and there wove between them an understanding, a unity deep and poignant and powerful.

Height is important. But so is depth. You have to hit your bottom. You have to go down until you can't go lower, until you feel as if you'll suffocate from your despair. Then, you have to escape from it. What is crucial is to discover your driving force. In other words, you have to find what makes you stand firm again. Once you find it, don't ever let go. It can be a person or a desire. It can be evil and disgusting. But stick to it.

Go on philosophers--teach, enlighten, kindle, think aloud, speak up, run joyfully toward broad daylight, fraternize in the public squares, announce the glad tidings, lavish your alphabets, proclaim human rights, sing your Marseillaises, sow enthusiasms, tear off green branches from the oak trees. Make thought a whirlwind. This multitude can be sublimated. Let us learn to avail ourselves of this vast conflagration of principles and virtues, which occasionally sparkles, bursts, and shudders. These bare feet, these naked arms, these rags, these shades of ignorance, depths of despair, the gloom can be used for the conquest of the ideal. Look through the medium of the people, and you will discern the truth. This lowly sand that you trample underfoot, if you throw it into a furnace and let it melt and seethe, will become sparkling crystal; and thanks to such as this a Galileo and a Newton will discover the stars.

Sometimes when your world crashes down from above and you think there's no way to claw yourself out of the rubble of your life, a hand reaches for you. Finds you. Drags you from the depths of despair and refuses to let you go.

I am sitting down to write in a state of some confusion; I have been reading a lot of different things that are merging into one another, and if one hopes to find a solution for oneself by this kind of reading, one is mistaken; one comes up against a wall, and cannot proceed. Your life is so very different, dearest. Except in relation to your fellow men, have you ever known uncertainty? Have you ever observed how, within yourself and independent of other people, diverse possibilities open up in several directions, thereby actually creating a ban on your every movement? Have you ever, without giving the slightest thought to anyone else, been in despair simply about yourself? Desperate enough to throw yourself on the ground and remain there beyond the Day of Judgment? How devout are you? You go to the synagogue; but I dare say you have not been recently. And what is it that sustains you, the idea of Judaism or of God? Are you aware, and this is the most important thing, of a continuous relationship between yourself and a reassuringly distant, if possibly infinite height or depth? He who feels this continuously has no need to roam about like a lost dog, mutely gazing around with imploring eyes; he never need yearn to slip into a grave as if it were a warm sleeping bag and life a cold winter night; and when climbing the stairs to his office he never need imagine that he is careering down the well of the staircase, flickering in the uncertain light, twisting from the speed of his fall, shaking his head with impatience. There are times, dearest, when I am convinced I am unfit for any human relationship.

Creators understand that their emotions are not necessarily a sign of the circumstances. They understand that in desperate circumstances they may experience joy, and in jubilant circumstances they may feel regret. They know that any emotion will change. But because emotions are not the centerpiece of their lives, they do not pander to them. They create what they create, not in reaction to their emotions but independent of them. On days filled with the depths of despair, they can create. On days filled with the heights of joy, they can create.

Don't you recognize me?' 'No.' 'Eponine.' Marius bent hastily forward and saw that it was indeed that unhappy girl, clad in a man's clothes. 'How do you come to be here? What are you doing?' 'I'm dying,' she said. There are words and happenings which arouse even souls in the depths of despair. Marius cried, as though starting out of sleep: 'You're wounded! I'll carry you into the tavern. They'll dress your wound. Is it very bad? How am I to lift you without hurting you? Help, someone! But what are you doing here?' He tried to get an arm underneath her to raise her up, and in doing so touched her hand. She uttered a weak cry. 'Did I hurt you?' 'A little.' 'But I only touched your hand.' She lifted her hand for him to see, and he saw a hole in the centre of the palm. 'What happened?' he asked. 'A bullet went through it.' 'A bullet? But how?' 'Don't you remember a musket being aimed at you?' 'Yes, and a hand was clapped over it.' 'That was mine.' Marius shuddered. 'What madness! Your poor child! Still, if that's all, it might be worse. I'll get you to a bed and they'll bind you up. One doesn't die of a wounded hand.' She murmured: 'The ball passed through my hand, but it came out through my back. It's no use trying to move me. I'll tell you how you can treat my wound better than any surgeon. Sit down on that stone, close beside me.' Marius did so. She rested her head on his knee and said without looking at him: 'Oh, what happiness! What bliss! Now I don't feel any pain.

What if a man could write everything that came into his mind. You could find there gems of wisdom, depth of utter despair, heights of the most cherished hopes, killing fields where we slaughter our enemies, moments of faith and moments of doubts, dark chambers where we commit infidelity against our partners, counting the goods we have stolen, hell nightmares, heaven blessedness, cursing of our enemies and blessing of our friends, and many other things. If one could write his mind, it would be a mirror to other minds where they could find themselves and not feel as the only wretched souls in existence. Go on then, write your mind in a book and publish it

Tova wonders sometimes if it’s better that way, to have one’s tragedies clustered together, to make good use of the existing rawness. Get it over with in one shot. Tova knew there was a bottom to those depths of despair. Once your soul was soaked though with grief, any more simply ran off, overflowed,

I hate you. I hate you waking and sleeping; I hate you for undoing men’s souls, and for spoiling their lives; I hate you as the sworn enemy of the laughter of men.... Oh, it is God’s deadly enemy which I see, and hate, in you. In every one of your speeches you make a mockery of the Spirit, which you have silenced, and you forget that the private thought, the thought born in sorrow and loneliness, can be more deadly than all your implements of torture. You threaten all who oppose you with death, but you forget: our hatred is a deadly poison. It will creep into your blood, and we will die shouting with joy when our hate pulls you down with us into the depths.

The strength of your mind determines the depth of your desperation! The weaker the mind, the deeper the desperation!

Ever since that troublemaker Eve handed that gullible Adam the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, they say, human beings have been continuously messing up and suffering the consequences. But in the depths of your darkest despair your Beloved calls to you: "Look," he says, and opens the fathomless beautiful wound of his heart so that you can peer inside. All creation is nestled there, bathed in beauty. "Do you see any sin here?" he asks. "Do you detect a shred of retribution?" You do not. All you perceive, from horizon to endless horizon, is love.

It takes courage and strength to be sensitive to things and even more strength and courage to own up to it or be vocal about it. Robots, the only things with a perfect lack of emotional capacity, are easily controlled, and I suddenly realized that’s why the military often trains people to suppress their emotions. Unfortunately for them, humans aren't machines. We feel, we love, we cry, we despair, and we rejoice. Anyone who’s ever tried to convince me not to feel is someone I shouldn’t have trusted. The only reason you should shut off your emotions and emulate a robot is if you're doing horrible things. How fatal my decisions have been. How many people would be loving, rejoicing, and feeling right now rather than crying indefinitely in the depths of the afterlife? If only I’d figured this out sooner.

Butterfly There is beauty both inside and outside of the cocoon that pushed you to grow Through darkness and dysfunction, depth and despair A vivid light splits through and steals you away When you get comfortable with your own messy and beautiful self Nothing and no-one can block you You finally see your truth You fall in line with the beat of your own vibration You come out of your cocoon A gorgeous butterfly

Being truly beautiful is when you’ve known suffering, fought demons at the depths of despair and managed to claw your way out. Managed to smile again. Managed to laugh, to live, to love. That’s eternal. That’s you.

You can turn your hand to anything, you clever girl, so do come and give me some advice, for I am in the depths of despair," said Fanny, when the "maid-of-all-work," as Polly called herself, found a leisure hour. "What is it? Moths in the furs, a smokey chimney, or small-pox next door?" asked Polly as they entered Fan's room, where Maud was trying on old bonnets before the looking glass. "Actually I have nothing to wear," began Fan impressively.

Tova knew there was a bottom to those depths of despair. Once your soul was soaked though with grief, any more simply ran off, overflowed, the way maple syrup on Saturday-morning pancakes always cascaded onto the table whenever Erik was allowed to pour it himself.

Kenneth Tynan once said that the only people who can do Russian drama, outside of the Russians themselves, are the Irish. I presume that's because we are somewhat manic in the mood department. It's no bother to soar from the darkest depths to the mountaintops of delight, with the heart borne by all of that which is alive and singing. It's even less bother to swan-dive into the pits of despair and total hopelessness, with the realization that it's no use being Irish unless you know the world is eventually going to break your heart.

It was one of the letters that described something Jessica remembered and that the others instantly recognized as well. It talked about the extraordinary speed with which the feeling that life had no meaning could disappear on certain occasions and everything become normal again—for a while at least. How one day you could be in the depths of despair and the next you could wake up feeling... okay. How little things like something someone said, or a scene from a film, or even a piece of music could change your mood in the blink of an eye. An how, when you were in one mood, the other seemed so silly.

You see that God deems it right to take from me any claim to merit for what you call my devotion to you. I have promised to remain forever with you, and now I could not break my promise if I would. The treasure will be no more mine than yours, and neither of us will quit this prison. But my real treasure is not that, my dear friend, which awaits me beneath the somber rocks of Monte Cristo, it is your presence, our living together five or six hours a day, in spite of our jailers; it is the rays of intelligence you have elicited from my brain, the languages you have implanted in my memory, and which have taken root there with all of their philological ramifications. These different sciences that you have made so easy to me by the depth of the knowledge you possess of them, and the clearness of the principles to which you have reduced them – this is my treasure, my beloved friend, and with this you have made me rich and happy. Believe me, and take comfort, this is better for me than tons of gold and cases of diamonds, even were they not as problematical as the clouds we see in the morning floating over the sea, which we take for terra firma, and which evaporate and vanish as we draw near to them. To have you as long as possible near me, to hear your eloquent speech, -- which embellishes my mind, strengthens my soul, and makes my whole frame capable of great and terrible things, if I should ever be free, -- so fills my whole existence, that the despair to which I was just on the point of yielding when I knew you, has no longer any hold over me; this – this is my fortune – not chimerical, but actual. I owe you my real good, my present happiness; and all the sovereigns of the earth, even Caesar Borgia himself, could not deprive me of this.

I have hated you in every hour that has gone by, I hate you so that I would happily give my life for your death, and happily go to my own doom if only I could witness yours, take you with me into the depths. When I let this hate free, I am almost overcome by it, but I cannot change this and do not really know how it could be otherwise. Let no one deprecate this, nor fool himself about the power of such hatred. Hate drives to reality. Hate is the father of the action. The way out of our defiled and desecrated house is through the command to hate Satan. Only so will be earn the right to search in the darkness for the way of love. In our hatred, we are like bees who must pay with their lives for the use of their stingers.

XVI. In My Sky At Twilight" In my sky at twilight you are like a cloud and your form and colour are the way I love them. You are mine, mine, woman with sweet lips and in your life my infinite dreams live. The lamp of my soul dyes your feet, My sour wine is sweeter on your lips, oh reaper of my evening song, how solitary dreams believe you to be mine! You are mine, mine, I go shouting it to the afternoon's wind, and the wind hauls on my widowed voice. Huntress of the depths of my eyes, your plunder stills your nocturnal regard as though it were water. You are taken in the net of my music, my love, and my nets of music are as wide as the sky. My soul is born on the shore of your eyes of mourning. In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begin

When hope crashes, almost immediately, a future smashes into smithereens- into a thousand broken mirror pieces, while you're left with your pallid, hopeless eyes staring back at you. You hear no sound as the tiny splinters fall into the soulless depths of despair. Somewhere so deep, a chasm akin to a black-hole, that nothing that goes in can ever be brought back. Not even your dreams. Or hopes.

So meditation implies a life of great order and, therefore, great virtue, morality. And it implies the understanding and the depth of beauty. And it implies the emptying of that consciousness which is you, with all your attachments, fears, hopes, despairs, the emptying of all that by observing. Then you have energy which alone can discover that which is eternal, which has no beginning and no ending.

But my real treasure is not that, my dear friend, which awaits me beneath the sombre rocks of Monte Cristo, it is your presence, our living together five or six hours a day, in spite of our jailers; it is the rays of intelligence you have elicited from my brain, the languages you have implanted in my memory, and which have taken root there with all their philological ramifications. These different sciences that you have made so easy to me by the depth of the knowledge you possess of them, and the clearness of the principles to which you have reduced them—this is my treasure, my beloved friend, and with this you have made me rich and happy. Believe me, and take comfort, this is better for me than tons of gold and cases of diamonds, even were they not as problematical as the clouds we see in the morning floating over the sea, which we take for terra firma, and which evaporate and vanish as we draw near to them. To have you as long as possible near me, to hear your eloquent speech,—which embellishes my mind, strengthens my soul, and makes my whole frame capable of great and terrible things, if I should ever be free,—so fills my whole existence, that the despair to which I was just on the point of yielding when I knew you, has no longer any hold over me; and this—this is my fortune—not chimerical, but actual. I owe you my real good, my present happiness; and all the sovereigns of the earth, even Caesar Borgia himself, could not deprive me of this.

You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers. Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again. Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting— over and over announcing your place in the family of things. Mary Oliver,

Very often we do not find sufficient intensity in our prayer, sufficient conviction, sufficient faith, because our despair is not deep enough. We want God in addition to so many other things we have, we want His help, but simultaneously we are trying to get help wherever we can, and we keep God in store for our last push. We address ourselves to the princes and the sons of men, and we say "O God, give them strength to do it for me." Very seldom do we turn away from the princes and sons of men and say "I will not ask anyone for help, I would rather have Your help." If our despair comes from sufficient depth, if what we ask for, cry for, is so essential that it sums up all the needs of our life, then we find words of prayer and we will be able to reach the core of the prayer, the meeting with God.

… Where are the ways through black wastes? God, do not abandon us! What are you summoning, God? Raise your hand up to the darkness above you, pray, despair, wring your hands, kneel, press your forehead into the dust, cry out, but do not name Him, do not look at Him. Leave Him without name and form. What should form the formless? Name the nameless? Step onto the great way and grasp what is nearest. Do not look out, do not want, but lift up your hands. The gifts of darkness are full of riddles. The way is open to whomever can continue in spite of riddles. Submit to the riddles and the thoroughly incomprehensible. There are dizzying bridges over the eternally deep abyss. But follow the riddles. Endure them, the terrible ones. It is still dark, and the terrible goes on growing. Lost and swallowed by the streams of procreating life, we approach the overpowering, inhuman forces that are busily creating what is to come. How much future the depths carry! Are not the threads spun down there over millennia? Protect the riddles, bear them in your heart, warm them, be pregnant with them. Thus you carry the future. The tension of the future is unbearable in us. It must break through the narrow cracks, it must force new ways. You want to cast off the burden, you want to escape the inescapable. Running away is deception and detour. Shut your eyes so that you do not see the manifold, the outwardly plural, the tearing away and the tempting. There is only way and that is your way; there is only one salvation and that is your salvation. Why are you looking around for help? Do you believe that help will come from outside? What is to come will be created in you and from you. Hence look into yourself. Do not compare, do not measure. No other way is like yours. All other ways deceive and tempt you. You must fulfil the way that is in you. Oh, that all men and all their ways become strange to you! Thus might you find them again within yourself and recognize their ways. But what weakness! What doubt! What fear! You will not bear going your way. You always want to have at least one foot on paths not your own to avoid the great solitude! So that maternal comfort is always with you! So that someone acknowledges you, recognizes you, bestows trust in you, comforts you, encourages you. So that someone pulls you over onto their path, where you stray from yourself, and where it is easier for you to set yourself aside. As if you were not yourself! Who should accomplish your deeds? Who should carry your virtues and your vices? You do not come to an end with your life, and the dead will besiege you terribly to live your unlived life. Everything must be fulfilled. Time is of the essence, so why do you want to pile up the lived and let the unlived rot?

As a drop in the ocean you take part in the current, ebb and flow. You swell slowly on the land and slowly sink back again in interminably slow breaths. You wander vast distances in blurred currents and wash up on strange shores, not knowing how you got there. You mount the billows of huge storms and are swept back again into the depths. And you do not know how this happens to you. You had thought that your movement came from you and that it needed your decisions and efforts, so that you could get going and make progress. But with every conceivable effort you would never have achieved that movement and reached those areas to which the sea and the great wind of the world brought you. From endless blue plains you sink into black depths; luminous fish draw you, marvellous branches twine around you from above. You slip through columns and twisting, wavering, dark-leaved plants, and the sea takes you up again in bright green water to white, sandy coasts, and a wave foams you ashore and swallows you back again, and a wide smooth swell lifts you softly and leads you again to new regions, to twisting plants, to slowly creeping slimy polyps, and to green water and white sand and breaking surf. But from far off your heights shine to you above the sea in a golden light, like the moon emerging from the tide, and you become aware of yourself from afar. And longing seizes you and the will for your own movement. You want to cross over from being to becoming, since you have recognized the breath of the sea, and its flowing, that leads you here and there without your ever adhering; you have also recognized its surge that bears you to alien shores and carries you back, and gargles you up and down. You saw that was the life of the whole and the death of each individual. You felt yourself entwined in the collective death, from death to the earth’s deepest place, from death in your own strangely breathing depths. Oh – you long to be beyond; despair and mortal fear seize you in this death that breathes slowly and streams back and forth eternally. All this light and dark, warm, tepid, and cold water, all these wavy, swaying, twisting plantlike animals and bestial plants, all these nightly wonders become a horror to you, and you long for the sun, for light dry air, for firm stones, for a fixed place and straight lines, for the motionless and firmly held, for rules and preconceived purpose, for singleness and your own intent.

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

Peace is a process, not a shot clock with seconds ticking away and a buzzer at the finish. It's the result of many decisions, not just one. Don't expect otherwise, and don't fail to recognize how far you've risen from the depths of your despair.

Sonnet Macabre" I love you for the grief that lurks within Your languid spirit, and because you wear Corruption with a vague and childish air, And with your beauty know the depths of sin; Because shame cuts and holds you like a gin, And virtue dies in you slain by despair, Since evil has you tangled in its snare And triumphs on the soul good cannot win. I love you since you know remorse and tears, And in your troubled loveliness appears The spot of ancient crimes that writhe and hiss: I love you for your hands that calm and bless, The perfume of your sad and slow caress, The avid poison of your subtle kiss.

All these depths of despair, all this dizziness, all these lines of code you toy with on the metro and toss out like so much old shit as soon as “it” doesn’t hold your attention anymore. All these distractions that distract you from yourself, which have made you lose the habit of thinking about yourself, dreaming about yourself, to talk with the deepest part of yourself, to get to know yourself or recognize yourself, to look at other people, to smile at strangers, to make eye contact, to flirt, to make out, and even to fuck - but which give you the illusion of being, of embracing the whole world.

Love is not something that becomes your weakness, love is something that becomes your strength. It is the process of purification, love does exist in responsibilities of taking care of each-other's character, it protects you from the evil eyes, wrong hands & from the wrong track. it's the process of getting the most valuable strength by falling in it so deeply that you stay focused and immersed in your beloved ones soul because without falling into the depth of love, despair, depression or any form of emotion, we cannot rise or reemerge. Reaching in its depth where you see the light of the truth of this universe which becomes the ultimate rise for you if you understand and follow your heart, which becomes the reason that you live an eternal life even after your death on planet earth, you win the hearts of lovers and show them the sacred path. Most of all it keep the society pure and blessed. So, let’s not break the eternal laws, let’s bring the Law of faithfulness in our society by playing our role. So "Let's not just fall in love, let's rise in love

Love and Friendship, when you have them or lose them they are much like the Greek story of Icarus... You can make you feel like you're soaring above the clouds with happiness when you have them or feel like you are plummeting to the depths of hell with despair when you lose them.

He loved her, he knew that now. 'That' was what that longing, this never-ending want was. How she believed in him- despite all that had happened, despite all that he was- he did not know, but he was grateful. He angled his head, taking her sweet lips with his, drinking her succor, her faith in him. She was his light, his hope, guiding the way out of the depths of his Stygian despair. "Iris," he murmured against her wet lips, "my radiant wife, my love, my life. I promise I will try to live up to your belief in me. I do not think I can do otherwise, for I would repine and die were I to leave you. I would be blind and alone, howling in the darkness. I would go mad without you." He captured her mouth again, forcing her lips open, sliding his tongue into her, claiming her as his own. Dark to light.

~Can You?~ In the depths of despair, I cry out. Do You see me here? In the puddles of tears, I die inside. Do You know I’m still alive? In the chair or prosecution, I am beaten. Do You see the blood on my hands? In the shadowlands of fear, I am lifeless. Do You still have faith in me? In the end of time, I fall on my face. Do You see me weeping? In the hurting eyes of others, I am heartless. Can You heal me? In the face of evil, I laugh. Can You protect me? In the church, I feel Your Presence, I’ve forgotten how to respond. Can You teach me? In the fields of battle, I long for a shot, To wake me up. Can I start again? When I look in the mirror, I see eyes, Bolted up and locked with pride. Can You soften my heart? Can You give me hope? Can You help me believe in myself? Can You?

Tova wonders sometimes if it’s better that way, to have one’s tragedies clustered together, to make good use of the existing rawness. Get it over with in one shot. Tova knew there was a bottom to those depths of despair. Once your soul was soaked through with grief, any more simply ran off, overflowed, the way maple syrup on Saturday-morning pancakes always cascaded onto the table whenever Erik was allowed to pour it himself

Tova wonders sometimes if it’s better that way, to have one’s tragedies clustered together, to make good use of the existing rawness. Get it over with in one shot. Tova knew there was a bottom to those depths of despair. Once your soul was soaked through with grief, any more simply ran off, overflowed, the way maple syrup on Saturday

That hard sadness when the blue sky turns colorless in the forbidding dark of despair and I struggle like a robin nibbling at your depths to feel the fullness of poetry and all that is tender and sweet for I explode inside to be that drunken soul of summer and impossible dreams that lies deep inside my wellspring where the weeds turn to flowers and moors become mystical forests. Oh, how spring has awakened in my deeps as I desire to be all those things again--the youthful, hopeful, aroused wholeness again. So I can deliver myself to this world, enchanted in my depths.

In my sky at twilight you are like a cloud and your form and colour are the way I love them. You are mine, mine, woman with sweet lips and in your life my infinite dreams live. The lamp of my soul dyes your feet, the sour wine is sweeter on your lips, oh reaper of my evening song, how solitary dreams believe you to be mine! You are mine, mine, I go shouting it to the afternoon's wind, and the wind hauls on my widowed voice. Huntress of the depth of my eyes, your plunder stills your nocturnal regard as though it were water. You are taken in the net of my music, my love, and my nets of music are wide as the sky. My soul is born on the shore of your eyes of mourning. In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begin.

From the depths of your despair your unspoken prayer was heard.

peace is a process, not a shot clock with seconds ticking away and a buzzer at the finish. It’s the result of many decisions, not just one. Don’t expect otherwise, and don’t fail to recognize how far you’ve risen from the depths of your despair.

The destruction of Jerusalem serves as the apex of suffering for God’s people. The last stronghold for a formerly great nation fell, inaugurating the exilic period for God’s people. When this tragedy occurs, the people of God tumble to the depth of despair. In Jeremiah 29, we are given a glimpse of two possible responses to the national tragedy of exile. On the one hand, God’s people were tempted to withdraw from the world. On the other, they were tempted to return to their idolatrous ways. Lamentations 1:1-3 reminds us of the tragic set of circumstances that confronts God’s people. They have fallen from the heights. A vibrant city filled with people now lies deserted. A noble queen has now become a slave (v. 1). How will the people of God respond to this tragedy? Although the proper response to the historical reality of this text is the lament offered in Lamentations, Jeremiah 29 presents two unacceptable options available to God’s people sent away into exile. Jeremiah responds to the situation described in Lamentations 1:1-3 by sending a letter “from Jerusalem to the surviving elders among the exiles and to the priests, the prophets and all the other people Nebuchadnezzar had carried into exile from Jerusalem to Babylon” (Jer 29:1). Jeremiah 29:4-7 reveals YHWH’s command for the exiles when they are tempted to withdraw from the world: This is what the LORD Almighty, the God of Israel, says to all those I carried into exile from Jerusalem to Babylon: “Build houses and settle down; plant gardens and eat what they produce. Marry and have sons and daughters; find wives for your sons and give your daughters in marriage, so that they too may have sons and daughters. Increase in number there; do not decrease. Also, seek the peace and prosperity of the city to which I have carried you into exile. Pray to the LORD for it, because if it prospers, you too will prosper.

My Promise lives within each of you for you are the hope of all who seek light from within the darkness. No matter the misery of those who have given themselves over to evil, the fate of each man in his own hands: divergence from the path of Righteousness comes in many forms but the price of my eternal Peace is paid in compassion and humility. It is upon your Faith that wickedness will be vanquished, and suffering expelled eternally into the depths of the Pit so that all who seek it may dwell eternally in my House. Despair not of what is to come for your place is forever at my table.

They’ve gone, love. Stay a moment more. There’s nothing to be gained by haste at this point, and we need to sort this out before we face your family.” Love? Now he called her love? “Let me go. I can’t breathe…” She tried to wrestle free, but he had his hand on the back of her head, his arm around her back. Out in the hallway, the front door didn’t close; it banged shut with the impact of a rifle shot ricocheting through the house… and through the rest of Eve’s blighted, miserable life. “Mama slammed that door, Lucas Denning. Her Grace, the Duchess of Moreland, slammed a door, because of me, because of my stupid, selfish, useless, greedy, stupid, asinine…” There were not words to describe the depth of the betrayal she’d just handed her family. She collapsed against Deene’s chest, misery a dry, scraping ache in her throat. “Eve, many couples anticipate their vows, even a few couples closely associated with the Duchess of Moreland.” The reason in his voice had her hands balling to fists. “I will not marry you.” She could not, not him of all men. That signal fact gave her scattering wits a rallying point. Deene did not argue. When an argument was imperative, he did not argue. His hand stroked slowly over her hair, and as the fighting instinct coursing through Eve’s body struggled to stand against a swamping despair, some part of Eve’s brain made a curious observation: Deene was breathing in a slow, unhurried rhythm, and as a function of the intimacy of their posture, Eve was breathing in counterpoint to him. The same easy, almost restful tempo, but her exhale matched his inhale. “We cannot marry, Deene. I won’t have it. A white marriage was as far as I was willing to go, and then only to the right sort of man, a man who would never seek to… impose conjugal duties on me.” His arms fell away, when Eve would very much have liked them to stay around her. Better he not see her face, better she not have to see his lovely blue eyes going chill and distant. “We need to set you to rights.” His hands on her shirt were deft and impersonal, his fingers barely touching her skin. The detachment in his touch was probably meant to be a kindness, but it… hurt. “Lucas, I cannot think.” “We’ll think this through together. I can guarantee you not a soul will be coming through that door until we decide to pass through it ourselves.” “I hate that you can be so calm.” And—worst

You have behaved admirably.  You have nothing to be ashamed about." "Nothing to be ashamed about?"  He laughed without humor.  "I deserve what Juliet has done.  She deserves a better man than me." "You're a wonderful man, Charles, and one that will make some lucky girl very, very happy!" "I am unfaithful, in thought if not in deed." "Charles!" "It is true.  Since the eighteenth of April, I have been pledged to Juliet, but do you know, Amy, how often my traitorous thoughts have turned to you instead of her while I lay awake — let alone asleep — in the middle of the night?  Do you know how I've longed for the sound of your voice, the touch of your hand, the cheerfulness of your spirit when mine could do nothing but dwell in the darkest depths of despair?"  He pressed his fingertips to his brow in a gesture of defeat and despair.  "No.  You cannot know.  And you cannot know how very frustrated I have been, at my inability to turn my thoughts, and the baser part of my nature, toward she whom I should have been thinking about, instead of you whom I was helpless to stop thinking about." "That doesn't mean you were unfaithful.  Of course you'd be thinking about me.  I've been your eyes, your confidant, your closest friend for the past two months." "Amy.  Dearest Amy.  Only I know the secrets of my heart.  And in my heart, I have been unfaithful, for I have thought of you as more than a friend."  He shut his eyes.  "Much more than a friend." Amy,

Tova wonders sometimes if it's better that way, to have one's tragedies clustered together, to make good use of the existing rawness. Get it over with in one shot. Tova knew there was a bottom to those depths of despair. Once your soul was soaked through with grief, any more simply ran off, overflowed, the way maple syrup on Saturday-morning pancakes always cascaded onto the table whenever Erik was allowed to pour it himself.

Tova wonders sometimes if it's better that way, to have one's tragedies clustered together, to make good use of the existing rawness. Get it over with in one shot. Tova knew there was a bottom to those depths of despair. Once your soul was soaked through with grief, any more simply ran off, overflowed, the way maple syrup on Saturday morning pancakes always cascaded onto the table.

The Composition of Death Upon Your Breath" About the Song: The Composition of Death Upon Your Breath delves into the dark and haunting theme of a lover poisoned by a sinister concoction found in the medieval Grand Grimoire. The song narrates the tragic tale of love tainted by the cruel hand of death, where a forbidden potion is meticulously prepared with arcane ingredients. The song's lyrics evoke a gothic atmosphere, intertwining elements of medieval alchemy and romantic tragedy. The potion's ingredients—Red Copper, Nitric Acid, Verdigris, Arsenic, Oak Bark, Rose Water, and Black Soot—are transformed into metaphors for the slow, inevitable demise of the lover. This deadly recipe becomes a symbol of both the destructive power and the twisted beauty of forbidden love. The music captures the essence of gothic black metal with its somber melodies, eerie harmonies, and intense, brooding instrumentals. Each note and lyric serve to illustrate the dark journey of love poisoned by betrayal and malice. The song's atmosphere is thick with melancholy and dread, inviting listeners into a world where passion and death intertwine in a tragic dance. Copyright Notice: The Composition of Death Upon Your Breath © 2024 Umbrae Sortilegium. All rights reserved. Unauthorized copying, reproduction, or distribution of this song or its lyrics is prohibited. The Composition of Death Upon Your Breath. (Verse 1) In an ancient tome of shadowed lore, A secret poison to settle the score, A lover’s whisper, a deadly art, The composition to tear us apart. (Pre-Chorus) Red copper gleaming, nitric acid's burn, Verdigris and arsenic, from which there’s no return, Oak bark and rose water, a fatal serenade, Black soot to bind it, in darkness, it’s made. (Chorus) The composition of death upon your breath, A kiss that leads to the silent depths, In your arms, I fall to eternal rest, Poisoned by the love that you professed. (Verse 2) A new, glazed pot, the spell's design, A potion brewed, in shadows confined, Your lips, a chalice of cold despair, In each embrace, a whispered prayer. (Pre-Chorus) Red copper gleaming, nitric acid's burn, Verdigris and arsenic, from which there’s no return, Oak bark and rose water, a fatal serenade, Black soot to bind it, in darkness, it’s made. (Chorus) The composition of death upon your breath, A kiss that leads to the silent depths, In your arms, I fall to eternal rest, Poisoned by the love that you professed. (Bridge) In your gaze, the twilight's fall, A lover's kiss, the end of all, The Grand Grimoire, its secrets told, In every kiss, the poison’s cold. (Breakdown) A potion brewed from darkest sin, Your breath the gateway, let death begin, A recipe of doom, our fates entwined, In your arms, I lose my mind. (Chorus) The composition of death upon your breath, A kiss that leads to the silent depths, In your arms, I fall to eternal rest, Poisoned by the love that you professed. (Outro) The final breath, a lover's sigh, In your arms, I’m doomed to die, The composition, a lover’s theft, Death upon your breath, my final bequest. Lyrics and ALL Vocals yours truly. Lead Guitar & Symphonics Raz Wolfgang Drums Alexander Novichkov Bass Auron Nightshade Guitarist Kael Thornfield

Huntress of the depths of my eyes, your plunder stills your nocturnal regard as though it were water.

Go into the depths of your longing. Let it fill you with awe and tear you apart with terror for beauty comes with fright as light with darkness, drought with rain. This is the grand, sublime, powerful force of life where dreams and despair coexist filling life with aliveness and meaning, youth and ripeness. It is then that beauty and terror interplay to transcend life's storms, pulling into light something so utterly beautiful...

The more I tune in to the source of my own being (and every religion I’ve studied has helped me find ways), the more anger, sorrow, and fear seem confined to the shallows of my personality, while my true self—and yours, and that of every being—is like a sea whose depths are always tranquil, however troubled the surface may become. Pain reminds me to return to the deep, calm, gentle sea, so that I find myself crying because I’m happy, and because I’m sad, but never because I’m in despair. Once you’re sure that God is waiting in the acceptance of every true thing, even pain, I’m not sure despair is even possible.

Tova wonders sometimes if it’s better that way, to have one’s tragedies clustered together, to make good use of the existing rawness. Get it over with in one shot. Tova knew there was a bottom to those depths of despair. Once your soul was soaked through with grief, any more simply ran off, overflowed, the way maple syrup on Saturday-morning pancakes always cascaded onto the table whenever Erik was allowed to pour it himself.

Perception is a powerful thing. It can make us feel like we're flying on wings. Or it can bring us down, to the depths of despair, making us feel like we're going nowhere.

Caroline Myss I need you to be fully present and appreciate all that is in your life right now. No matter where it is. You are in the depths of despair, and still I need to say to you, you had your life focused on something that didn’t belong to you and a path that didn’t belong to you. Yes, you did, or you wouldn’t be here. You locked in on something that did not belong to you. Someone that didn’t belong to you. You didn’t let go of a yesterday that didn’t belong to you. You hung on to a rage that did belong to you and you wouldn’t let it go. You lost track of being here, and that is true, or this is what you did. One of those things happened, and you said, “It shouldn’t have happened to me.” I promise you that happened. When someone finally said, “It’s not my life. I don’t know how I lost my purpose.” No, you didn’t. You did not lose your purpose. What you lost was the sense that you thought certain things shouldn’t happen to you and they did. As if you were excluded from the ordinary everyday things of life and you can’t get over it. People hold the idea of being ordinary in absolute contempt. “Please, God, make me anything, but not ordinary.” And because they do that, they feel like they should be protected from ordinary things. So when something happens like an illness, poverty, any kind of catastrophe, they think, I can’t believe this happened to me.

I : Body of a Woman" Body of a woman, white hills, white thighs, you look like a world, lying in surrender My rough peasant's body digs into you and makes the son leap from the depth of the earth. I was alone like a tunnel. The birds fled from me, and night swamped me with its crushing invasion. To survive myself I forged you like a weapon, like an arrow in my bow, a stone in my sling. But the hour of vengeance falls, and a love you. Body of skin, of moss, of eager and firm milk. Oh the goblets of the breast! Oh the eyes of absence! Oh the pink roses of the pubis! Oh your voice, slow and sad! Body of my woman, I will persist in your grace. My thirst, my boundless desire, my shifting road! Dark River-beds where the eternal thirst flows and weariness follows, and the infinite ache.

The Threadballs (on the ground) We are thoughts; You should have thought us; Little feet, to life You should have brought us! We should have risen With glorious sound; But here like threadballs We are earth‑bound. Withered Leaves We are a watchword; You should have used us! Life, by your sloth, Has been refused us. By worms we’re eaten All up and down; No fruit will have us For spreading crown. A Sighing in the Air We are songs; You should have sung us! In the depths of your heart Despair has wrung us! We lay and waited; You called us not. May your throat and voice With poison rot! Dewdrops We are tears Which were never shed. The cutting ice Which all hearts dread We could have melted; But now its dart Is frozen into A stubborn heart. The wound is closed; Our power is lost. Broken Straws We are deeds You have left undone; Strangled by doubt, Spoiled ere begun. At the judgment Day We shall be there To tell our tale; How will you fare?48

Anne took off her hat meekly. Matthew came back presently and they sat down to supper. But Anne could not eat. In vain she nibbled at the bread and butter and pecked at the crab-apple preserve out of the little scalloped glass dish by her plate. She did not really make any headway at all. 'You're not eating anything,' said Marilla sharply, eying her as if it were a serious shortcoming. Anne sighed. 'I can't. I'm in the depths of despair. Can you eat when you are in the depths of despair?' 'I've never been in the depths of despair, so I can't say,' responded Marilla.'Weren't you? Well, did you ever try to imagine you were in the depths of despair?' 'No, I didn't.