Realise Worth Quotes

I don't want you forgetting how different our circumstaces are. If you die, and I live, there's no life for me at all back in District Twelve. You're my whole life." Peeta says. "I would never be happy again. It's different for you. I'm not saying it wouldn't be hard. But there are other people who'd make your life worth living." "No one really needs me," he says, and there's no selfpity in his voice. It's true his family doesn't need him. They will mourn him, as will a handfull of friends. But they will get on.... I realise only one person will be damaged beyond repair if Peeta dies. Me. "I do," I say. "I need you.

A map of the world that does not include Utopia is not worth even glancing at, for it leaves out the one country at which Humanity is always landing. And when Humanity lands there, it looks out, and, seeing a better country, sets sail. Progress is the realisation of Utopias.

‗In life, at sometime or another we come to a point where all relationships cease—where there is only us and Allah. There are no parents, brother or sister, or any friend. Then we realise that there is no earth under us nor is there sky above, but only Allah who is supporting us in this emptiness. Then we realise our worth – it is not more than a grain of sand or the leaf of a plant. Then we realise our existence is only confined to our being. Our demise makes not a whit of difference to the world around us, nor to the scheme of things.

He had only felt agony when she was not there, and assumed that that was love. We suffer for love because love is worth it, his father had told him once: James had thought that meant that to love was to endure anguish. He had not realised his father had meant there should be joy to balance the pain.

When someone's success makes you as happy as if it were your own, you know you've found someone worth holding on to.

It was a very ordinary day, the day I realised that my becoming is my life and my home and that I don't have to do anything but trust the process, trust my story and enjoy the journey. It doesn't really matter who I've become by the finish line, the important things are the changes from this morning to when I fall asleep again, and how they happened, and who they happened with. An hour watching the stars, a coffee in the morning with someone beautiful, intelligent conversations at 5am while sharing the last cigarette. Taking trains to nowhere, walking hand in hand through foreign cities with someone you love. Oceans and poetry. It was all very ordinary until my identity appeared, until my body and mind became one being. The day I saw the flowers and learned how to turn my daily struggles into the most extraordinary moments. Moments worth writing about. For so long I let my life slip through my fingers, like water. I'm holding on to it now, and I'm not letting go.

Perhaps you're co-dependent on your work as well. When you get good results, your worth is realised and you relax, but that satisfaction doesn't last long - that's the problem.

One of the things that strikes me most though is how some people don't realise they're self-harming. The phrase 'self-harm' brings up thoughts of 'cutting', but that's only a small portion of it. When you drink excessively to drown your sorrows to the point you throw up and can't see straight and/or, like a girl at my school, ended up being driven to hospital to have her stomach pumped, you've brought harm to yourself. If you take drugs to feel numb and it becomes an addiction that you can't break, you've self-harmed. When you starve yourself or binge eat to fit the latest fashions, you're pushing your body further than it can go. We need to start treating ourselves how we deserve to be treated, even if you feel that no one else does. Prove to the world you ARE worth something by treating yourself with the utmost respect and hope that other people will follow your example. And even if they don't, at least one person in the world is treating you well: YOU.

Art is a meta-language, with the help of which people try to communicate with one another; to impart information about themselves and assimilate the experience of others. Again, this has not to do with practical advantage but with realising the idea of love, the meaning of which is in sacrifice: the very antithesis of pragmatism. I simply cannot believe that an artist can ever work only for the sake of 'self-expression.' Self-expression if meaningless unless it meets with a response. For the sake of creating a spiritual bond with others it can only be an agonising process, one that involves no practical gain: ultimately it is an act of sacrifice. But surely it cannot be worth the effort merely for the sake of hearing one's own echo?

THE DAY YOU READ THIS On this day, you read something that moved you and made you realise there were no more fears to fear. No tears to cry. No head to hang in shame. That every time you thought you’d offended someone, it was all just in your head and really, they love you with all their heart and nothing will ever change that. That everyone and everything lives on inside you. That that doesn’t make any of it any less real. That soft touches will change you and stay with you longer than hard ones. That being alone means you’re free. That old lovers miss you and new lovers want you and the one you’re with is the one you’re meant to be with. That the tingles running down your arms are angel feathers and they whisper in your ear, constantly, if you choose to hear them. That everything you want to happen, will happen, if you decide you want it enough. That every time you think a sad thought, you can think a happy one instead. That you control that completely. That the people who make you laugh are more beautiful than beautiful people. That you laugh more than you cry. That crying is good for you. That the people you hate wish you would stop and you do too. That your friends are reflections of the best parts of you. That you are more than the sum total of the things you know and how you react to them. That dancing is sometimes more important than listening to the music. That the most embarrassing, awkward moments of your life are only remembered by you and no one else. That no one judges you when you walk into a room and all they really want to know, is if you’re judging them. That what you make and what you do with your time is more important than you’ll ever fathom and should be treated as such. That the difference between a job and art is passion. That neither defines who you are. That talking to strangers is how you make friends. That bad days end but a smile can go around the world. That life contradicts itself, constantly. That that’s why it’s worth living. That the difference between pain and love is time. That love is only as real as you want it to be. That if you feel good, you look good but it doesn’t always work the other way around. That the sun will rise each day and it’s up to you each day if you match it. That nothing matters up until this point. That what you decide now, in this moment, will change the future. Forever. That rain is beautiful. And so are you.

It is—or seems to be—a wise sort of thing, to realise that all that happens to a man in this life is only by way of joke, especially his misfortunes, if he have them. And it is also worth bearing in mind, that the joke is passed round pretty liberally & impartially, so that not very many are entitled to fancy that they in particular are getting the worst of it.

Maybe there was no perfect life for her, but somewhere, surely, there was a life worth living. And if she was to find a life truly worth living, she realised she would have to cast a wider net.

The path of self-realisation is the most difficult. -We acquire a sense of worth either by realising our talents, or by keeping busy, or by identifying ourselves with something apart from us - be it a cause, a leader, a group, possessions, and the like. Of the three, the path of self-realisation is the most difficult. It is taken when other avenues to a sense of worth are more or less blocked.

In all that we lose, we rediscover a hidden part of ourselves. Loss is a road toward self discovery because it is only when we are stripped back to nothing, that we realise how truly valuable we are.

The older we get, the more picky we become about the expenditure of our energies. The older we become, the more we ask ourselves "Is this person worth the energy? The time?" And, "Is this situation worth this kind of energy and time?" We become choosy about who and what we spend energy on. We allow ourselves to be freed from the people and the things that simply don't deserve our life force. The older we get, the more we realise how precious our life force is and how much we ought to guard it, and keep ourselves wrapped inside the kind of energies that serve our purpose.

Everybody tries to protect this vulnerable two three four five six seven eight year old inside, and to acquire skills and aptitudes for dealing with the situations that threaten to overwhelm it... Usually, that child is a wretchedly isolated undeveloped little being. It’s been protected by the efficient armour, it’s never participated in life, it’s never been exposed to living and to managing the person’s affairs, it’s never been given responsibility for taking the brunt. And it’s never properly lived. That’s how it is in almost everybody. And that little creature is sitting there, behind the armour, peering through the slits. And in its own self, it is still unprotected, incapable, inexperienced... And in fact, that child is the only real thing in them. It’s their humanity, their real individuality, the one that can’t understand why it was born and that knows it will have to die, in no matter how crowded a place, quite on its own. That’s the carrier of all the living qualities. It’s the centre of all the possible magic and revelation. What doesn’t come out of that creature isn’t worth having, or it’s worth having only as a tool—for that creature to use and turn to account and make meaningful... And so, wherever life takes it by surprise, and suddenly the artificial self of adaptations proves inadequate, and fails to ward off the invasion of raw experience, that inner self is thrown into the front line—unprepared, with all its childhood terrors round its ears. And yet that’s the moment it wants. That’s where it comes alive—even if only to be overwhelmed and bewildered and hurt. And that’s where it calls up its own resources—not artificial aids, picked up outside, but real inner resources, real biological ability to cope, and to turn to account, and to enjoy. That’s the paradox: the only time most people feel alive is when they’re suffering, when something overwhelms their ordinary, careful armour, and the naked child is flung out onto the world. That’s why the things that are worst to undergo are best to remember. But when that child gets buried away under their adaptive and protective shells—he becomes one of the walking dead, a monster. So when you realise you’ve gone a few weeks and haven’t felt that awful struggle of your childish self—struggling to lift itself out of its inadequacy and incompetence—you’ll know you’ve gone some weeks without meeting new challenge, and without growing, and that you’ve gone some weeks towards losing touch with yourself.

Female competition is when you are with a guy you like and you look around, see that you're the prettiest girl in the vicinity and feel a huge sense of relief that there's no one to take the attention away from you. (Female competition is a result of women feeling like their greatest sense of self worth , identity and influence comes from their sexual appeal to men. Many women don't even realise they are feeling this way and it's a subconscious thing, but they notice themselves getting jealous when they see other women who they think men would find sexually appealing.)

The great fault of modern democracy -- a fault that is common to the capitalist and the socialist -- is that it accepts economic wealth as the end of society and the standard of personal happiness.... The great curse of our modern society is not so much lack of money as the fact that the lack of money condemns a man to a squalid and incomplete existence. But even if he has money, and a great deal of it, he is still in danger of leading an incomplete and cramped life, because our whole social order is directed to economic instead of spiritual ends. The economic view of life regards money as equivalent to satisfaction. Get money, and if you get enough of it you will get everything else that is worth having. The Christian view of life, on the other hand, puts economic things in second place. First seek the kingdom of God, and everything else will be added to you. And this is not so absurd as it sounds, for we have only to think for a moment to realise that the ills of modern society do not spring from poverty in fact, society today is probably richer in material wealth than any society that has ever existed. What we are suffering from is lack of social adjustment and the failure to subordinate material and economic goods to human and spiritual ones.

The old thing where it always was, back again. As when a man, having found at last what he sought, a woman, for example, or a friend, loses it, or realises what it is. And yet it is useless not to seek, not to want, for when you cease to seek you start to find, and when you cease to want, then life begins to ram her fish and chips down your gullet until you puke, and then the puke down your gullet until you puke the puke, and then the puked puke until you begin to like it. The glutton castaway, the drunkard in the desert, the lecher in prison, they are the happy ones. To hunger, thirst, lust, every day afresh and every day in vain, after the old prog, the old booze, the old whores, that's the nearest we'll ever get to felicity, the new porch and the very latest garden. I pass on the tip for what it is worth.

It is easy to drown yourself effortlessly into that which is truly profound and do no realise its true worth. And since the restless illusion which brings no pleasure even if you drain it to the dregs lead us by the nose and makes us dance a merry dance to its tune and we take it to be the lost desirable thing

I’m pretty sure when we fall in love we don’t realise it. We just like that person and eventually we start defending them and get jealous if they talk to some one else. We always want to be with them because they make our crappy lives worth living for a few hours a day. They take away our pain, make us mad, make us sad and embarrassed. But no matter what they make us feel, we keep coming back for more. That’s just how love is

Rabbit realised the world was not solid and benign, it was a shabby set of temporary arrangements rigged up for the time being, all for the sake of money. You just passed through, and they milked you for what you were worth, mostly when you were young and gullible.

Some people have tried to strangle the love out of my life, not realising that I am a "love weed". I can suck up love wherever I am, from anything I touch. I can even soak it up from my own eyes in the mirror! I'm the love weed, that's me. I'll always have more love today than yesterday.

a realisation of my blessings began to return when I slid into bed and Helen, instead of shrinking away from me as it would have been natural to do, deliberately draped her feet and legs over the human ice block that was her husband. The bliss was unbelievable. It was worth getting out just to come back to this.

He has never taken any narcotics. Has hardly even been affected by alcohol. Has never liked the feeling of losing control. He’s come to realise over the years that it’s this very feeling that normal folk like and strive for, but as far as Ove is concerned only a complete bloody airhead could find loss of control a state worth aiming for.

For, why is the triumph of Nihilism inevitable now? Because the very values current amongst us to-day will arrive at their logical conclusion in Nihilism,—because Nihilism is the only possible outcome of our greatest values and ideals,—because we must first experience Nihilism before we can realise what the actual worth of these “values” was....

Realise your Individual self-worth and believe that you are a unique and significant person of the world �

Not everyone who's been around you in your journey of life is worth keeping. Some have been there to distract you from reaching your purpose.

You need to define yourself first, before knowing your worth. There is no place that can bring you happiness if you are not ready to work towards it.

Reach out to your great spirit and soul.

You can survive life by faith.

I realised throughout writing, that realistic can appear unrealistic in reality. What you may think is unbelievable is in fact someone's life.

Always seek the light even in the darkest atmospheres… that’s how we become victorious.

Birthdays are a time when one stock takes, which means, I suppose, a good spineless mope: I scan my horizon and can discern no sail of hope along my own particular ambition. I tell you what it is: I'm quite in accord with the people who enquire 'What is the matter with the man?' because I don't seem to be producing anything as the years pass but rank self indulgence. You know that my sole ambition, officially at any rate, was to write poems & novels, an activity I never found any difficulty fulfilling between the (dangerous) ages of 17-24: I can't very well ignore the fact that this seems to have died a natural death. On the other hand I feel regretful that what talents I have in this direction are not being used. Then again, if I am not going to produce anything in the literary line, the justification for my selfish life is removed - but since I go on living it, the suspicion arises that the writing existed to produce the life, & not vice versa. And as a life it has very little to recommend it: I spend my days footling in a job I care nothing about, a curate among lady-clerks; I evade all responsibility, familial, professional, emotional, social, not even saving much money or helping my mother. I look around me & I see people getting on, or doing things, or bringing up children - and here I am in a kind of vacuum. If I were writing, I would even risk the fearful old age of the Henry-James hero: not fearful in circumstance but in realisation: because to me to catch, render, preserve, pickle, distil or otherwise secure life-as-it-seemed for the future seems to me infinitely worth doing; but as I'm not the entire morality of it collapses. And when I ask why I'm not, well, I'm not because I don't want to: every novel I attempt stops at a point where I awake from the impulse as one might awake from a particularly-sickening nightmare - I don't want to 'create character', I don't want to be vivid or memorable or precise, I neither wish to bathe each scene in the lambency of the 'love that accepts' or be excoriatingly cruel, smart, vicious, 'penetrating' (ugh), or any of the other recoil qualities. In fact, like the man in St Mawr, I want nothing. Nothing, I want. And so it becomes quite impossible for me to carry on. This failure of impulse seems to me suspiciously like a failure of sexual impulse: people conceive novels and dash away at them & finish them in the same way as they fall in love & will not be satisfied till they're married - another point on which I seem to be out of step. There's something cold & heavy sitting on me somewhere, & until something budges it I am no good.

Hunger Howls You will always feel hungry if you keep starving yourself to feed others The vacant call from your belly is a signal from your soul The calls turn into howls To realise your own worth To value the ribbons of love that are angelically sewn So deeply into every part of you You are a tapestry of fine and rare art With beauty in your bones Find yourself in you Feed yourself with love

Are you carrying gold?" I asked sweetly. He frowned. "No? Silver? Lead? Copper?" I made big, innocent eyes at him. "A girl out in the brush doesn't need credit chits, Mr. House Gray. What do you have in your pockets that's worth my hospitality?" One of the Neds coughed, and I realised that could have been taken in a very different manner. Abraham flashed me a wicked smile. "Don't flatter yourself," I said before he opened his mouth.

If a physical overhaul brings more freedom, creativity, and self-worth then the process will add to the person’s depth and happiness. It would be a step closer to realising one’s inestimable worth. If the overhaul doesn’t do that then it is decorating skeletons.

When the time comes, if it comes, you have got to be ready to leave a relationship or a marriage, not necessarily because you stopped loving the other person, but because you realise that with them, you cannot be, or become, the person that you know you want or need to be.

He walked back to St George's-in-the-East, which in his mind he had now reduced to a number of surfaces against which the murderer might have leaned in sorrow, desperation or even, perhaps, joy. For this reason it was worth examining the blackened stones in detail, although he realised that the marks upon them had been deposited by many generations of men and women. It was now a matter of received knowledge in the police force that no human being could rest or move in any area without leaving some trace of his or her identity; but if the walls of the Wapping church were to be analysed by emission spectroscopy, how many partial or residual spectra might be detected? And he had an image of a mob screaming to be set free as he guided his steps towards the tower which rose above the houses cluttered around Red Maiden Lane, Crab Court and Rope Walk.

Finally, some scientists concede that consciousness is real and may actually have great moral and political value, but that it fulfils no biological function whatsoever. Consciousness is the biologically useless by-product of certain brain processes. Jet engines roar loudly, but the noise doesn’t propel the aeroplane forward. Humans don’t need carbon dioxide, but each and every breath fills the air with more of the stuff. Similarly, consciousness may be a kind of mental pollution produced by the firing of complex neural networks. It doesn’t do anything. It is just there. If this is true, it implies that all the pain and pleasure experienced by billions of creatures for millions of years is just mental pollution. This is certainly a thought worth thinking, even if it isn’t true. But it is quite amazing to realise that as of 2016, this is the best theory of consciousness that contemporary science has to offer us. Maybe

There are so many people who are arguing or fighting over issues which don’t have much relevance. We must all realise it is not worth it. It’s like being in the whirlpools which are always present behind a little rock near a river. We seem to be living in these little whirlpools and forget that there is a whole river. The picture is much bigger.

Women are like goats. It's like . . . Well, reasoning with a woman is like sitting down to a friendly game of dice. Only the woman refuses to acknowledge the basic bloody rules of the game. A man, he'll cheat you - but he'll do it honestly. He'll use loaded dice, so that you think you're losing by chance. And if you aren't clever enough to spot what he's doing, then maybe he deserves to take your coin. And that's that. A woman, though, she'll sit down to that same game and she'll smile, and act like she's going to play. Only when it's her turn to throw, she'll toss a pair of her own dice that are blank on all six sides. Not a single pip showing. She'll inspect the throw, then she'll look up at you and say, 'clearly I just won.' Now, you'll scratch your head and look at the dice. Then you'll look up at her, then down at the dice again 'But there aren't any pips on these dice' you'll say." 'Yes there are,' she'll say. 'And both dice rolled a one.' 'That's exactly the number you need to win,' you'll say. 'What a coincidence,' she'll reply, then begin to scoop up your coins. And you'll sit there, trying to wrap your head 'bout what just happened. And you'll realise something. A pair of ones isn't the winning throw! Not when you threw a six on your turn. That means she needed a pair of twos instead! Excitedly you'll explain what you've discovered. Only then do you know what she'll do?" "No idea, Mat." "Then she'll reach over and rub the blank faces of her dice. And then, with a perfectly straight face, she'll say, 'I'm sorry. There was a spot of dirt on the dice. Clearly you'll see they actually came up as twos!' And she'll believe it. She'll bloody believe it!" "Incredible." "Only that's not the end of it!" "I had presumed it wouldn't be Mat." "She scoops up all of your coins. And then every other wonam in the room will come over and congratulate her on throwing that pair of twos! The more you complain, the more those bloody women will join in the argument. You'll be outnumbered in a moment, and each of those women will explain to you how those dice clearly read twos, and how you really need to stop behaving like a child. Every single flaming one of them will see the twos! even the prudish woman who has hated your woman from birth - since your woman's granny stole the other woman's granny's honeycake recipe when they were both maids - that woman will side against you." "They're nefarious creatures indeed." "By the time they're done, you'll be left with no coin, several lists worth of errands to run and what clothing to wear and a splitting headache. You'll sit there and stare at the table and begin to wonder, just maybe, if those dice didn't read twos after all. If only to preserve what's left of your sanity. That's what it's like to reason with a woman, I tell you.

The men were ordered to retreat, and to leave the dead. In the sun the injured would die of thirst the following day. “That was the moment when I realised the truth of my mother’s words, that we were just ‘cannon-fodder’. Young private soldiers were ordered, time and time again, to march directly into gunfire, and High Command didn’t give a damn how many died, nor the cost in human suffering.

The most revolutionary change that hit the world in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries was the liberation of women. The Bible and the Qur’an came from societies controlled by men. No surprise there. That’s how the world everywhere was run until fairly recently. And there is something worth noting before we go deeper into the issue. History shows that the men in charge never volunteer to give up their privileges. They don’t wake up one day and say, ‘I’ve suddenly realised that the way I control and dominate others is wrong. I must change my ways. So I’ll share my power with them. I’ll give them the vote!’ That’s never how it works. History shows that power always has to be wrested from those who have it. The suffragettes who fought for the vote or suffrage for women learned that lesson. Men didn’t volunteer to give women the vote. Women had to fight them for it.

The scathing one now puts forward a different definition altogether. “It’s a philosophy that rejects supernaturalism, regards man as a natural object and asserts the essential dignity and worth of man and his capacity to achieve self-realisation through the use of reason and the scientific method.” This is well received, until someone else raises a problem: some people do believe in God, yet they call themselves humanists. The meeting ends with everyone more confused than they were at the start.

We are slow to realise that our future will be shared with billions of people whose urges for improvement are more urgent, more demanding, more ethical than ours. Mostly, we want them to develop, but relatively slowly and not at our expense. But that is not an option in the future we all deserve. On a planetary scale, not all will survive, and the rich are the least able to cope with change, so most of us (include me writing this and you reading) are going to need to swallow a lot of humble pie and remind the rump of humanity why we are worth keeping.

...whether for the Greeks or for anyone else. In studying a philosopher, the right attitude is neither reverence nor contempt, but first a kind of hypothetical sympathy, until it is possible to know what it feels like to believe in his theories, and only then a revival of the critical attitude, which should resemble, as far as possible, the state of mind of a person abandoning opinions which he has hitherto held. Contempt interferes with the first part of the process, and reverence with the second. Two things are to be remembered: that a man whose opinions and theories are worth studying may be presumed to have had some intelligence, but that no man is likely to have arrived at complete and final truth on any subject whatever. When an intelligent man expresses a view which seems to us obviously absurd, we should not attempt to prove that it is somehow true, but we should try to understand how it ever came to seem true. This exercise of historical and psychological imagination at once enlarges the scope of our thinking, and helps us to realise how foolish many of our own cherished prejudices will seem to an age which has a different temper of mind ...

As women we are taught to place importance on another person, be that our husbands, our fathers, our mothers, or our extended circles. We are taught to be caregivers instead of giving that love to ourselves. We’re taught to hold our tongues and, in doing so, to suppress our own instincts and desires lest we offend or cease to be ‘loveable’. We’re taught to aspire to be desired, influencing everything from the way we dress to how we converse, whether we consciously realise it or not. We’re taught to view ourselves through the eyes of others instead of assessing our own sense of worth.

Some have estimated that the pharmaceutical industry overall spends about twice as much on marketing and promotion as it does on research and development. Regardless of how those two figures compare to each other, the fact that they are in the same ballpark gives one pause, and this is worth mulling over in various contexts. For example, when a drug company refuses to let a developing country have affordable access to a new AIDS drug it’s because – the company says – it needs the money from sales to fund research and development on other new AIDS drugs for the future. If R&D is a fraction of the company’s outgoings, and it spends a similar amount on promotion, then this moral and practical argument doesn’t hold water quite so well. The scale of this spend is fascinating in itself, when you put it in the context of what we all expect from evidence-based medicine, which is that people will simply use the best treatment for the patient. Because when you pull away from the industry’s carefully fostered belief that this marketing activity is all completely normal, and stop thinking of drugs as being a consumer product like clothes or cosmetics, you suddenly realise that medicines marketing only exists for one reason. In medicine, brand identities are irrelevant, and there’s a factual, objective answer to whether one drug is the most likely to improve a patient’s pain, suffering and longevity. Marketing, therefore, one might argue, exists for no reason other than to pervert evidence-based decision-making in medicine.

How many are there who still come to the conclusion: “Life would be intolerable were there no God!” Or, as is said in idealistic circles: “Life would be intolerable if its ethical signification were lacking.” Hence there must be a God — or an ethical signification of existence! In reality the case stands thus: He who is accustomed to conceptions of this sort does not desire a life without them, hence these conceptions are necessary for him and his preservation — but what a presumption it is to assert that everything necessary for my preservation must exist in reality! As if my preservation were really necessary! What if others held the contrary opinion? if they did not care to live under the conditions of these two articles of faith, and did not regard life as worth living if they were realised! — And that is the present position of affairs.

He doesn't realise how much it hurts me when he's so curt," his mother said sorrowfully. "He doesn't mean it," I said. "It's just calving. I expect every dairy farmer in the country is being rude to his mother just now." "It's Rose, too," she told me. "He's such a dear boy Josie; it's tearing him apart to see her so unwell. Perhaps-" she paused and looked at me with a Madonna-like expression of patient and loving reproach - "perhaps it might help if you didn't expect him to dance attendance very spare minute, hmmm ?" My hand clenched on the handle of my fork as I considered throwing it at her like a spear. I've got pretty good aim - I'd probably be able to get her in the side of the head from here. But the consequences wouldn't be worth the fleeting satisfaction. I dropped my eyes to my plate and nodded. "You're a sweet girl. I know you don't mean to be selfish.

To anyone who had been there since the beginning it probably seemed even in December or January that the revolutionary period was ending; but when one came straight from England the aspect of Barcelona was something startling and overwhelming. It was the first time that I had ever been in a town where the working class was in the saddle. Practically every building of any size had been seized by the workers and was draped with red flags or with the red and black flag of the Anarchists; every wall was scrawled with the hammer and sickle and with the initials of the revolutionary parties; almost every church had been gutted and its images burnt. Churches here and there were being systematically demolished by gangs of workman. Every shop and cafe had an inscription saying that it had been collectivised; even the bootblacks had been collectivized and their boxes painted red and black. Waiters and shop-walkers looked you in the face and treated you as an equal. Servile and even ceremonial forms of speech had temporarily disappeared. Nobody said 'Sen~or' or 'Don' ort even 'Usted'; everyone called everyone else 'Comrade' or 'Thou', and said 'Salud!' instead of 'Buenos dias'. Tipping had been forbidden by law since the time of Primo de Rivera; almost my first experience was receiving a lecture from a hotel manager for trying to tip a lift-boy. There were no private motor-cars, they had all been commandeered, and the trams and taxis and much of the other transport were painted red and black. The revolutionary posters were everywhere, flaming from the walls in clean reds and blues that made the few remaining advertisements look like daubs of mud. Down the Ramblas, the wide central artery of the town where crowds of people streamed constantly to and fro, the loud-speakers were bellowing revolutionary songs all day and far into the night. And it was the aspect of the crowds that was the queerest thing of all. In outward appearance it was a town in which the wealthy classes had practically ceased to exist. Except for a small number of women and foreigners there were no 'well-dressed' people at all. Practically everyone wore rough working-class clothes, or blue overalls or some variant of militia uniform. All this was queer and moving. There was much in this that I did not understand, in some ways I did not not even like it, but I recognized it immediately as a state of affairs worth fighting for. Also, I believed that things were as they appeared, that this was really a workers' State and that the entire bourgeoisie had either fled, been killed or voluntarily come over to the workers' side; I did not realise that great numbers of well-to-do bourgeois were simply lying low and disguising themselves as proletarians for the time being.

I got you these.” I flipped open the satchel again, offering him the book on gemstones first and Orion’s jaw went slack as he took the book from my hand, turning it over gently like it was the most precious thing in the world. “Oh my stars,” he gasped, grabbing the bag from me and rifling through the books with a youthful smile on his face. I snorted a laugh as Darius gave me a pointed look, realising I’d just lost myself fifty auras, but the look on Orion’s face was definitely worth it. “I’m afraid Highspell had some of your other ones burned,” I said with a frown and I immediately regretted saying that as Orion looked like I’d just told him I’d murdered his puppy. “Burned them?” he rasped and I nodded, offering him an apologetic look as he hugged the bag of books to his chest like he didn’t want them to hear what had happened to their friends. “Sorry, man.” Darius rested a hand to Orion’s shoulder and he growled. “I’ll murder that fake-faced witch,” he snarled, his fangs on show as he held onto his books even tighter and I was pretty sure he was making that promise to them. Dude would definitely kill in revenge for those books.

Charles Bean, the official historian of Australia’s part in World War I, was unusual in dealing closely with the deeds of the soldiers on the front line, and not just the plans and orders of their leaders. At the end of his account of the Gallipoli landing in the Official History, he asked what made the soldiers fight on. What motive sustained them? At the end of the second or third day of the Landing, when they had fought without sleep until the whole world seemed a dream, and they scarcely knew whether it was a world of reality or of delirium – and often, no doubt, it held something of both; when half of each battalion had been annihilated, and there seemed no prospect before any man except that of wounds or death in the most vile surroundings; when the dead lay three deep in the rifle-pits under the blue sky and the place was filled with stench and sickness, and reason had almost vanished – what was it then that carried each man on? It was not love of a fight. The Australian loved fighting better than most, but it is an occupation from which the glamour quickly wears. It was not hatred of the Turk. It is true that the men at this time hated their enemy for his supposed ill-treatment of the wounded – and the fact that, of the hundreds who lay out, only one wounded man survived in Turkish hands has justified their suspicions. But hatred was not the motive which inspired them. Nor was it purely patriotism, as it would have been had they fought on Australian soil. The love of country in Australians and New Zealanders was intense – how strong, they did not realise until they were far away from their home. Nor, in most cases was the motive their loyalty to the tie between Australia and Great Britain. Although, singly or combined, all these were powerful influences, they were not the chief. Nor was it the desire for fame that made them steer their course so straight in the hour of crucial trial. They knew too well the chance that their families, possibly even the men beside them, would never know how they died. Doubtless the weaker were swept on by the stronger. In every army which enters into battle there is a part which is dependent for its resolution upon the nearest strong man. If he endures, those around him will endure; if he turns, they turn; if he falls, they may become confused. But the Australian force contained more than its share of men who were masters of their own minds and decisions. What was the dominant motive that impelled them? It lay in the mettle of the men themselves. To be the sort of man who would give way when his mates were trusting to his firmness; to be the sort of man who would fail when the line, the whole force, and the allied cause required his endurance; to have made it necessary for another unit to do his own unit’s work; to live the rest of his life haunted by the knowledge that he had set his hand to a soldier’s task and had lacked the grit to carry it through – that was the prospect which these men could not face. Life was very dear, but life was not worth living unless they could be true to their idea of Australian manhood.

It's as if the world stops. The moment that sense of what it meant to be loved by someone so unique, so rare, so different.. hits you. Suddenly, the walls you seem to have pulled down are left crumbled in a heap of dust and rubble so jagged, so dry and inanimate. That rawness of what you let in just radiates in the memories you can recall at a moment's notice. A smell or a sight brings a smile to your face as you fathom the finer points of what was right, what was good and what made you both happy. Thats when you realise for what it's worth, what you had was real. It's yours and her's to keep. Ever so gently locked away in the mind of your heart and head of your soul. You've grown. You've loved. You've given the moment the love it deserved and from that... you've grown. You've grown to let more love in should it find you, if ever so carefully. You must only look back at it and smile, for love made you the person you are now, today. Should it find you again, you don't know; but you will be open to it. Just like you were before. She'll always be a part of you. She’ll be a part of what you are today, what made you grow and what made you love, her.

Art is a meta-language, with the help of which people try to communicate with one another; to impart information about themselves and assimilate the experience of others. Again, this has not to do with practical advantage but with realising the idea of love, the meaning of which is in sacrifice: the very antithesis of pragmatism. I simply cannot believe that an artist can ever work only for the sake of 'self-expression.' Self-expression if meaningless unless it meets with a response. For the sake of creating a spiritual bond with others it can only be an agonising process, one that involves no practical gain: ultimately it is an act of sacrifice. But surely it cannot be worth the effort merely for the sake of hearing one's own echo?

This is a tough one for heaps of us...if not all of us. We're taught our parents' beliefs, society's beliefs, religions' beliefs, and many other beliefs. Then there's us, caught-up in the middle of this confusion, and life stuff's still happening around us: Our first fight, our first kiss, our first oh! my!, our first failure, our first success, and our first shame. Then it starts: We recognise a flaw in the beliefs we learnt, and we query it. They say, "Don't worry about it. Take a leap of faith, or Don't waste your time, or..." So, you say to yourself: It is better to go with the flow, because it hurts too much to go against it. And then we start to please: To please family; to please friends; to please our God. Then hate starts. All of a sudden we are hating just like our parents, our friends, our society, our God. We developed hate. And the only way out of it is to forgive, and start to love. We then develop self-worth, and we realise that it's okay to be liked, and it's okay not to be liked; it's okay that other people have different views; it's okay that we are all different but one; it's okay to be wrong; it's okay to be right; and it's okay to be ME." You are an ORIGINAL WINNER!

Go On Break Her Heart Go On Break Her Heart? Let Her Think Lifes Not Worth Living? Tear Her Heart Apart But she'll always be forgiving! She Will Always Love You && she'll tell you every day But your love was too good to be true But im sure she will be Okay? Someday? It can become way to much to bare And somday this girl.. Well she just wont care She'll go on thinking lifes not fair! She'll think about you every day And she'll make you realise what you threw away Like you'll give a damn tho? She knows its time for her to go? For shes threatened by tha fate of people saying 'told yah so' She will always love you! But i guess for her second best will have to do! You'll be forever in her heart But sometimes whats torn is best to be kept apart!

If you read enough leadership books you will realise that to succeed you need to become an improbable mix of Nelson Mandela, Lord Nelson, Machiavelli, Churchill, Genghis Khan and Mother Teresa all put together. Some bosses think they are already that good: they are normally bosses who are well worth avoiding.

I have no money, not even the wooden disks they use for trade in Arasha. And my pack held the only items of any worth." "That is why," Velran said, "You must invest in security." "Do you realise that I understand less than half of what comes out of your mouth?" Raziel scowled at his companion, poking at the fire with unnecessary vehemence.

The gears of his mindscape began to spin without his input. What would it even mean to break a person with a single question? It sounded like an extraordinary power, but then again, what if the person broken was him? What if it was Hinata? You couldn’t unask a question, as he’d learned when he found out about the Demon Fox. And you couldn’t predict the long-term consequences of asking one, even if it was as simple as a request to be taught. But if he could open someone’s eyes to a new way of seeing the world, might the risk it be worth it? Watching someone awaken to a broader, more liberating perspective was a thing of incomparable beauty. Naruto was reminded of that every time he watched Hinata grow. And what was the alternative to honesty anyway? Lying to himself? Not trying to discover the truth when he knew it was out there? Naruto couldn’t see himself as a person who would willingly choose to do that. He couldn’t see, now that the question had been asked, how he could choose not to step onto the path. That, he realised with a start, was his example of a question that changed someone forever.

Human labour power is a unique commodity in that it produces surplus value – the amount of value that goes to the capitalist after the worker has been ‘paid’ for the part of the day that equates to the amount they and their family need to live on. The working day is split into two parts: necessary labour time and surplus labour time. Necessary labour time is the time it takes the worker (on average) to produce enough value to buy the commodities they need to reproduce themselves, ie to stay what is socially considered healthy enough to continue working. Surplus labour time is the time the worker works beyond necessary labour time. Since the going rate for labour power is necessary labour time, surplus labour time is surplus value that goes to the capitalist, realised through the sale of the commodities workers produce. For example: a worker in a toy factory is paid £10 a day to work 10 hours; she produces 10 toys a day, and a toy is worth £10 each. The capitalist is only paying the worker for her ability to work one hour each day to produce enough value to reproduce herself (one toy = one hour’s labour = £10). Her necessary labour time is one hour, and her surplus labour time that goes to the capitalist is nine hours. If the worker needs £10 a day to reproduce herself, then that £10 is the value of her labour power. If the capitalist cuts the daily wage below £10, he has pushed the wage below the value of labour power. (Indeed, struggles for better wages are usually struggles to push them back up to the proper value of labour power.) The price of labour power is determined like the price of any other commodity – on average, the cost of its production, ie necessary labour time. But if commodities are sold for the cost of their production then how does the capitalist make any profit? The capitalist purchases the worker’s human labour power  – the ability to work –  but, uniquely, always ends up with more than the amount it cost to purchase the commodity. The wage obscures the fact that the capitalist has only paid for necessary labour time. (Marx calls the social relations that are concealed by economic relations commodity fetishism.) Profit then is essentially unpaid labour. Wage labour is – especially for the poorest workers whose daily subsistence depends exclusively on the sale of their labour-power – wage-slavery. Marx’s investigations led him to realise that his analysis of capitalism must start with the commodity, since capitalism “presents itself as an immense accumulation of commodities”.[66] What all commodities have in common is that they are all exchangeable  –  they all possess exchange-value. And as they are all products of labour, what they all have in common which gives them this exchange-value is general human labour in the abstract. Therefore, the total value of all commodities is determined by total socially necessary labour time – how long they took to produce. (The socially necessary labour time of each finished product includes that of each component that goes into it.)

Socialism will not make us angels upon earth; it will only put a premium upon our better qualities instead of upon our baser, as is done by capitalism today. And that itself would be worth a revolution to realise, or a thousand revolutions.

Stop admiring and appreciating people so that they may realise your worth.

I don’t believe my own press anymore – I don’t mean written: my own self-manufactured definition of my motivations, my intention. I realise even that’s dressed up: ‘Oh, well I did that for love of God or did that for love of neighbour.’ Well, Richard, maybe… Once you stop believing your own press – the normal phrase we use for that is ‘to stop taking yourself seriously’ – then I do believe your true self, even your true enneagram self, can rise. Can show itself. Which is really rather good… I’ve never been humorous my whole life and yet in the last year more and more people tell me I’m funny. I still don’t think I am but … I think that’s the showing of it, that I am taking myself less seriously. Once you do that the virtue of sincere caring or compassion can show itself. Because you’re not constrained by this self-analysis and this self-critique which keeps you self-absorbed. And now I don’t care so much whether I’m good or bad or right or wrong. I know that sounds immoral. It actually isn’t. I don’t think. I don’t think, yeah. So… I was too moral. Although it wasn’t moral at all, you follow me? It was always moral by my definition . And in most cases, ended up being my worst faults. That I could only see in time my over-moralising about ‘This is the right thing to do. Therefore: he’s right, she’s wrong’. The payoff was just not worth it. Because you’ve projected it onto everybody else, you know… Even identity issues like American, Christian, Catholic, uh, the three vows of religious life… All the things that I guided my life on, made me critical of people who weren’t that way. ‘Well, he’s sleeping around all the time, every day. So he isn’t as good as me.’ It’s just, who cares? I couldn’t hold that any longer and be a loving person. By making my moral decisions the criteria of judgement or of analysis. So I had to let go of it and I found myself much wiser and I think much happier. So why not trust that?

It is a crowning moment to witness someone realise that you love yourself more than you love them. That you want yourself more than you want them. I will become a collector of such crowns, they shall line my walls and windows.

I walk away feeling that something’s not quite right. On the tram home, I realise why: this is completely alien to me because I’ve never done it before. But this is what grown-up dating is like. You go out, you chat, you get to know each other, and over several dates you gradually build up a connection based on mutual respect, trust, and attraction. Until now, I’ve been unwilling to wait; I’ve tried to hurry that spark into a six-foot-tall flame of passion by dousing it in alcohol. I thought if I could initiate physical contact — a kiss, a grope, or a shag — I’d know that the guy was interested. Now I can see that all it meant was he was pissed and horny. Even if I never hear from this guy again, tonight will have been worth it for that revelation alone.

The real foundation of love lies in being shared instead of keeping everything to yourself.

The floor was red cement. Sister Ambrose’s desk was very smooth. The chair Kirabo sat on did not care. The thing about objects is they don’t realise how lucky they are. Sometimes life was not worth the pain.

By saving another person, one tries to be saved oneself. By passing oneself off as a kind of saviour, one attempts to realise one’s own worth. This is one form of the superiority complex that people who cannot dispel their feelings of inferiority often fall into, and it is generally referred to as a messiah complex. It is a mental perversion of wanting to be a messiah, a saviour of others.

The important thing to you was to do something different from everyone else. If you went into the same line of work as your father and your brother, you would not be able to garner attention, and you would not be able to realise your own worth.

I is for me. I cannot believe how much I have fucked up in love. At least, physically. I don’t believe I have mentally. For some weird reason, all of my tiny horrors have been liveable. I have not died. In fact, life has become better. Through age and experience there has come realisation: life is worth living.

IT’S THE LITTLE THINGS We’ve been taught from such a young age that happiness is meant to be this big.Most of us are led to believe that happiness is the only final destination. We are taught that ,once we finally finally find it ,we’ll be forever satisfied in our lives so we live feeling overwhelmed and inadequate. BUT,the reality is that it is flawed “Happiness” is not the destination. I don’t think happiness is only big!! I think real happiness exists in the small things. Someone once said, “live for the little things in your life.” Live for the hot cup of coffee in the morning , Live for the days when you are surrounded by your loved ones or the sound of your parents voice. Live for those mornings and nights when you are happiest of all times. Live for the prettiest colours of skies with your favourite music playing nearby. Live for the moments when you laughed so hard that your stomach hurted and the every other thing, that made you feel electrified, and for the sudden realisation in your body that gives you comfort. It is these things in your life that makes you feel grateful and takes up the most room in your heart. The real happiness exists in finding the human beings who truly see youu ,who takes care of your soul! It exists in finding things that makes is feel known,special and at peace in this cold,harsh world,Who makes us realise that what is life and gives you the will to live . The little things?! The little moments?! And yes these are the only tiniest moments of our life that makes us feel loved and makes our heart smile:) Thus makes our life worth living -Zubia Ayman

My vision is to bring the goodness in people and make them realise their worth in the presence of others.

Makes you realise that all the beautiful parts aren't even worth it. Without the beautiful, you'll never risk feeling this. - So you give up. You give it all up. You never want love again, no matter what kind it is, because no type of love will ever be worth living through the ugly love again.

At stage 1, the relationship begins with passion. You hold your partner in high regard, praise them, give them all your attention and hope or expect them to do the same. You probably,and without realising it, inflate the positives and might feel like they are “the one.” As the relationship progresses to stage 2, you become more sensitive to words and actions that could possibly hold even the slightest hint of negativity. You may fixate on the smallest of things like a late reply to their text or a missed call, and begin to question their motives and interest. This comes from a place of anxiety, a fear of abandonment and low self-worth. The symptoms of BPD will start to flare up and interfere. At stage 3, the relationship can take on a different tone again. You might start testing out your partner,deliberately push them away or behave unacceptably .You might cause arguments for no reason just to see how willing they are to fight for the relationship. Stage 4 rolls around and you will start to distance yourself from the love of your life, letting the relationship spiral downward because at that point, you are convinced that they are going to leave you. This is really painful for you. You don’t want them to leave, and they don’t want to leave you either. When they express confusion, you will hide away your real feelings and pretend that everything is fine. Stage 5 may be where the relationship ends, especially if your partner isn't aware yet that you are Borderline or just what that means ie this is the playing out of symptoms and not what you really want. Borderlines experience intense mood swings, ranging from sadness at the loss of the relationship to anger against the other person. The fear of abandonment becomes a reality and it fuels your emotional lability. There may be attempts by them to resolve things but if the relationship is really over, then we’re at stage 6, where the Borderline might spiral downward and experience a bout of severe depression. They may give into their thoughts of low self-worth and even resort to reckless behaviors and self-harming to seek distraction and relief. If the relationship hasn’t ended, the cycle may start all over again. The occurrence of this cycle and its intensity depends on whether or not you are managing your illness by seeking professional help, and if you have other sources of emotional support. The BPD cycle is not a sure thing to happen for people that have or know someone with BPD, nor is it an official symptom of the condition. However it is really very common and even if not officially a symptom ,it is symptomatic. The idea that people with BPD cannot ‘hold down’ relationships, however, is a misconception and as a matter of fact, many people with BPD do have healthy and successful relationships, especially if they have been in, or are going through therapy. Because of the intensity of their emotions ,Borderlines can be the most loving, caring empathic and fun partners. 6 “SOMEONE…HELP ME, PLEASE.” - DIALECTICAL BEHAVIOR THERAPY “I just got diagnosed.

We look about the world, by the light we have made, and realise it’s all vulnerable, and all worth saving, and no one can do it but us.

She realised that taking matters into her own hands and taking action had subtly changed their relationship. She was now in control, she had found strength, and somehow she believed that he would change and that those awful days were behind her.

The entirety of our observable universe is an irrelevant pocket of dust in the wider cosmos, which extends way beyond the visible horizon and is conceivably infinite in extent, and I think society has come to terms with this sort of physical irrelevance. It’s hard to look at the Hubble Ultra Deep Field Image, containing over ten thousand galaxies in a piece of the night sky you’d cover very comfortably with an outstretched thumb, and feel important. Our spiritual demotion, however, is an entirely different matter. By spiritual demotion, I mean the realisation that our very existence has no more significance than our physical location. This is surely the case if life is the inevitable result of the action of the same set of natural laws that formed the stars and planets. Earth must be one of countless billions of living worlds in the Milky Way galaxy alone. This is absolutely not to suggest that our civilisation is not worth celebrating and fighting to preserve – it is my view that civilisations may be extremely rare, even if life is common.

Boys evaluate themselves and feel ‘less’ that what they want to be; but it is not the comparison to others that is the problem here — it is the belief that they cannot be as developed, skilful, athletic, intelligent, mature and strong as they would like to be: this is what ‘breaks’ the boy as he looks upon those who are ‘more’ than him in some way. The comparison to others only exposes a desire in them, to be more, just as those others have become more in their way; but the trauma of the realisation that they would never be that, is what shatters the inner self. It is the death of hope — the hope all children are born with — that shatters the boy’s inner self into pieces which he then spends a lifetime trying to collect and organise in hope of putting up a facade that would somehow make life easier and worth living. ‘It’s just who I am’, such a heart-broken boy would say to himself as he comes face-to-face with his own limitations. Having been deprived of what was needed to help him become the man he would have liked to be, having then been judged for being something he wouldn’t particularly have chosen to be, he then judges himself and believes that this is the hand he had been dealt by fate... Then, disappointed by his own self and lacking a strong, wise presence to direct him away from making unhealthy agreements that would shape his future personality and life, he has only one choice: to look at himself as he currently is, and make a judgement based on what he sees. What follows is always tragic... Not fully possessing the 'natural' feelings of self worth, confidence and boyish wonder, (which only come as that ‘seed’ is nurtured with much love and physical affection, first by the mother, later by the father) the boy does not feel whole, strong, and 'good enough' to think that he is indeed a man, that he does have the seed of manhood within himself... Therefore, instead of being fully open and eager to receive more and learn more, he shuts down, covering what he sees as emptiness in him, with falsehood, pretending the empty places have been filled, that he is indeed a strong, confident man. He learns to feel scorn for the ‘needy’ little boy within and he ‘moves on’ into adulthood without him. From that moment on, a part of him — that little boy; that particular aspect of himself he has been disappointed in — is pushed out of reach, out of sight, and out of his conscious life.

I survived being Australian of the Year because I knew already that it wouldn't be a true reflection of my worth. I knew it would be ugly, at least in part. I came equipped with a glimpse of fame that made me realise two profound things. One is that people's ideas of it will always be warped from the outside and there's little that can be done to control that. The other being that you don't have to let it warp you if you hold on to what is most dear. (p.298)

Feyre,' Lucien pleaded, and dared another step, his hand outraised. My arrow angled toward him, my bowstring groaning. I'd never realised that while Lucien had been trained as a warrior, Cassian, Azriel, Mor, and Rhys were warriors. Cassian could wipe Lucien off the face of the earth in a single blow. 'Put the arrow down,' Lucien murmured, like he was soothing a wild animal. Behind him, the four sentinels closed in. Herding me. The High Lord's pet and possession. 'Don't,' I breathed. 'Touch. Me.' 'You don't understand the mess we're in, Feyre. We- I need you home. Now.' I didn't want to hear it. Peering at the stream below, I calculated my odds. The look cost me. Lucien lunged, hand out. One touch, that was all it'd take- I was no the High Lord's pet any longer. And maybe the world should learn that I did indeed have fangs. Lucien's finger grazed the sleeve of my leather jacket. And I became smoke and ash and night. The world stilled and bent, and there was Lucien, lunging so slowly for what was now blank space as I stepped around him, as I hurtled for the trees behind the sentinels. I stopped, and time resumed its natural flow. Lucien staggered, catching himself before he went over the cliff- and whirled, eye wide to discover me now standing behind his sentinels. Bron and Hart flinched and backed away. From me. And from Rhysand at my side. Lucien froze. I made my face a mirror of ice; the unfeeling twin to the cruel amusement on Rhysand's features as he picked at a fleck of lint on his dark tunic. Dark, elegant clothes- no wings, no fighting leathers. The unruffled, fine clothes... Another weapon. To hide just how skilled and powerful he was; to hide where he came from and what he loved. A weapon worth the cost of the magic he'd used to hide it- even if it put us at risk of being tracked.

I wanted to see if you were worth helping,' the Carver went on. 'It's a rare person to face who they truly are and not run from it- not be broken by it. That's what the Ouroboros shows all who look into it: who they are, every despicable and unholy inch. Some gaze upon it and don't realise that the horror they're seeing is them- even as the terror of it drives them mad. Some swagger in and are shattered by the small, sorry creature they find instead. But you... Yes, rare indeed. I could risk leaving here for nothing less.' Rage- blistering rage started to fill in the holes left by what I'd beheld in that mirror. 'You wanted to see if I was worthy?' That innocent people were worthy of being helped. A nod. 'I did. And you are. And now I shall help you.' I debated slamming the cell door in his face. But I only said quietly, 'Good.' I walked over to him. And I was not afraid as I grabbed the Bone Carver's cold hand. 'Then let's begin.

closely guarded secret in this country's military history. The function of SOE is to help facilitate that invasion and contribute towards its success.” It was quite a rousing little speech, and we all responded with a cheer of approval. I realised I hadn’t reasoned it through before. I thought agents worked individually to cause disruption and hinder the German war machine. I didn’t realise we were to be part of a coordinated invasion of Europe. Quite what my role might be, I hadn’t worked out yet. I suspect if I’d seriously thought about it, my confidence would have been dented enormously. Everything we had learned so far required fluent French, and try as I might, that was not going to be me. In the afternoon, we moved back outside again and quickly found ourselves standing in the firing range. Here we were introduced to weapons and explosives. If I tried to imagine a weapons expert, he wouldn’t have looked remotely like the instructor who met us. A grey-haired bespectacled man in his late fifties greeted us with a warm smile and a kind word. His soft voice belied the fact that anything he didn’t know about weapons, was not something worth knowing. He introduced us to the MK II Sten Gun. “Should any of you find yourself in a serious confrontation with the enemy, this is your weapon of choice. This is the MK II Sten Gun. This is a submachine gun, it fires a 9mm cartridge, and in the right hands it can fire 500 rounds a minute. As you can see, it is not a sophisticated weapon; it comes with many advantages as well as some disadvantages. Its light, compact design combined with the folding stock, make it ideal for subversive activities. It is also very cheap to produce, this

I enjoy working very hard!” I didn’t believe him. No one likes working hard because, you know, it’s hard. People only like hard work when it’s finished. That’s when you realise it was worth it.

Time traveller He calls himself a time traveller, He travels anywhere and anytime, He is a very adept traveller, Who knows how to bypass time, We once met suddenly, When the traveller was travelling the highway of life, He was pacing very efficiently, And that day I happened to be on the same highway of life, As I was about to cross a junction, He stopped there too, And enquired if I knew how this highway of life did function? “I may not know that better than you,” Was my polite and slow answer, “Ah haa, you appear to be a stranger on this highway, Come let me introduce you to few tricks old and quite a few newer, So, come let us go this way.” Said the traveller as we both stepped on the highway, And paced towards a destination of his choosing, It was a beautiful experience anyway, Though his few ways were very amusing, Then we stopped at a far away corner, And he pulled something from his bag, He was smart but this thing seemed smarter, He opened it and removed the safety tag, Now he turned to me and said, “Look at the sky, what do you see?” And I without being reticent said, “The sky, the Sun, that is all I see,” Looking at me he replied, “I thought so, and here is the fact, You see the sky and just the Sun, But you miss the real act, Time invested cannot be undone, You see I am a time traveller and I travel with it, Today on this highway, tomorrow on another, But I never miss the destination even by a bit, And as we were walking together, I asked you what you see when you look at the sky, You should have said, nothing, I have no time for it, Because the Sun will be there, so will be the sky, Being the time travellers we are not allowed to sit, We have to keep on moving and always seeking, Until we reach our destiny, Now this for you is my lesson worth heeding, If you are to find your final destiny, So let the Sun be, let the stars shine, and let the sky spread its magical blue, You keep travelling, moving, from one destination to another, Then you shall be a time traveller too, Like none other, like none other, So we switched lanes on the highway, He rode in a direction new, And now I was a lone rider on my life’s highway, Having realised what is known to just a few, That to be the time traveller, We should not wander but travel with a fixed aim, Because a true traveller is like a true lover, Who knows love and destiny are not a game, So for the real time traveller, it is always one destiny and one love, Though crossing many destinations is a part of it all, But the passion for love and to love, Supercedes the lure of destinations all! Now I often see the time traveller on the highways that I cross, We just bow our heads and move ahead, Because we have a destination to cross, To reach the final destiny of love, and in this pursuit we shall always stay ahead!

After the war, I was in a bad place. I still am, I suppose, but for more than a year after the war...' She couldn't look Gwyn in the eye. 'I did a lot of things I regret. Hurt people I regret harming. And I hurt myself. I drank day and night and I...' She didn't want to say the word to Gwyn- fucked- so she said, 'I took strangers to my bed. To punish myself, to drown myself.' She shrugged a shoulder. 'It's a long story, and not one worth telling, but through it all, I picked taverns and pleasure halls to frequent because of the music. I've always loved music.' She braced herself for the damning judgement. But only sorrow filled Gwyn's face. 'You've probably guessed that my residency in the House, my training, my work in the library is my sister's attempt to help me.' Her sister whom she had still not apologised to, whom she still didn't have the courage to face. 'And I... I think I might be glad Feyre did this for me. The drinking, the males- I don't miss any of it. But the music... that I miss.' Nesta waved a hand, as if she could banish the vulnerability she'd offered up. But she went on, 'And since I'm not particularly welcome in the city, I was hoping you meant it when you said I could come to one of your services. Just so I can hear some music again.' Gwyn's eyes shone, like the sunlight on a warm sea. Nesta's heart thundered, waiting for her reply. But Gwyn said, 'Your story is worth telling, you know.' Nesta began to object, but Gwyn insisted, 'It is. But yes- if you want music, then come to the services. We will be glad to have you. I will be glad to have you.' Until Gwyn learned how horrible she'd been. 'No,' Gwyn said, apparently reading the thought on her face. She grabbed Nesta's hand. 'You... I understand.' Nesta heard Gwyn's own heart begin thundering. 'I understand,' Gwyn repeated, 'what it is to... fail the people who mean the most. To live in fear of people finding out. I dread you and Emerie learning my history. I know that once you do, you'll never look at me the same again.' Gwyn squeezed Nesta's hand. Her story would come later. Nesta let her see it in her face, that when Gwyn was ready, nothing she could reveal would make her walk away. 'Come to the service this evening,' Gwyn said. 'Listen to the music.' She squeezed her hand again. 'You'll always be welcome to join me, Nesta.' Nesta hadn't realised how badly she'd needed to hear it. She squeezed Gwyn's hand back.

The world had always loved the saint as being the nearest possible approach to the perfection of God. Christ, through some divine instinct in him, seems to have always loved the sinner as being the nearest possible approach to the perfection of man. His primary desire was not to reform people, any more than his primary desire was to a relieve suffering. To turn an interesting thief into a tedious honest man was not his aim. He would have thought little of the Prisoners’ Aid Society and other modern movements of the kind. The conversion of a publican into a Pharisee would not have seemed to him a great achievement. But in a manner not yet understood of the world he regarded sin and suffering as being in themselves beautiful holy things and modes of perfection. It seems a very dangerous idea. It is — all great ideas are dangerous. That it was Christ’s creed admits of no doubt. That it is the true creed I don’t doubt myself. Of course the sinner must repent. But why? Simply because otherwise he would be unable to realise what he had done. The moment of repentance is the moment of initiation. More than that: it is the means by which one alters one’s past. The Greeks thought that impossible. They often say in their Gnomic aphorisms, ‘Even the Gods cannot alter the past.’ Christ showed that the commonest sinner could do it, that it was the one thing he could do. Christ, had he been asked, would have said — I feel quite certain about it — that the moment the prodigal son fell on his knees and wept, he made his having wasted his substance with harlots, his swine-herding and hungering for the husks they ate, beautiful and holy moments in his life. It is difficult for most people to grasp the idea. I dare say one has to go to prison to understand it. If so, it may be worth while going to prison.

You’re my universe,’ he cuts in, twirls and fists a lock of my hair, wraps it round his wrist, drags a breath in. ‘And I’m a fucking supernova waiting to explode when you wake up and realise that I’m not worth it, that I’m to blame, and you leave—’ ‘You’re not a supernova,’ I whisper, hovering my lips over his, staring into his eyes. ‘You’re a fucking sun.

And if she was to find a life truly worth living, she realised she would have to cast a wider net.

When happiness hits us, we all want to cling to it as tightly and as mercilessly as possible. We want to capture it and hold it between our palms forever, not realising that we have to let it go for it to mean anything at all. That we have to keep moving onward, facing forward, steering constantly into the fearful and unknown, that all the best moments of our lives are still waiting for us on the other side. When we have to leave the things we love behind, we are allowed to mourn them, to miss them, to look back on them dejectedly and sadly. But we must never, ever forget that the best days of our lives are not all behind us, that there are more wonderful things awaiting us in the future than we could ever even fathom. That so many of our happiest days are still ahead. That we have to keep moving to get there. No matter how tempting that view in the rear view mirror is. The future we want will not arrive without our participation. And in order to get there, we have to blindly and blissfully trust that it is going to be somewhere indescribably worth going.

Let him who thinks War is a glorious, golden thing, who loves to roll forth stirring words of exhortation, invoking Honour and Praise and Valour and Love ofCountry with as thoughtless and fervid a faith as inspired the priests of Baal to call on their own slumbering deity, let him but look at a little pile of sodden grey rags that cover half a skull and a shin-bone and what might have been its ribs, or at this skeleton lying on its side, resting half crouching as it fell, perfect but that it is headless, and with the tattered clothing still draped round it; and let him realise how grand and glorious a thing it is to have distilled all Youth and Joy and Life into a foetid heap of putrescence! Who is there that has known and seen, who can say that Victory is worth the death of even one of these?

If previous generations of women were raised to believe that they could only realise themselves within the roles of wife and mother, now the opposite is thought true: It is only outside these roles that we are able to realise our full potential and worth as human beings.

Ugly love becomes you. Consumes you. Makes you hate it all. Makes you realise that all the beautiful parts aren't even worth it. Without the beautiful, you'll never risk feeling the ugly.

No,' Darsey groaned, 'not normally, but nothing about this is normal. Nothing about me is normal. Not any more.' Wing crouched beside her and she realised that somehow she was kneeling on the floor. 'Hey,' he said with a wry smile, and a frond touch so warm it made her sigh. 'It was worth it. That's my truth.' Darsey stared miserably back and he winked before sending her a memory from their afternoon together. 'Oh.' She gulped, but refused to be diverted. 'Okay, it was great, right up 'til someone lost a frond.' 'That someone was me and I repeat, it was worth it. Any-all, it's now past and done. Look at what you have.' Darsey looked down, despite herself, and the purloined organ swayed higher, to hover at eyelevel. She studied its sinuous length with fresh shock. 'It's changed.' 'So it appears. It's not just been taken by your body, but integrated too. It's now blue, because fronds are coloured by the same gene that makes eye pigment. It's also grown more long and slender, because it's a female frond. It's truly yours now.

Awake my great spirit.

Release children as part of your delegated leadership influence - this will enable you to leave a legacy worth noting. Realise the risk in delegation and bestowing this trust - if you sacrifice a rib, you expose your heart to possible pain, hurt or pride, fulfilment and joy. When these come – it’s not the end of the world, be brave enough to face the challenge with a positive attitude.

Please don’t settle for someone who doesn’t deserve you, because once you realise your true worth, walking away from those who don’t value you will become the easiest thing you ever do...

After the war there will be many thousands of women who will need to live as Our Lady did after the crucifixion. A generation of mothers will need to know, with the heart, that “there is only one boy, Jesus Christ.” The world's future will depend upon this, upon everyone's realising that the survival of all that is worth the cost of a man's blood depends upon how we foster the Christ-life in the souls of the children, and not only in the children, but in all the reborn of any age.

If you think it's finally the end of your problems, no hun, it's the beginning. Every good thing comes with it's fair amount of hardship and that's what which will make you realise it was all worth it at the end.