Scrolling Inspirational Quotes

I want to take my rightful share of life by force, I want to give lavishly, I want love to flow from my heart, to ripen and bear fruit. There are many horizons that must be visited, fruit that must be plucked, books read, and white pages in the scrolls of life to be inscribed with vivid sentences in a bold hand.

You'll enjoy it. There is much you can learn from books and scrolls," said Jeod. He gestured at the walls. "These books are my friends, my companions. They make me laugh and cry and find meaning in life." "It sounds intriguing," admitted Eragon. "Always the scholar, aren't you?" asked Brom. Jeod shrugged. "Not anymore. I'm afraid I've degenerated into a bibliophile.

If this was a movie, she’d be the young, ambitious teacher who shows up at the inner city school and inspires the fuckups, and suddenly everyone’s putting down their AKs and picking up their pencils, and the end credits scroll up to announce how all the kids got into Harvard or some shit. Instant Oscar for Hilary Swank.

The way you are self-sabotaging: Mindlessly scrolling through social media as a way to pass the time. What your subconscious mind might want you to know: This is one of the easiest ways to numb yourself, because it is so accessible and addictive. There is a world-altering difference between using social media in a healthy way versus as a coping mechanism. Mostly, it has to do with how you feel after you’re finished. If you don’t put the phone down feeling inspired or relaxed, you’re probably trying to avoid some kind of discomfort within yourself—the very discomfort that just might be telling you that you need to change.

We learn invaluable life lessons from people whom exhibit courage and grace under extraordinary circumstances.

Rohan, if being a hero is having the courage to resist using power arbitrarily, then you are a hero, beloved.

Oh these dumb dumb dumb Okies, they'll never change, how com-pletely and how unbelievably dumb, the moment it comes time to act, this paralysis, scared, hysterical, nothing frightens em more than what they WANT- it's MY FATHER MY FATER MY FATHER all over again!

What is Fate but pearls of choices strung together? What is Destiny but a path we walk on our own free will? Remember, Dark Ones, that nothing is written in the fabric of time until you decide where, when and what shall be the first verse. -- Excerpt from the Lost Chapters of the Ecliptic Scrolls

We renew our hearts and minds by exhibiting veneration for all living creatures and by unveiling a spirit of reverence and awe. Witnessing the magnificence of nature and displaying empathy for humankind is what inspires all artists.

Technology has become a crutch I'm using to get through an uncomfortable experience. Its a way of putting off the work but still convincing myself I'm doing something worthwhile. Aside from talking to my family, none of it has been worthwhile. In this instance technology is a distraction that is keeping me from feeling uncomfortable, from thinking too deeply, from doing too much. The biggest culprits behind the endless scrolling: - Boredom - procrastination - emotional discomfort - self sabotage - self loathing or dissatisfaction - habit - looking for someone or something to inspire us. Always pay attention to what we're doing and why we're doing it. Use it as a tool, not as a crutch.

A youth is susceptible to the influence of idealist notions. As a person ages, they notice a gap between their expectations and reality and they grow more pessimistic about the world and their ability to live up to the lofty notions that inspired a younger self.

We develop our whole character from our thoughts, actions, attentive observations, and from the resolute pursuit of our inspirational dreams.

Creating a self-portrait sounds easy, but to describe oneself with bandages and all, a person must place their inspirational, mundane, vulgar, and dross experiences into a fitting perspective, which entails describing how encounters with other humanoids influenced him or her.

Because...” he used to cradle his daughter in his arms every morning and often they would exchange soft nuances “...if you can dream it, if you can see it in your visions at night, if you can feel it in your soul, it’s yours! And it never really belonged to anyone else, in the first place! It was always yours!” Viera returned her scroll to the drawer and closed it, she kissed the compass around her neck and climbed into her bed under the warm quilts, the candle flame crackled and the memories of her father’s arms around her embraced her there in bed and his deep, hoarse voice resounded in her ears; “... and if you chance upon a treasure that is yours and it happens to be in the possession of someone else, it’s not very wrong to take what is yours, to take what you dreamed, what you saw in your visions at night, what you felt visit you in your spirit! Sure, it’s not lawful, but aye aye my little one, listen to me when I tell you that the best things in life are not under the laws of any sort! For which law created love? Which law created courage? The best things, the real things, are the things that are not measured by any man’s laws! Fear is the only thing that any law has ever created! And what kind of pirates would we all be if we were afraid of any of our fears, even a little!

Since death is an inevitablility and life an uncertainty, it all comes down to how we live the precious moments of our lives. When all is said and done, when you are ready to slip peacefully from this world into the next, how do you want to be remembered?

Disturbing encounters in life spur reflective thinking that jars a person from his or her exhausted ideologies and way of living. A person who lives passionately will develop a philosophic outlook because the road of excess leads to knowledge. Enthusiasm will frequently make a person look foolish, and result in intermittent periods of despondency and self-questioning, yet only exuberance and a degree of risk-taking leads us to wisdom.

If an all-powerful, benevolent God allows untold suffering, then that God is either not all-powerful or not benevolent.

A person tied to the world of sorrows can return to nature for inspiration. Nature provides solace to troubled hearts.

The platforms designed to accommodate and harvest infinite data inspired infinite scroll...people were saying nothing and saying it all the time.

A selfless person is never bored because there is too much splendor in the world – the ceaseless inspiration proffered from the exquisite images of nature – constantly to invoke ecstasy.

There were no laptops or handheld devices in class. Ilgauskas didn't exclude them; we did, sort of, unspokenly. Some of us could barely complete a thought without touch pads or scroll buttons, but we understood that high-speed data systems did not belong here. They were an assault on the environment, which was defined by length, width, and depth, with time drawn out, computed in heartbeats.

We each have 24 hours in a day. How are you going to use yours? Watching the news and scrolling on social media, or using technology as a powerful tool to accomplish your goals and live your dreams?

The personal eloquence of other people expressing aspects of nature and human condition inspire us, as do persons whom exhibit courage to gain strength when dealing with the hardships and struggles of a mortal life.

Byrn speaks and I understand him without effort, his words as clear as spring water. / Ask a favour of the plover, he says. Borrow her eyes. / Then I am flying through the air, and the flying is his song, and I am / the flying, and his words are golden ribbons scrolling about me, bearing / me along. I see the plover's wing and I am the plover. Suspended. / Above the moor. There is no longer any I, only All. / Simple. Vast. Unknown. / All to be forgot on waking, like dew on a spiderweb.

Storytelling entails weaving a narrative out of the disturbing, strange, inspirational, and unremarkable detritus of life. By picking among the litter of our personal experiences to select evocative anecdotes to weave into a narrative format, we reveal which of life’s legendary offerings prove the most sublime to us. Acts of omission are momentous. Our narration of personal sketches divulge what factoids inspire us or do not stir us into action, or contain obdurate truths that prove virtually impossible to crack.

Romantic love is deeper than reality; it is more complex, intricate, fragile, and ethereal than reality. Reality does not inspire the exhilaration and ecstasy of love. Imaginative persons whom believe in love experience the exhalation and poetic frenzy of rapture.

The jangling, dissonant sound of modern politics; the anger on cable television and the evening news; the fast pace of social media; the headlines that clash with one another when we scroll through them; the dullness, by contrast, of the bureaucracy and the courts; all of this has unnerved that part of the population that prefers unity and homogeneity. Democracy itself has always been loud and raucous, but when its rules are followed, it eventually creates consensus. The modern debate does not. Instead, it inspires in some people the desire to forcibly silence the rest.

An author’s operating charter is to unearth embedded symbols that reflect complementary and inconsistent relationships of our collective assemblage, combine harmonizing and contradictory conceptions that motivate us, and delve larger truths out of variable and erratic elements of human nature.

This scroll, five hundred years old and more, had been inspired by her favorite, the great Wang Wei, master of landscape art, who had painted the scenes from his own home, where he lived for thirty years before he died. Now behind the palace walls on this winter’s day, where she could see only sky and falling snow, Tzu His gazed upon the green landscapes of continuing spring. One landscape melted into another as slowly she unrolled the scroll, so that she might dwell upon every detail of tree and brook and distant hillside. So did she, in imagination, pass beyond the high walls which enclosed her, and she traveled through a delectable country, beside flowing brooks and spreading lakes, and following the ever-flowing river she crossed over wooden bridges and climbed the stony pathways upon a high mountainside and thence looked down a gorge to see a torrent fed by still higher springs, and breaking into waterfalls as it traveled toward the plains. Down from the mountain again she came, past small villages nestling in pine forests and into the warmer valleys among bamboo groves, and she paused in a poet’s pavilion, and so reached at last the shore where the river lost itself in a bay. There among the reeds a fisherman’s boat rose and fell upon the rising tide. Here the river ended, its horizon the open sea and the misted mountains of infinity. This scroll, Lady Miao had once told her, was the artist’s picture of the human soul, passing through the pleasantest scenes of earth to the last view of the unknown future, far beyond.

The quality of interpersonal relationships that we forge when purposefully engaging in work that advances the interest of the multitudes is the shining endorsement to a life well lived. Within the corners of each person’s private and public canvas lies his or her masterpiece. Each person’s matchless artistry provides an indelible testament to how he or she lived. A person’s lifetime body of work unequivocally expresses a road map to their innermost salvation. Only by actualizing our innate natural mind can any of us funnel our motivational forces into directional inspiration that leads us to peacefulness and wisdom. All efforts to achieve meaningful tributes to a life well lived are noisy affairs that clang in our hearts. Only through death can any of us attain a state of soundless perfection.

In our formative years, every person begins creating a self that can keep him or her company through later stages in life. It requires concentrated effort to create self-hood. The task of creating a fully developed human being is an ongoing process, an open-ended assignment. The goal of self-hood is to evade slipping into a state of thoughtlessness, where we fail to take ownership of our thoughts, deeds, and lifestyle.

We cradle in our nucleus emotional ingots gathered through studied immersion of the incongruities of life. In an elusive quest to disinter meaning out of life, we must cull joy from our daily rituals while conscientiously striving to nourish the nucleus of our buried innate essence. By discovering inner peace blossoming amongst the rubble of daily life, while determinedly searching out the cytoplasm our innate essence, a person’s reveals their inspirational tranquility.

We live a life bounded by the perception of the self. Existence entails tabulating our personal contact with reality and plumbing the substance of the self. The loftiest task of all is to dream a worthy life and then go live it without fearing the unknown. It is wonderful to live; we must cherish our time by loving other people and adoring nature. We find ourselves through trial and error. We must not allow failure, pain, disappointment, heartache, or sour feelings to daunt us because each of these emotional indexes interprets our dream world intermixing with reality.

He advanced on her to steal a quick kiss, then took her by the shoulders and just stood there for a minute, rocking back and forth from his heels to the balls of his feet, smiling down at her, looking her over. “Like your shirt,” he said. She’d forgotten what she had on. She glanced down and watched his finger trace the words that scrolled across her chest. Just that light touch of his, even through her shirt, made her shiver with longing. The message was SAY I WON’T. Above that, in smaller letters, “Tell me that I won’t do it . . and I will.” “That inspires me,” he said, with his most wicked grin. “You know how I love a challenge.

While engaged in automatic writing I strain to create a protective personal haven, ferret out a padded cell where I can rapturously hold court with the voltaic cells of the self. I labor in solitary, transfixed in a suspended state of consciousness. Freewheeling writing creates a bridgeworks to the situs where hidden gems of insight and candid genuineness wait to be unsheathed by the penetrating beam of a reflective mind trolling for inspirational insight. Probing putative desires while contemporaneously fencing with a barrage of suppressed insecurities, requires piercing protective layers of denial and traveling with teratological demons to confront the monstrous self-destructive gene lodged in the deepest recesses of a confused psyche.

The platforms, designed to accommodate and harvest infinite data, inspired an infinite scroll. They encouraged a cultural impulse to fill all spare time with someone else’s thoughts. The internet was a collective howl, an outlet for everyone to prove that they mattered. The full spectrum of human emotion infused social platforms. Grief, joy, anxiety, mundanity flowed. People were saying nothing, and saying it all the time. Strangers swapped confidences with other strangers in return for unaccredited psychological advice. They shared stories of private infidelities and public incontinence; photos of their bedroom interiors; photos, faded and cherished, of long-dead family members; photos of their miscarriages. People were giving themselves away at every opportunity.

Practical affairs task the human brain throughout the day. At night, the mind takes a deserved hiatus to consider the impossible and the absurd. In the carnage of our nighttime sleep tussles, the colored liqueurs of the true, the possible, fantasy, and the mythic beliefs become intermixed. Eyelets of the commonsensical and the imaginative are incorporated, and a new realism emerges out of our distilled perception of the veridical derived from the phenomenal realm of sensory reality and the philosophic world of ideals contained in the noumenal realm. The resultant psychobiologic vision immerses us in bouts of intoxicating inspiration and artistic stimulation and leaves us rickety boned and weakened after enduring a dreaded hangover of perpetual doubt laced with vagueness and insecurity.

I drop the phone in my lap and stare at him. “What?” he asks. “Who are you? I mean . . . you have hundreds of comments in a matter of seconds about milk-shake man and his wife.” “What are people saying?” I check again. The numbers are already way up. “Really nice things.” I scroll and hardly know what to read aloud, because the sheer volume of comments is overwhelming. I read, “‘I’ve always wanted to do something like this. Good for them. Hope they rock it out.’ Lots like that. Someone wants to know the name of the store and when they’ll be opening. Another person says . . .” I squint and then giggle. “She says that the milk-shake dude is crazy hot, and she’s single, in case his wife ends up hating milk-shake life and runs off to Barbados with the ice-cream delivery boy.” “Well, that would be a sad ending to an otherwise inspiring story.

This is the very basis of inspiration and friendship, both of which are, in essence, spiritual connections. No two people are exactly the same, though they may share fragments of each other’s personality. Some may feel so uncannily connected as to be kindred spirits, watching the world through different eyes but hearts aligned, the canvas of consciousness cast in common colors, struggling to express the same thoughts and gleefully snapping their fingers when the other puts it just right, finishing each other’s sentences on page, screen, or scroll—across the decades, centuries, millennia. Great men and women influence “a number of people,” even after they die. People will take up their mantle and continue the endless work of human progress. By giving new voice to the echoes fading in time, we elevate both ourselves and the person from whom we draw inspiration. Our souls interpenetrate through the broken chains of eternity, and through us, they live once again.

Objective motives and subjective compulsions that incite a person to write is the decisive element in defining the writer’s unique voice. Anyone who does not understand oneself or is unwilling to ferret out their own buried, true identity and publicly unmask the hidden stranger that resides within us all will never be a person who can bridge a connection with other people who share similar thoughts, feelings, wants, and needs. Lacking critical discernment, this want-a-be writer will remain a cosseted imposter, playing a coldhearted game of charades. If a person is unwilling to peel back the craggy mask that we conceal ourselves behind and explore the seeds of inner awareness wrapped inside the enigma of doubt engulfing all people, one can still aim to be a writer of nonfiction or technical journals. Creative writing, in sharp contrast, is for the intrepid cliff dwellers, the recluses willing to mine the soft belly of their internal psychosis.

At first, as I met her, l thought she was lost until she said, "Of the rest of world, I am not afraid, Some of those who inspired me where not from here People come to me not to become, but to be I like them the way they are, they add color to my blue sea I am the friend of the restless, see them as brighter as they can be See them as they see me Restful in my arms, yet invisible is my nurturing light They smile now, nothing more precious to a mother than a happy child who is polite I am the star you want to see, the hope you want to set free Mine is the Commonwealth of the world to be" Before she walked away, she flipped a toonie into my direction and said, "Not much, but remember to give back." Those who know her are smitten by her grace Those who don't know her seek her embrace It is said that she watches over the northern abode of the gods, the gates of which, when she blushes, are marked by northern lights A rising majestic colourful totem of peace signals her tempered western profile It is her birthday tomorrow and I ask, "What do you give a beautiful lady who has everything?" Lady Canada says, "just a genuine smile.

What we glean from watching or actively participating in sporting contests is the sense of commitment needed to succeed and the diverse paths that lead to failure.

Akin to any other task that calls for the unionization of the mind, the body, and the spirit, propulsive writing is an act of creation and revelation. Writing inspires mental and spiritual advancement – growth of the mind and soul – through the dynamic and alarming process of investigation, reflection, and analysis.

Useful narrative writing calls for inspiration and imagination fueled by passion and tempered by compassion, a delicate tightrope for any paper tiger to walk. To venture into deep waters where a person never before journeyed is to tempt a dangerous liaison with fate. A cautionary edict proclaims that a wise person should stay out of such heady waters, an admonitory diktat that exempts only rare people blessed with the split-brain temperament of an alpha/omega ambivert. Writing is an activity best suited for a freewheeling optimist who exhibits genuine enthusiasm for life’s rollercoaster ride immured shoulder to shoulder with a pensive recluse as a platonic traveling companion to eyewitness, record, and shed enlightenment upon a person’s journey through the vortex of infinite time and space.

Spending all day scrolling through Facebook is to stop our own progress to see how others progress in life...

Akin to any other human being’s creations composed from inspirational toil, the textual rendering of a person depicted in personal essay writing asserts an existence independent of the author. A personal writing voice speaks to me from a secluded mental closet. Writing makes private mental musings a public act.

Sleep frees the soul from the fetters of latent terrors and from the dreariness of material reality. Guiding dreams provide us with a forecast of the future. An optimistic dream or a frightful nightmare can manifest from suppressed ambition, a vivid daytime experience, a repressed memory, an undeveloped or unheeded thought, an ignored sensation, or an overlooked occurrence.

Thinking is a form of action, a means of activating our most cherished dreams. We can dwell in a negative world of grief, sadness, and misery or positively transform our patterns of thinking in order to dwell in a world of joy, gratitude, and wonder. Without thoughtful action we are inert beings cast amongst the living dead.

Inspirational dreams stimulate us to explore and inquire. Constructive dreams encourage us to solve intractable problems and defeat our competitors. Working on personal or professional problems throughout a dreamy night assists us surmount personal frustrations, overcome cognitive obstructions, and surmount somatic barriers. Sensual dreams endorse pair bonding; promote the principle of natural selection, the desire of the individual to find the best mate and to achieve the optimum genetic mixing. Carnal dreams stimulate the human reflex to reproduce the species; such dreams oftentimes conflict with human values of fidelity and mating for life. Nightmares act as omens, warning us to beware of dangers. Lurid dreams signal us to exercise caution and personal restraint.

Humble people are respectful and accepting of our imperfect human nature. Many inexplicable components make up the vast sea of humanity. My own psyche contains enigmatic elements. Through conscientious studying other people and examination of my own unfathomable nature, I hope to gain a better understanding of the mystery of existence. There are limitations of human knowledge. We have a rich stable of resources available to us including the opportunity to read great literature, inspirational books, self-help books, scholarly psychology books, and a growing trove of cognitive sciences books devoted to exploring how the human brain works. Despite the illustrious resources that expound upon the desires, motives, and behaviors of the human species, the hardships of life frequently force us to realize we are the principal subject that we must study and understand in order to mend a broken personality. In order revive a deflated psyche and transcend into a better and sunnier version of the self, I need to know myself.

A myriad of reasons contribute to writer’s block including anxiety, neurological impediments associated with the fight or flight concept, life changes of the writer, fear of rejection, fatigue, illness, sleep deprivation, mood disorders, drug or alcohol abuse, lack of inspiration, distraction by pressing events, and other diversionary interests.

All experiences change us and personal writing is one of the most powerful agencies of change. The person who wrote these personal essays no longer exists. This unbosoming script swallowed the shadow of my former persona.

Regardless of how low a person stoops, it is never too late to uncover a redemptive epiphany. Can I mine an inspirational ray of motivation from my darkest thoughts that allows me to confront the commonplace disorders and tragic interruptions of life? What physical, mental, and emotional strumming make up the tinderbox that produces the moral tension that gives meaning to the life of an ordinary person? Amongst the chaos, confusion, and compromises that mark existence, how do we go about understanding ourselves? How do we become in touch with our personal band of raw emotions? Does self-transformation commence by admitting illicit impulses, irrational thoughts, disturbing habits, mythic misgivings, and stinted worldview? Do we learn through deconstructing our maverick experiences or through intellectual abstraction? In order to move forward in life, is it sometimes necessary to dissect ourselves? Would it prove helpful systematically to take apart nightmarish experiences that seemly never let go of a person?

We must live life in the present as shaped by the past. The option to begin afresh does not exist. The past days and nights were the sacrificial coals that fired an internal furnace. The dying embers fueled my present being. I need to locate new nutrients to revitalize an unfulfilled soul. I seek to unearth fresh energy sources and forge a renewed resoluteness to slog through the remainder of this gaseous and hard-pressed sojourn. Any prior personal inspiration for living righteously was lost on a remote outpost somewhere along the fractured trail. I go on because I must. I trust that if I industrially seek, I shall ascertain a purpose in life that currently eludes me. If I tread long enough, if I assiduously track sufficient true miles, I shall discover a purpose that fits me. I continue to push forward with an unbowed determination, navigate into the deep unknown with the confidence of an experienced admiral who knows that if he endures the gale forces of self-doubt and persist despite all setbacks that he will discover what he seeks. A person must rely upon personal consciousness as a guiding compass into penetrating the unalleviated obscurity that shrouds the way. I shall always resist the easy path, because it leads to an apocalyptic demise.

Essayist and poets share many of the same alluring keystrokes, even if they are rather rabid about asserting their notable pedigree differences. The writer and the poet use the juxtaposition of words to create a lovely portrayal of the touches of sweetness and the bitter edges of life. By doing so, they clarify and affirm the bewildering array of inconsistencies, ironies, absurdities, delights, and enigmas that describe what it entails to be fully alive. Each artistic form serves the same essential purpose, which is to investigate, ponder, and explain the bouquets of comedy and tragedy, covenants of love and mercy, and stones of anger and hatred that compulsory merger contextualize human life. By linking words that explore the chaos and silence within all of nature, essayists and poets’ labor serves to uplift the author and inspire their brethren.

We live in an external world that is constantly undergoing alteration. Like every splendid and delicate aspect of nature, we are all fated to crumble and fall akin to the magenta leaves of autumn foliage. Until we die, we act as the architect of our diversified internal world. Our dreams and desires can lull us or inspire us.

Instead of adapting to goodness, we celebrate goodness.” “We become greater participants in our lives as opposed to spectators.” The phrase “adapting to goodness” reminds me of a quote I’ve seen all over social media: “Remember the day you prayed for the things you have now.” I normally scroll right past the heavy inspirational quotes, but this one got my attention. I think adapting to goodness without feeling gratitude is a function of scarcity. We either want things for the wrong reasons, then feel disappointed when we acquire them, or we just can’t accumulate enough to feel whole, so we accumulate and adapt, never valuing or appreciating.

In recent years the number of Chinese (and particularly Taiwanese) pilgrims visiting the Buddhist holy sites in India has reached unprecedented heights: today at Bodh Gaya pilgrims from China and Taiwan now outnumber all the others put together. On arrival, they are greeted by a large statue of Xuanzang, striding towards Nalanda with a backpack full of scrolls, a small memorial to an often forgotten time when the Chinese looked towards India for guidance and inspiration.

Remind yourself that every second spent scrolling through social media is one you will never get back.

We are each authors of a self-concocted depiction establishing our present day identity. Our persona is woven from a range of truths interweaved with inspired imagination and occasionally bounded by convenient falsehoods. Creating our personal story generates an identity myth that allows us to carry on.

Reading books makes us more attentive to our personage and the aesthetic world that we live in. Writers that we idolize use language, logic, and nuance to paint physical and emotional scenes with refined precision. A writer’s use of vivid language creates lingering aftereffects that work their wonder on the reader’s malleable mind. A stirred mind resurrects our semiconscious memories; it causes us to summon up enduring images of our family, friends, and acquaintances. Just as importantly, inspirational writing makes us recognize our own telling character traits and identify our formerly unexpressed thoughts and feelings.

A person gathers all their resources to compose a foursquare philosophy for surviving each day, an engagement driving at a union of seemly inapposite associations to spotlight an androgyny of inspiration for living better. Combating self-alienation, roving after dusk without a map, unsure of the topography that lies ahead, a sincere pathfinder tentatively picks their way by using penetrating low beams and flashing wide-angle high beams. Only by continuing on the bewildering path, can we find what we seek. The writer peers into the encasement of gloom seeking out a deferential of lightness and darkness in the midst of the incongruous elements that foreshadow a person’s peripatetic quest to steer a meaningful life. By displaying the coexistence and intersection of blackened sequential realism overlaid on a snowy field of internalized temporal legend, the narrator assiduously lumbers to shed a ban of moonlight on the battered pages of their brash secular existence.

A person’s life is a bounded thing that must end. We will leave this earth with unfinished business. Regardless of the outcome of this writing project, I toyed with it long enough. I reconnoitered the world of fantasy and reality, manipulated ideas into sentences, and linked sentences into paragraphs. I peered into the past, weighed the present, and calculated the ramifications of living to experience the future. I told personal lies searching for universal truths and took ample liberty of the notion of an artistic license to make believe. I kicked the dirt, gazed into the sky, and sat under a tree waiting for inspiration. I examined my capacity for mental stagnation and self-deception. I meditated on the aesthetics of despair. I traveled many mental tributaries, and exhausted myself exploring worlds made of vapor. What I was once certain about I am now full of doubt. What I once doubted I now trust. I wrote the way a drunken man walks, rambling, staggering, jerking, and falling down. I retraced my steps to find my way back to the beginning, and erased my steps to arrive at the finale. Thankfully, the ending is coming, and I am finally ready.

The Dead Sea Scrolls predated the earliest extant text—Masoretic—by more than a millennium.3 Yet when compared to one another, differences in style and spelling were noted but no significant difference in substance.

A person writes similar to how a blind person uses brail. We grope along the palpable corridors of the mind’s organic texture to locate an escape route from a world of obscurity. In our wintry moments, we seek to escape coldblooded suffering. We labor to build a cozy mental environment that we can occupy in peace, a warm hearth to snuggle up against with comforting thoughts. We seek inspiration while immersed in the hothouse of nature. We write stories in an effort to construct a theater where we can shock ourselves into realizing the miracle of living.

It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.

The ruby wine in the golden goblet Is soul-inspiring, as it were a beautiful pearl. Welcome is the fire of desire to those inspired with love! Welcome are the delightful pains of the lords of love!

When employees feel set up to succeed, they love working. Work becomes a major source of personal fulfillment and satisfaction. Generally, employees would prefer to engage in meaningful and proportionately challenging work rather than to sit at their desk and scroll on social media all day. Employees want to put their abilities to use when the impact is seen and celebrated. They want that bucket of berries they foraged for to be noticed and enjoyed by others. Otherwise, what is the purpose? They want to experience how good it feels to meet expectations and be seen as contributing, competent, and important. It’s how we’re wired.

Embracing the possible immediacy of dying shocks a writer’s lethargic and disdainful mind to attention, and this enlivened mental state assists them explore the possibilities of living purposefully. Invigorated mental activity examines how a person can enjoy a more enchanting existence by devotedly working on self-improvement.

Trampled upon by an unruly hoard of life-altering tribulations, we subliminally search for a path leading to spiritual salvation. A scrupulous chart demarking the deliverance of one person onto the road of recovery hews a lifeline of inspiration for other people to grasp.

But hold this in your minds: the Queen of Crows can forbid our Day of Remembering, but even she cannot erase our memories. She can burn books and scrolls on blazing pyres in her great stone courtyards, but ink and parchment only hold the shape of stories. As long as there are those to tell them, no flames can burn our tales away. The queen can send snakes to snatch our voices, but words aren’t always necessary. She can't kill the truth!

What’s another word for comfort?” ask, “What are images of comfort?” or, “When I think of comfort, what memories come up?” Or try a Google image search for “comfort”. You’ll scroll through images of hammocks, beanbag chairs, thick woolly socks, and wood-burning fireplaces. You’ll see a cup of hot chocolate, mom’s baked mac n’ cheese, a hug from a grandma, or a cuddle with a sleeping puppy. All of these images should inspire something more visceral than a word on thesaurus.com

By staying true to yourself You will discover what makes a person whole History written down in your heart’s scroll

One culture invents clay tablets. Others- ink, scrolls, papyrus, print... But somehow, all the classics are written by another.

We are a culture that confuses busyness with purpose. Social media with connection. Instagram scrolling with therapy and spiritual direction. Wealth with wellbeing. And self-obsession with vulnerability.

Luckily (and yep, that’s total sarcasm) Pamela Tolbert stepped in to take over Lane’s class. She’s new to Briar University, and she’s the kind of prof who wants you to make connections and “engage” with the material. If this was a movie, she’d be the young, ambitious teacher who shows up at the inner city school and inspires the fuckups, and suddenly everyone’s putting down their AKs and picking up their pencils, and the end credits scroll up to announce how all the kids got into Harvard or some shit. Instant Oscar for Hilary Swank.

Ayesha’s memories of Syria are fractured. She relives a feeling of constant exhaustion, of feeling unsafe, and then those moments before the injury. Her thoughts shift to the aftermath, the vision of displaced persons flooding over Turkey’s border and back into Syria, even while the conflict peaked. But even after endless painful and traumatic surgeries, Ayesha sits in bed with her schoolbooks and shrugs. “Never give in, never give up,” she stresses, scrolling through her toddler photographs — evidence of the life “before.” “Even when you think hope is lost, it will be back in you.” Nothing is permanent, I think to myself. We may not be able to alter the experience of what has happened to us, but sunshine eventually casts aside even the gloomiest days. If we are willing to ride it out, the prospect of betterment always returns.

She reached the end of the ranks, turned her mount round and began retracing her route. 'Who are you? I know who you are. What have you done? You have stayed with me since the very beginning. Soldiers, hear me! This day is already lost to history, and all that happens here shall remain for ever unknown. On this day, you are unwitnessed. 'Except for the soldier to either side of you. They shall witness. And I tell you this, those soldiers to either side of you, they are all that matters. The historians' scrolls have no time for soldiers like you – I know, for I have read hundreds of them. They yield a handful of words to speak of defeat or victory. Perhaps, if so warranted, they will make mention of great valour, extraordinary courage, but the weight of those words is no more and no less than those used to speak of slaughter and murder. Because, as we all know, one soldier can be hero and villain both. 'We have no place in their histories. So few do. They are not us – they were never us, and we shall never be them.

I am only offering to my reader an opportunity to expand their thoughts and maybe reach a deeper understanding of a particular word used in our English Bible. To build in you the same desire that this dusty old biblical language teacher has of reaching a deeper understanding of God’s Word through the guidance of the Holy Spirit. I do admit to being speculative in many of my conclusions and ask the reader to keep this in mind as they read this book. However, my speculations are based upon my biased personal experience with a God that I believe with all my heart loves me and that I love in return and hold dear as life itself. It would do well for orthodox Christians, those who embrace the Word of God as truly inspired and God-breathed, to follow the ongoing research and latest discoveries from archeology and the Dead Sea Scrolls. Many scholars do this research for academic reasons, and hence the subtle “I love you” message from God may go totally unnoticed to them, but not to one whose heart is seeking those words for the God that they also love.

The platforms, designed to accommodate and harvest infinite data, inspired an infinite scroll. They encouraged a cultural impulse to fill all spare time with someone else’s thoughts. The internet was a collective howl, an outlet for everyone to prove that they mattered. The full spectrum of human emotion infused social platforms. Grief, joy, anxiety, mundanity flowed. People were saying nothing, and saying it all the time.

The study of philosophy represents an extended mediation on death. The study of literature teaches us that life is absurd, because humankind possesses the foreknowledge that we each owe a death. It is the poets, persons vested with divine inspiration, whom teach us how to live, by boldly experiencing and dutifully recording all the vibrant sensations of life.

I seek to embrace the wings of madness and allow its fresh breath to tear myself apart and begin all over. I aspire to live with inspiration, work every day towards self-improvement, dare to be honest with myself, not fear hard work, cease evading challenging experiences, and not bemoan personal setbacks. I need to accept that hardship and adversity is part of the path to discovering personal truth, and appreciate the growth message that stalks suffering and loss. I must channel all personal sources of pain into a constructive format that enables me to thrive, not wither, and die. Every person has the ability to do some good in their brief stay on this planet. I need to discover the essential purpose of my life and then go live it instead of lamenting my imperfections, nursing animosity, and registering wrongs.

We each share in innumerable physical and emotional experiences. Our like-kind responses to the external world connect every person together whoever walked this earth. Who has not seen death tap dancing amongst the shagged icicles of a winter wonderland? Who has not heard their hearts petals welcome the bloom of springtime’s opalescence? Who has not experienced the calm of leaves rusting beneath their feet or felt befallen with an overwhelming sense of regeneration after slathered in baptismal wetness by an unexpected rainstorm? Who has not drunk in the smoky smells of leaves burning in October, hunted solace in the singeing embrace of a campfire on a cold winter night, or sought to escape from summers burning blanket of oppression by dunking their overheated stovetop into a mountain stream of clear water? Who has not felt the cold kiss of winter or experienced the melted butter feeling of crawling into bed after a day of hard work? Who is exempt from the punch of hunger in their gut or immune from the enraged screams of an unquenchable thirst? Who has not broken out in a frisson of Goosebumps when passing the graveyard on an ill-omened evening and experienced the electric sensation of ghostly fingernails running down the tapered stem of their spine? Who has not fallen in love at first sight? Who has not danced on the edge of a cliff, stared into the gloom, and asked themselves what if they slipped over the lip? Who has not experienced the existential vertigo, the anxiety of dizziness that freedom brings whenever a human being standing in solitude navigates amongst the tension between the finite and infinite and contemplates the possibility or of the divine shaping reality?

While solitude and study are necessary ingredients to understand our place in the world and to achieve an amplified sense of clarity and balance, immersion in natural world and sharing in human interaction is the ultimate source of inspiration and learning. Only by observing, understanding, and respecting nature and by unconditionally embracing, accepting, and loving other people of all stripes, can we experience the full gamut of emotions that makes us human.

Sharing our noble journey, attentively quantifying our reality, dreams, fears, and spiritual renaissance for other communal souls to witness, while giving voice to our own spark of divinity, inspiration, and mythos through storytelling, is the preeminent act of human beings.

What does a person do when life crushes them? Is it absurd to want a different life? Alternatively, are personal dreams the only facet of life that we exclusively possess that can sustain us in time of distress?

We each engage in artistic conversations with the external environment. Rather than merely surrendering to forces that surround us, our inspired action of responding with heart and mind composes our final configuration.

Personal storytelling is akin to taking a detailed accounting of our actions, deeds, thoughts, and impulses, a comprehensive listing of our acts of depravity and kindness, an exhaustive statement of being. Scrolling backward through our muddling, taking an incisive look inside our hard case craniums, we gather a vision of the desired future course of action for ourselves and simultaneously send out a glimmer of morning light for people who witness our life force stammering its series of dashed, interlinear lines across the infinite galaxies of time and space. Analogous to the impulsive death dance of a shooting star, our final spasmodic rattle illumines the unrelenting darkness of unbounded space for other stargazing voyagers to witnesses. By being a dash of light in a wash of darkness, we inspire other intrepid explorers.

At first, as I met her, l thought she was lost until she said, "Of the rest of world, I am not afraid, Some of those who inspired me where not from here People come to me not to become, but to be I like them the way they are, they add colour to my blue sea I am the friend of the restless, see them as brighter as they can be See them as they see me Restful in my arms, yet invisible is my nurturing light They smile now, nothing more precious to a mother than a happy child who is polite I am the star you want to see, the hope you want to set free Mine is the Commonwealth of the world to be" Before she walked away, she flipped a toonie into my direction and said, "Not much, but remember to give back." Those who know her are smitten by her grace Those who don't know her seek her embrace It is said that she watches over the northern abode of the gods, the gates of which, when she blushes, are marked by northern lights A rising majestic colourful totem of peace signals her tempered western profile It is her birthday tomorrow and I ask, "What do you give a beautiful lady who has everything?" Lady Canada says, "just a genuine smile.

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[Stephen] Hawking’s contributions to the fields of cosmology and quantum mechanics are essentially unparalleled. His book “A Brief History of Time” is a wonderful window into these contributions as expressed by one of the deepest of thinkers and most powerful of educators. As Hawking’s muscle control continued to decay, he wrote entire books using just the muscle of his cheek to get the right letter, sometimes only faring as well as one or two words per minute. To anyone who has used an Apple TV remote, you know how wildly infuriating it is to even type out an entire YouTube title by scrolling through individual letters - now imagine writing an entire original book about astrophysics. Using your cheek. It honestly puts me to shame, as I struggle to challenge my old ways of writing music to find new ways to create. But Hawking showed that it is possible, through the heroic task of staring disability and obscurity in the face and typing out a loud and stunningly clear: “No.

Thing to act. Act with thought." -The Pythian Scrolls. Through the Oracle's Mist

An extraordinary man is a time-lapse captain who uses his time to do the extraordinary. His path is a celestial observatory that seeks answers beyond the ordinary. He possesses an archive, not filled with dusty scrolls, but filled with active, extraordinary results.

A true sage of insights. He always has extraordinary insights about life. He strives for extraordinary heights. Like an ancient scroll, his life unfolds before his eyes.

The human mind is a product of nature. Resembling other forms of nature, does it follow an ancient code by adhering to universal rules of structure, time, and rhythm? Does the human mind establish through training and education its own pulse, tempo, pace, and lilt? Does reading allow us to witness the rhythm, beat, and intonation of other people’s minds? Does writing allow us to develop, monitor, and train the pulsating pulse of our own surfing mental cadence? Does reading enable us to see the groundswell of our own life refracted through a prism of other people’s storm of words? Does reading depict the upsurge of images and thoughts of a working mind, which casement frames humankind? Does writing spur us to scrutinize the indistinct pictures taken by the viewfinder submerged in our own minds? Does inspired writing draw out of us what composed material binders the structures of our multi-dimensional mind?

Protect your evenings. Replace scrolling with a wind-down ritual that soothes your mind and preps you for deep, quality rest.

tend to be a little self-conscious about the softness of my edges, the roundness of my ass, all things that have come via a healthy obsession with spending endless hours scrolling through desserts on Pinterest, or watching inspirational baking videos on Instagram, and then trying to recreate them. But the truth is most men find all those dips and curves irresistible.