Lockdown Love Quotes

Everything in life is made up...You make up that you are happy. You make up that you are sad. You make up that you are in love. If you don't make up your own life, who's going to make it up for you? It's bad enough when you die and everybody can make up their own stories about you. —Mr. Hooft

i don’t love things enough. i love very little. it’s just one of many things i’m gonna change one day when things are different.

Better get moving. I don’t know which of them I need, but I know they both need me. -JJ talking about The Zee Brothers.

It also seems a way of defying life, losing time now that we have so much of it.

Offer to the World, more of LOVE that you are gifted with, than the hate or anger that the World has taught you.

Then set out after repeated warning the grizzly Afghan Duryodhan in blazing sun removed sandal-wood blooded stone-attired guards spearing gloom brought out a substitute of dawn crude hell’s profuse experience Huh a night-waken drug addict beside head of feeble earth from the cruciform The Clapper could not descend due to lockdown wet-eyed babies were smiling . in a bouquet of darkness in forced dreams The Clapper wept when learnt about red-linen boat’s drowned passengers in famished yellow winter white lilies bloomed in hot coal tar when in chiseled breeze nickel glazed seed-kernel moss layered skull which had moon on its shoulder scolded whole night non-weeping male praying mantis in grass bronze muscled he-men of Barbadoz pressed their fevered forehead on her furry navel . in comb-flowing rain floated on frowning waves diesel sheet shadow whipped oceans all wings had been removed from the sky funeral procession of newspaperman’s freshly printed dawn lifelong jailed convict’s eye in the keyhole outside in autumnal rice pounding pink ankle Lalung ladies

Deed of the virtuous, dead and buried World under curfew, solitary My love never peaked now my soul is weak Leaving reality dimmed and blurry Imagination wild, Johnny Lennon Speaking up my mind, taste my venom Blinded by the lies, eyes in lemon Paradise I will find, Day of Judgement

There are so few Jews in the world; even in the United States, we are barely 2 percent of the population, a minority among minorities. Who cares if my children have to grow up praying in a lockdown? Statistically speaking, nothing that happens to Jews should be of any consequence to anyone else. Except that it is.

becomes dangerous and is closely tied to sepsis. A sepsis treatment protocol developed by Dr. Paul Marik, which involves intravenous vitamin C with hydrocortisone and thiamine (vitamin B1), has been shown to dramatically improve chances of survival in sepsis cases. If you suspect that you or a loved one may have sepsis, visit mercola.com and search for the article titled “Vitamin C, B1 and Hydrocortisone Dramatically Reduce Mortality from Sepsis.” It could save your or their life.

Back when we lived together, we had a couch in the room, which played a central role in our marriage. Two roles, actually, that became foundational bricks. For Karan, it was a dumping ground - for the damp towel, dirty socks, smelly t-shirts, laptop bag, and the resentments he had against me, which he buried under the cushion. For me, it was a sounding board - I would sit on it and write in my journal all the things I chose not to say out loud to Karan. I would hide the journal under the cushion, along with Karan’s pile of resentments. Now that the marriage was over, there was no room for his grudges and my confessions. And no room for a couch in the bedroom.

I stepped somewhat apprehensively into 2020, unaware of what was to happen, of course, thinking little about the newly-emerged coronavirus, but knowing myself to be at a tipping point in my life. I had come so very far over the years, the decades, from my birthplace in the United Kingdom, to Thailand, Japan and then back to Thailand to arrive at an age—how had I clocked up so many turns under the sun?—at which most people ask for nothing more than comfort, security and love, or at least loving kindness. Instead, I was slowly extricating myself, physically and emotionally, from a marriage that had, over the course of more than a decade, slowly, almost imperceptibly, deteriorated from complacency to conflict, from apathy to antagonism, from diversity to divergence as our respective outlooks on life first shifted and then conflicted. Instrumental in exacerbating this had been my decision to travel as and where I could after witnessing my mother’s devastating and terminal descent into dementia. For reasons which even now I cannot recall with any accuracy, the first destination for this reborn, more daring me was Tibet, thus initiating a new love affair, this time with the culture and majesty of the Himalayan swathe, and the awakening within me of a quest for the spiritual. I had, over the years, been a teacher, a lecturer, a consultant and an advisor, but I now wanted to inspire and release my verbal and photographic creativity, to capture the places I visited and the experiences I had in words and images—and if possible to have the wherewithal of sharing them with like-minded people.

I am claiming that the making of life for the oppressed is a love of the enemy in the sense that the enemy is challenged to come out of prevailing systems of death to embrace, support, and enter into what makes for life and justice for the oppressed and ultimately for all.

There is no life for the enemy apart from what makes life and justice for those they oppress. Love of the enemy animated by Thurman’s “vital content” means putting an end to the system of death which enemies create, inhabit, and by which they maintain structures afflicting oppressed peoples.

A counter-theatric to state terror is an effective militant practice toward this end. This is “radical love” in the sense foregrounded by Cornel West, which bases its challenging love of the enemy not just upon the enemy’s needs, but upon an advocacy and fight for “the unloved,”[4] for the oppressed who need effective techniques and institutions of justice into which they can be liberated.

My father went into hospital with leg ulcers that were slow to heal. There were strict visiting hours and then, with an outbreak of norovirus, a virtual lockdown of the ward, which meant that for days on end he was alone: nobody to hold his hand, speak his name, tell him he was loved; nobody to keep him tethered to the world. His leg ulcers were healed, but away from the home he loved, stripped of familiar routines and surrounded by strangers and machines, he swiftly lost his bearings and his fragile hold upon his self. There is a great chasm between care and 'care', and my father fell into it.

In Love, the Weaver creates and sets us free to shape ourselves without any conditions in how we ought to be; yet still we refuse to align to His ways when love was what gave us life for all of our days.

I just loved the way snow made the world look so clean. Especially when it had just fallen and nothing had corrupted it yet.

I just loved the way snow made the world look so clean. Especially when it had just fallen and nothing had corrupted it yet. Inevitably it ended up thawing and got trampled and churned up with the mud and dirt of the real world and actually looked worse than ever. But for a little while I could pretend everything was pure. A fresh start. A new beginning. A do over.

Unsurprisingly, the nation’s xenophobia has seeped into popular culture. Bollywood, long known for its extensive Muslim involvement across the entire industry, is being forced to toe the anti-Islam perspective. Many in Bollywood happily pushed the hard-line Hindu nationalist agenda, releasing films that openly celebrated the actions of the Indian armed forces. In a similar vein, the Israeli series Fauda, which features undercover Israeli agents in the West Bank, has been hugely popular among right-wing Indians, looking for a sugar hit of war on terror and anti-Islamist propaganda in a slickly produced format. During the May 2020 Covid-19 lockdown, the right-wing economist Subramanian Swamy, who sits on the BJP national executive, tweeted that he loved Fauda.28 The post-9/11 “war on terror” suited both India and Israel in their plans to pacify their respective unwanted populations. To this end, Israel trained Indian forces in counterinsurgency. Following a 2014 agreement between Israel and India, pledging to cooperate on “public and homeland security,” countless Indian officers, special forces, pilots, and commandoes visited Israel for training. In 2020, Israel refused to screen Indian police officers to determine if they had committed any abuses in India. Israeli human rights advocate Eitay Mack and a range of other activists petitioned the Israeli Supreme Court in 2020 to demand that Israel stop training Indian police officers who “blind, murder, rape, torture and hide civilians in Kashmir.” The court rejected the request, and in the words of the three justices, “without detracting from the importance of the issue of human rights violations in Kashmir.

A snowball unexpectedly and painfully pounded hard into the back of my head. “Ow!” Putting my hand back there, rubbing the sore spot, I spun around and could hardly believe my eyes. My irksome brother was standing on the deck, a huge cocky grin plastered on his irritatingly handsome face. Why had I gotten stuck with the red hair and freckles like Mom while he had not a freckle in sight and had inherited Dad’s dark hair? I tried to take consolation in the fact that he wouldn’t hold on to that beautiful thick hair forever. Eventually, hopefully, it would start to disappear like Dad’s was now doing. “You’re building a snowman? What are you, like, two years old?” he taunted. I was stunned. My brain wouldn’t function, no words would come forth. Because standing right beside him, grinning as well, was . . . Brad Connor. “You’re one to talk,” I finally tossed back at him when my brain kicked into gear. “Throwing snowballs. What are you, like, one?” Okay, so maybe my brain was still in lock-down mode. It was trying to putter along, but it obviously wasn’t warmed up yet. “God, Kate, your comebacks are sharp enough to . . . well, heck, I guess they aren’t sharp.

He shifts his hips, and I work hard to stifle a moan. Damn it all to hell. This is what happens when you unleash a vagina that’s been on strict lockdown for so long. It becomes a complete ho-bag.

Abu-Jamal, serving a life-sentence now in the Pennsylvania prison, after over 29 years on death row, observes this about prison time: “Once loving relationships wither into yesterday’s dust. Relatives die, their loss mourned in silent loneliness. Times, temperaments, mores change, and the caged move to outdated rhythms.

I have always been passionate about storytelling, and my fascination with mysteries started at a very young age. As a teenager I attempted my first novels, but it wasn't until adulthood, and parenthood in particular, that I rediscovered and cultivated my love of writing. There's nothing quite like tiny humans to inspire an encyclopaedia of anecdotes, and a long winter (followed by a global lockdown) to prompt the search for a new hobby and career. What could be more fun than imagining violent deaths, killing off interesting characters, and getting paid for it?

In Love, the Weaver creates and sets us free to shape ourselves without any conditions in how we ought to be; yet still we refuse to align to His ways when love was what gave us life for all of our days. @reenadossauthor

Daddies Donut's was created by the 4 J's. John Miller, Jerome Bailey, Joel Cutler, and Joshua Zitting. The partners and friends had a stand in dinner during 2020 during lockdown. Over these dinners they discussed things like child hood dreams, and the desire to open a business in St Pete. All 4 J's loved the city of St. Pete and wanted to be a bigger part of the community. Being that all 4 came from the business world and John Miller being a baker, they came up with the idea of Daddies Donuts and Delites.

From the same source I have not taken… My sorrow - I could not awaken…my heart to joy at the same tone…and all I loved, I loved alone.

We can pass out small pistols, which will lovingly fit into the palms of their hands. It’s a compromise position because their little fingers aren’t developed enough to fully grip high-powered automatic weapons. It would also make them familiar with the gun manufacturers’ products and open up a whole new market. They can be sold in wild colors that blink, make siren noises, and say things like the gun goes boom, B…O…O…M, to help them learn to read. How about Hello Kitty revolvers or Teletubbies automatics? Maybe they can implant little guns, for the unborn, while they’re in utero.

No man’s land They call it no man’s land, Their nobody treads and nobody dares to stand, Because it belongs to nobody, Neither this side, nor that side, and there I saw somebody, Standing there, looking at it from every side, And it neither sulked nor made any attempt to hide, But it said something with clear thoughts and in a very clear sound, “This is where everything lies, but never nothing is found, Because it is the no man’s land, Created by man’s mind alone and not by the God’s hand, Here lie trapped, and exiled emotions many, memories endless, A region in a constant state of emotional lockdown ruled by sensations pitiless, Because the side that owns the half, wants the other half too, And the one that owns the other half, only believes one is always followed by two, And the pull from one side is resisted by a strong push from the other, But if you ask me about the no man’s land, just the land, one half is always missing the other, Because both sides receive the same sunshine the same moonlight, And ah in the summer, they witness the same and beautiful feelings of delight, Same flowers, same wind, same smiles , same everything, Except human feelings, the only opposing thing, And here I stand exiled in eternity of no man’s land, I am life, that has forsaken you all, the life that was created by God’s own hand, Your wars lead to miseries, to untimely deaths, and to the creation of no man’s land, Where one day you too shall just beside me, trapped in the eternity of forlorn stand, Then let us stare at one another and forever, Because in no man’s land, what gets in; leaves never!

No man’s land They call it no man’s land, There nobody treads and nobody dares to stand, Because it belongs to nobody, Neither this side, nor that side, and there I saw somebody, Standing there, looking at it from every side, And it neither sulked nor made any attempt to hide, But it said something with clear thoughts and in a very clear sound, “This is where everything lies, but never nothing is found, Because it is the no man’s land, Created by man’s mind alone and not by the God’s hand, Here lie trapped, and exiled emotions many, memories endless, A region in a constant state of emotional lockdown ruled by sensations pitiless, Because the side that owns the half, wants the other half too, And the one that owns the other half, only believes one is always followed by two, And the pull from one side is resisted by a strong push from the other, But if you ask me about the no man’s land, just the land, one half is always missing the other, Because both sides receive the same sunshine the same moonlight, And ah in the summer, they witness the same and beautiful feelings of delight, Same flowers, same wind, same smiles , same everything, Except human feelings, the only opposing thing, And here I stand exiled in eternity of no man’s land, I am life, that has forsaken you all, the life that was created by God’s own hand, Your wars lead to miseries, to untimely deaths, and to the creation of no man’s land, Where one day you too shall just beside me, trapped in the eternity of forlorn stand, Then let us stare at one another and forever, Because in no man’s land, what gets in; leaves never!

Did you hear that, fuckface? You finally got someone to love your cold ass. You need to put that shit on lockdown because she is still young and naïve enough to like you.

I drop Eileen and the kids off at home so I can go and visit Mam, the care home is on lockdown so I can't go inside, but we can talk through the window, I call and Mam's caregivers bring her up to the window, she is at a point where she is not even sure what a window is anymore, she thinks if she can see you through the clear glass, she can reach right through it. I look at her straight blond hair, the colour of Irish butter, and her clear blue eyes, I put up my hand for a wave and she responds by reaching her hand out as if she wants to hold my hand, I place my palm against the window and she puts her hand against my palm on her side, I can almost feel it, almost. She looks thinner now and I wonder if she knows me or remembers my name, she looks up at me then and her eyes light up, she knows me. I blow her a kiss and she tries to return it but she can't quite figure out how to do it, I love that she is trying, and if I don't get anything else today on my birthday, I'll take this effort at a kiss and a clasped hand from Mam, the only birthday gift I need.

How could I choose between two men I didn’t love?

Eighteen is a terrible age to meet the one you’d spend the rest of your life with. You don’t even know who you are yet, and you believe every lie that grown-ups whip up for you.

Checklists are often conceived in the aftermath of experiences. You don’t make a travel checklist until you’ve had a vacation where you realise only once you’ve checked in to your hotel room that you forgot to carry traveler’s cheques. You don’t realise you need to have a classic black outfit in your wardrobe unless you’re invited to a black-tie event, and have nothing to wear. You don’t know that a toxic boss is just as harmful to your mental health as a toxic relationship until you’ve had both. You don’t know what’s going to break your heart unless your heart has been broken.

Hoti rahegi mulaaktein tumse Nazar se durr ho,Dil se nahi -Wajid Shaikh

Do you love Hemant?” I thought about this. I never had before. Hemant, like Sanjeev, was also a habit. We spoke at a fixed hour every day, for a fixed period of time; saw each other every Tuesday and Friday and drank the same frothy cold coffee at the same cafe each time. We made love once a month when Sanjeev would go to Benares for a field visit. Come to think of it, I didn’t know Hemant all that well either. He made me laugh, and that’s why I so enjoyed his company. But, I didn’t know what his childhood was like or how close he was to his sisters. Just that he had three. So, did I love Hemant? No.

In sum, Lockdown America is not just a U.S. problem. It is a problem, also, of international political economy and U.S. global presumption and power. With Lockdown America, then, we cannot just debate national “crime and punishment” issues. The rise of Lockdown America is not simply an experiment by well-intentioned leaders on how best to deal with “crime” and our “criminal element.” We are not simply witnessing fed-up Americans suffering so-called compassion fatigue, who now over the decades have agreed to hand over more than two million of their citizens and residents to incarceration. Nor are we witnessing some institutionalized “tough love” that is part of some new moral vision insisting that U.S. citizens take “responsibility” for their own lives or face the punitive consequences. No, Lockdown America—its mass incarceration, militarized police repression, and state-sanctioned execution policy—services the dissemination of state terror, functioning to maintain the power of an economic and political elite in the U.S. that has been concentrating wealth within its control over the past decades.

The basic fact is that Christianity as it was born in the mind of this Jewish teacher and thinker appears as a technique for the oppressed . . . It was upon the anvil of the Jewish community’s relations with Rome that Jesus hammered out the vital content of his concept of love for one’s enemy. Howard Thurman, Jesus and the Disinherited

Even those most defiant in enduring prison—consider George Jackson in his letters from prison, Soledad Brother—continually emphasize that the prisons are “places controlled by absolute terror.”[110] If fear is fought off, as Jackson claims he does in order to guard his dignity, there is also a cost, which he forthrightly acknowledges: “I must rid myself of all sentiment and remove all possibility of love.”[111] Lockdown America state terror services an economic and political elite by unleashing the corrosive effects of fear in dispossessed communities.

In Love, the Weaver creates and sets us free to shape ourselves without any conditions in how we ought to be; yet still we refuse to align to His ways when love was what gave us life for all of our days.

Self published over covid19 kept me busy on lockdown having to stay at home. A beautiful flower from my garden I caught on its short flowering time seemed a great cover shot. A story of love, fun and excitement. How we have kept young at heart.

as much as you hate the dirt I wallow in, you can’t help but love it when it makes you all filthy.

In Love, the Weaver creates and sets us free to shape ourselves without any conditions in how we ought to be; yet still we refuse to align to His ways when love was what gave us life for all of our days.

I’ve pondered often and plenty about why is it that we get married. This institution which started as a mechanism to protect property and possessions and progeny at some point became contaminated with the freedom to choose, and the freedom to love.

Lockdown is an experiment of love. The love of the LORD to renew the earth.

At thirty-four, almost three years younger than me, he sometimes described himself as middle-aged, though he seemed boyish to me still. A full head of hair, in need of a cut, lockdown beard also needing a trim, glasses smeared with grease as they always were. But how I loved him. It made my heart hurt sometimes still, after so many years. His fraying jeans, the unfashionable cut of them, his Sonic Youth T-shirt, stained with Dorito crumbs. All of it precious to me.