Sigh Motivational Quotes

She sighed, annoyed at her restlessness. “So,” she said, disrupting Wolf in another backward glance. “Who would win in a fight—you or a pack of wolves?” He frowned at her, all seriousness. “Depends,” he said, slowly, like he was trying to figure out her motive for asking. “How big is the pack?” “I don’t know, what’s normal? Six?” “I could win against six,” he said. “Any more than that and it could be a close call.” Scarlet smirked. “You’re not in danger of low self-esteem, at least.” “What do you mean?” “Nothing at all.” She kicked a stone from their path. “How about you and … a lion?” “A cat? Don’t insult me.” She laughed, the sound sharp and surprising. “How about a bear?” “Why, do you see one out there?” “Not yet, but I want to be prepared in case I have to rescue you.” The smile she’d been waiting for warmed his face, a glint of white teeth flashing. “I’m not sure. I’ve never had to fight a bear before.

The hallway led me to the stairway of a million steps. My leg screamed in protest. I sighed and started climbing. I just had to keep from limping. Limping showed weakness, and I didn’t need any enterprising, career-motivated shapeshifters trying to challenge me for dominance right about now. I had once mentioned my desire for an elevator, and His Majesty asked me if I would like a flock of doves to carry me up to my quarters so my feet wouldn’t have to touch the ground. We were sparring at the time and I kicked him in the kidney in retaliation.

Ô, the wine of a woman from heaven is sent, more perfect than all that a man can invent. When she came to my bed and begged me with sighs not to tempt her towards passion nor actions unwise, I told her I’d spare her and kissed her closed eyes, then unbraided her body of its clothing disguise. While our bodies were nude bathed in candlelight fine I devoured her mouth, tender lips divine; and I drank through her thighs her feminine wine. Ô, the wine of a woman from heaven is sent, more perfect than all that a man can invent.

Well, I'm glad you're so amused," I said, running my fingers across the railing. Maxon hopped up to sit on the railing, looking very relaxed. "You're always amusing. Get used to it." Hmm. He was almost being funny. "So...about what you said...," he started tentatively. "Which part? The part about me calling you names or fighting with my mom or saying food was my motivation?" I rolled my eyes. He laughed once. "The part about me being good..." "Oh. What about it?" Those few sentences suddenly seemed more embarrassing than anything else I'd said. I ducked my head down and twisted a piece of my dress. "I appreciate you making things look authentic, but you didn't need to go that far." My head snapped up. How could he think that? "Maxon, that wasn't for the sake of the show. If you had asked me a month ago what my honest opinion of you was, it would have been very different. But now I know you, and I know the truth, and you are everything I said you were. And more." He was quiet, but there was a small smile on his face. "Thank you," he finally said. "Anytime." Maxon cleared his throat. "He'll be lucky, too." He got down from his makeshift seat and walked to my side of the balcony. "Huh?" "Your boyfriend. When he comes to his senses and begs you to take him back," Maxon said matter-of-factly. I had to laugh. No such thing would happen in y world. "he's not my boyfriend anymore. And he made it pretty clear he was gone with me." Even I could hear the tiny bit of hope in my voice. "Not possible. He'll have seen you on TV by now and fallen for you all over again. Though, in my opinion, you're still much too good for the dog." Maxon spoke almost as if he was bored, like he'd seen this happen a million times. "Speaking of which!" he said a bit louder. "If you don't want me to be in love with you, you're going to have to stop looking so lovely. First thing tomorrow I'm having your maids sew some potato sacks together for you." I hit his arm. "Shut up, Maxon." "I'm not kidding. You're too beautiful for your own good. Once you leave, we'll have to send some of the guards with you. You'll never survive on your own, poor thing." He said all this with mock pity. "I can't help it." I sighed. "One can never help being born into perfection." I fanned my face as if being so pretty was exhausting. "No, I don't suppose you can help it.

When I hear somebody sigh, "Life is hard," I am always tempted to ask, "Compared to what?

Remember that a fresh breath of life follows every sigh of exasperation. Breathe in, breathe out, and ENJOY every moment. It is how everything begins and ends. - Charmainism

Give it a try.. for you are born to fly high; don’t sit on the shores, don’t wait and sigh.

Never underestimate the infinite love within you It has the power to transform lives

...'you have to ask yourself though, who are we to stop a war?’ I sigh, wishing that the glittering pinpricks above us were truly stars. It was rare to see any due to the endless cloud cover. ‘Who are we not to?’ I say, to no one in particular. If we weren’t willing to try, then what did that say about us? I try to ignore the pessimistic voice eating away at my thoughts. Change could start with a few, but real change needed thousands.

Hey fellow busy human! Do not forget to take a quick pause to feel the magic of fresh air; to enjoy the change of seasons; to take a deep refreshing sigh standing under a tree; to lull your ears with bird's melodious symphonies; to sense the cool rain water; to walk barefoot on mud; to live like a real human.

Fires! Fires everywhere! Surrounding me, the smoke and glare! I breathe it in day after day. Send rain! Please wash it all away! God sighs, “Oh, now you choose to pray?

Everything comes to you in the right moment

The little blue engine looked up at the hill. His light was weak, his whistle was shrill. He was tired and small, and the hill was tall, And his face blushed red as he softly said, “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.” So he started up with a chug and a strain, And he puffed and pulled with might and main. And slowly he climbed, a foot at a time, And his engine coughed as he whispered soft, “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.” With a squeak and a creak and a toot and a sigh, With an extra hope and an extra try, He would not stop — now he neared the top — And strong and proud he cried out loud, “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can!” He was almost there, when — CRASH! SMASH! BASH! He slid down and mashed into engine hash On the rocks below... which goes to show If the track is tough and the hill is rough, THINKING you can just ain’t enough!

If you try to convert someone, it will never be to effect his salvation but to make him suffer like yourself, to be sure he is exposed to the same ordeals and endures them with the same impatience. You keep watch, you pray, you agonize-provided he does too, sighing, groaning, beset by the same tortures that are racking you. Intolerance is the work of ravaged souls whose faith comes down to a more or less deliberate torment they would like to see generalized, instituted. The happiness of others never having been a motive or principle of action, it is invoked only to appease conscience or to parade noble excuses: whenever we determine upon an action, the impulse leading to it and forcing us to complete it is almost always inadmissible. No one saves anyone; for we save only ourselves, and do so all the better if we disguise as convictions the misery we want to share, to lavish on others. However glamorous its appearances, proselytism nonetheless derives from a suspect generosity, worse in its effects than a patent aggression. No one is willing to endure alone the discipline he may even have assented to, nor the yoke he has shouldered. Vindication reverberates beneath the missionary's bonhomie, the apostle's joy. We convert not to liberate but to enchain. Once someone is shackled by a certainty, he envies your vague opinions, your resistance to dogmas or slogans, your blissful incapacity to commit yourself.

Conspiracy theories have long been used to maintain power: the Soviet leadership saw capitalist and counter-revolutionary conspiracies everywhere; the Nazis, Jewish ones. But those conspiracies were ultimately there to buttress an ideology, whether class warfare for Communists or race for Nazis. With today’s regimes, which struggle to formulate a single ideology – indeed, which can’t if they want to maintain power by sending different messages to different people – the idea that one lives in a world full of conspiracies becomes the world view itself. Conspiracy does not support the ideology; it replaces it. In Russia this is captured in the catchphrase of the country’s most important current affairs presenter: ‘A coincidence? I don’t think so!’ says Dmitry Kiselev as he twirls between tall tales that dip into history, literature, oil prices and colour revolutions, which all return to the theme of how the world has it in for Russia. And as a world view it grants those who subscribe to it certain pleasures: if all the world is a conspiracy, then your own failures are no longer all your fault. The fact that you achieved less than you hoped for, that your life is a mess – it’s all the fault of the conspiracy. More importantly, conspiracy is a way to maintain control. In a world where even the most authoritarian regimes struggle to impose censorship, one has to surround audiences with so much cynicism about anybody’s motives, persuade them that behind every seemingly benign motivation is a nefarious, if impossible-to-prove, plot, that they lose faith in the possibility of an alternative, a tactic a renowned Russian media analyst called Vasily Gatov calls ‘white jamming’. And the end effect of this endless pile-up of conspiracies is that you, the little guy, can never change anything. For if you are living in a world where shadowy forces control everything, then what possible chance do you have of turning it around? In this murk it becomes best to rely on a strong hand to guide you. ‘Trump is our last chance to save America,’ is the message of his media hounds. Only Putin can ‘raise Russia from its knees’. ‘The problem we are facing today is less oppression, more lack of identity, apathy, division, no trust,’ sighs Srdja. ‘There are more tools to change things than before, but there’s less will to do so.

She wrapped her arms around his head and hugged him to her abdomen. “Why are you so nice to me?” His chuckle was muffled against her belly. “I have ulterior motives.” “Such as?” “Making you mine.” Shit. Why had he said that? He was showing his cards much too soon. She slapped his shoulder. “Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.” He wished he could say he didn’t mean it. He didn’t particularly want to be so far gone. Ah, what the fuck—he liked her. A lot. She was just going to have to learn to live with it. If he could admit it, surely she could accept it. “I mean it, Toni.” He untangled his head from her grasp so he could look up at her. “I really do like you. And it isn’t just lust.” For once in his dick-led life. “I can’t stop thinking about you. Even when you’re not in my bed, you’re in my head. It’s driving me crazy. I’m not sure how to handle it.” She smiled, and he saw her feelings displayed clearly in her eyes. “You’re going to break my heart someday.” She released a sigh and stared over his head as she spoke. “I really like you too, Logan. But maybe it’s best if we pretend the only thing between us is lust. If I fall for you . . .” She shook her head and closed her eyes. “You don’t trust me with your heart.” “Should I?” He wanted to say she should, wanted to say that he’d never hurt her, but he, more than anyone, was aware of his track record with women. “That’s something you’ll have to decide on your own.

In no particular order, I read what I could, sometimes with Fadiman as my docent, sometimes not: Flaubert, Twain, Kerouac, Brontë, Kafka, Camus, Ibsen, James, Thurber, Shakespeare. But in the course of reading great books, something happened. My reading molded me, the tool hammering its hand into shape. By some miracle—and by miracle, I mean great teachers—I pushed past the shallowness and stupidity of my own motivations. I fell in love with the actual literature and the actual ideas of great literature. As an immigrant, as a Vietnamese kid, as a poor kid, I had collected so many scarlet letters of alienation that I connected profoundly to the great works. As I read, I began to understand that all the great works wrangled with big questions, important questions: our place in the world, the value of our experience, the fairness and meaning of our suffering, our quest for love and belonging. Universal themes bound these great works together, and they bound me to their oaky, yellowed pages like Odysseus lashed to the mast of his ship. I felt a connective and humanizing resonance in books: I wasn’t alone in my aloneness. I wasn’t alone in my longing for love. I wasn’t alone in my fear of being rejected, my fear of never finding my place, my fear of failing. The snarl of my journey was untangled and laid out clearly by books.

I was in the neighborhood," he said, answering the question I was about to ask. His lips twitched. "You know, wandering around,trying to be a hero." I sighed. "Are you going to thank me?" Cole said. After a pause, he added, "Or hit me?" I thought about Tommy,scared and cowering on the ground. "Thank you." Before Cole could say anything else I said, "But don't do it again." He nodded. I'd expected Cole to ramp up his efforts to change my mind, but was this his new approach? If so,it scared me more than any attempts he'd made to sway me in the past. It felt so real, and so genuine.I looked in his eyes, and I honestly didn't know what his motives were.Would he have saved Tommy if I weren't around? Would he have done it anonymously? My love for Tommy was a weakness. I just didn't know if Cole was exploiting it.How did he have the power to confuse me still? I had to get him away.He was more dangerous now than ever,because with Jack gone,and my time almost gone, he was more tempting than he'd ever been before.

What is it to discover you have wings? What is it to be afraid of your wings? What is it to discover at the end of your life that you had wings and never flew? What is it to find out that you were hidden from yourself? What is it to be forgotten? Each day we are forgotten by ourselves through ourselves, For we do not believe, in who we are.

I have no natural trust in others. I am more inclined to expect them to do ill than to do good. That is the price one has to pay for having a sense of humour. A sense of humour leads you to take pleasure in the discrepancies of human nature; it leads you to mistrust great professions and look for the unworthy motive that they conceal; the disparity between appearance and reality diverts you and you are apt when you cannot find it to create it. You tend to close your eyes to truth, beauty and goodness because they give no scope to your sense of the ridiculous. The humorist has a quick eye for the humbug; he does not always recognize the saint. But if to see men one-sidedly is a heavy price to pay for a sense of humour there is a compensation that has a value too. You are not angry with people when you laugh at them. Humour teaches tolerance, and the humorist, with a smile and perhaps a sigh, is more likely to shrug his shoulders than to condemn. He does not moralize, he is content to understand; and it is true that to understand is to pity and forgive.

Her question was clear- “Father, where does the Loss reside?” In the sighs? Cheeks with tears wiped? A lost appetite? Owning a room confined? Or in the smiles all falsified? Thus, the Father decide, It is no matter to hide, he replied- “I think its deep inside, Probably, In the layers of your soul, Where the body provides it, Ample food to be- Magnified, multiplied, intensified. But once you clarify, That its not to be occupied inside, It starves of supplies, And dies. So child, when there is loss, Make sure you refuse to invite it inward, And absolutely never make it your lifelong parasite.

Go back to where you came from," muttered a man in Italian, glancing from Magnus's Indonesian to Shinyun's Korean face. He moved to shove past them, but Shinyun held up a hand. The man froze. "I've always wondered what that saying is about," Magnus said casually. "I wasn't born in Italy, but many people are who don't fit your idea of what people born here look like. Is it that you think their parents weren't from here, or their grandparents? Why do people say it? Is the idea that everyone should go back to the very first place their ancestors came from?" Shinyun stepped up to the man, who remained fixed in place, his eyeballs twitching. "Wouldn't that mean," Magnus asked, "that ultimately, we all have to go back to the water?" Shinyun flicked a finger, and the man was flung with a brief squeak into the Tiber. Magnus made sure he fell without injury and drifted him to the riverside. The man climbed out and sat down on the bank with a squelch. Magnus hoped he would think about his choices. "I was only going to make him think I would drop him in the water," Magnus clarified. "I understand the impulse, but just making him afraid of us . . ." He trailed off and sighed. "Fear isn't a very efficient motivator." "Fear is all some people understand," Shinyun said. They were standing close together. Magnus could feel the tension running through Shinyun's body. He took her hand and gave it a brief, friendly squeeze before he dropped it. He felt a faint pressure of her fingers in return, as if she'd wanted to squeeze back. I did this to her, he thought, as he always did, the five small words that circled in his mind repeatedly when he was around Shinyun. "I prefer to believe that people can understand a lot, when offered the opportunity," said Magnus. "I like your enthusiasm, but let's not drown anyone." "Spoilsport," said Shinyun, but her tone was friendly.

What is stealing?When is it excusable? When is it a crime?' Thomas looked uncomfortable as he read. Christian perked up. Belle saw Christian listening with interest and looked down at her shoes. 'An action becomes stealing when one of two conditions are met. First, when there is harm to the victim. Second, when the act is done for personal gain.' Thomas looked up and smiled. He seemed happy with where the speech was going, and Belle breathed a sigh of relief. Christian's face had gone white. He stood frozen in his spot. Belle smiled as if to say that things were different with him. That stealing was different in their world. She was torn between excitement for Thomas and embarasment for Christian. 'If both these criteria are met, there is no question where society stands. When of two criteria is in question, society begins to debate. For example, is it wrong when someone takes something that has been thrown away? Perhaps not, since there is no detriment to the victim. Is it wrong when someone takes a loaf of bread to feed a starving baby or taxes the rich to help the poor? Perhaps not, since the motive is unselfish.' Victoria wasn't even looking at Thomas anymore. She was glaring at Belle. She looked like she was about to lunge at her. Belle signaled to her that perhaps she should take notes. But Victoria wasn't used to preparing rebuttals without advanced notice. 'When neither of the criteria is met, however, I propose that there is no crime against ethics. Is it wrong to take a syringe from a drug addict? Of course not.

Death … has its usefulness to the living. The moment you were born, you began to die.” He sighed. “What a lovely thought.” “Lovely,” Vic repeated with no small amount of scorn. “Yes, lovely. Think about it, Victor. You are finite. Your time is already slipping through your fingers. It creates an urgency within you. To do all that you can. To make things right. I wonder what that must feel like, to have a sense of true motivation.” “Why? It’s a flaw in the design.” “A flaw?” He laughed loudly. “Of course it is! Your flaws are what make you superior, in all ways. No matter what machines can do, no matter how powerful we become, it is the absence of flaws that will be our undoing. How can this existence survive when all machine-made things are perfect down to a microscopic detail? When all machine-made music is empty of rage and joy? Our only flaw is that we’ve condemned ourselves to spend eternity mimicking that which we deemed unfit to exist.” He shook his head. “We can never be you. Instead, we became your ghosts, and we’ll haunt this world until there is nothing left.” The Coachman smiled gently. “It is not a flaw, Victor. There must be no greater feeling in the world than to know that this isn’t forever.

Stop,' I put my hand on Xaden's arm. 'Xaden, stop. If you want me to go with you, I'll go. It's that simple.' His gaze shifts to meet mine and immediately softens. 'No fucking way,' Dain whispers, but it reverberates in my bones like a lightning strike. I pivot, dropping my hand from Xaden's arm, but it's obvious by Dain's expression that he now knows there's something between Xaden and me- and he's hurt. My stomach hits the ground. 'Dain-' 'Him?' Dain's eyes widen and his face flushes. 'You and... him?' He shakes his head. 'People talk, and I thought that's all it was, but you...' Disappointment drops his shoulders. 'Don't go, Violet. Please. He's going to get you killed.' 'I know you think Xaden has ulterior motives, but I trust him. He's had every opportunity and has never hurt me.' I move toward Dain. 'At some point, you have to let this go.' Dain looks horrified for a second but quickly masks it. 'If he's what you choose...' He sighs. 'Then I guess that has to be enough for me, doesn't it?' 'Yes.' I nod. Thank gods all this nonsense is about to be past us. He swallows hard and leans in to whisper. 'I'll miss you, Violet.' Then he pivots on his heel and heads for Cath. 'Thank you for trusting me,' Xaden says as I reach Tairn's foreleg. 'Always.

I have time for only one drink,” Jordan said, glancing at the ormolu clock on the opposite wall. “I’ve promised Alexandra to stand at her side at a ball tonight and beam approvingly at a friend of hers.” Whenever Jordan mentioned his wife’s name, Ian noted with amusement, the other man’s entire expression softened. “Care to join us?” Ian shook his head and accepted his drink from the footman. “It sounds boring as hell.” “I don’t think it’ll be boring, precisely. My wife has taken it upon herself to defy the entire ton and sponsor the girl back into the ranks. Based on some of the things Alexandra said in her note, that will be no mean feat.” “Why is that?” Ian inquired with more courtesy than interest. Jordan sighed and leaned his head back, weary from the hours he’d been working for the last several weeks and unexcited at the prospect of dancing attendance on a damsel in distress-one he’d never set eyes on. “The girl fell into the clutches of some man two years ago and an ugly scandal ensued.” Thinking of Elizabeth and himself, Ian said casually, “That’s not an uncommon occurrence, evidently.” “From what Alex wrote me, it seems this case is rather extreme.” “In what way?” “For one thing, there’s every chance the young woman will get the cut direct tonight from half the ton-and that’s the half that will be willing to acknowledge her. Alex has retaliated by calling in the heavy guns-my grandmother, to be exact, and Tony and myself, to a lesser degree. The object is to try to brave it out, but I don’t envy the girl. Unless I miss my guess, she’s going to be flayed alive by the wagging tongues tonight. Whatever the bastard did,” Jordan finished, downing his drink and starting to straighten in his chair, “it was damaging as hell. The girl-who’s purported to be incredibly beautiful, by the way-has been a social outcast for nearly two years.” Ian stiffened, his glass arrested partway to his mouth, his sharpened gaze on Jordan, who was already starting to rise. “Who’s the girl?” he demanded tautly. “Elizabeth Cameron.” “Oh, Christ!” Ian exploded, surging out of his chair and snatching up his evening jacket. “Where are they?” “At the Willington’s. Why?” “Because,” Ian bit out, impatiently shrugging into his jacket and tugging the frilled cuffs of his shirt into place, “I’m the bastard who did it.” An indescribable expression flashed across the Duke of Hawthorne’s face as he, too, pulled on his evening jacket. “You are the man Alexandra described in her note as an ‘unspeakable cad, vile libertine,’ and ‘despoiler of innocents’?” “I’m all that and more,” Ian replied grimly, stalking toward the door with Jordan Townsende beside him. “You go to the Willingtons’ as quickly as you can,” he instructed. “I’ll be close behind you, but I’ve a stop to make first. And don’t, for God’s sake, tell Elizabeth I’m on my way.” Ian flung himself into his coach, snapped orders to his driver, and leaned back, counting minutes, telling himself it couldn’t possibly be going as badly for her as he feared it would. And never once did he stop to think that Jordan Townsende had no idea what motives could possibly prompt Elizabeth Cameron’s “despoiler” to be bent on meeting her at the Willington’s ball.

All men seek happiness,” he noted; “this is the motive of every action of every man, even of those who hang themselves.” (So perceptive, that man Pascal.) He then went on to cite humanity’s endless sighs and groans as confirmation that nobody ever really satisfies this innate desire: “All complain—princes and subjects, noblemen and commoners, old and young, strong and weak, learned and ignorant, healthy and sick, of all countries, all times, all ages, and all conditions.” Such uNIVersal dissatisfaction ought to convince us “of our inability to reach the good by our own efforts,” Pascal says, but it’s a lesson we fail to grasp: “And thus, while the present never satisfies us, experience dupes us,” and so onward we stumble “from misfortune to misfortune.

A Prayer Found in Chester Cathedral Give me good digestion, Lord, And also something to digest; Give me a healthy body, Lord, With sense to keep it at its best. Give me a healthy mind, good Lord, To keep the good and pure in sight; Which, seeing sin, is not appalled, But finds a way to set it right. Give me a mind that is not bored, That does not whimper, whine or sigh; Don’t let me worry overmuch About the fussy thing called ‘I’. Give me a sense of humour, Lord, Give me the grace to see a joke; To get some happiness from life, And pass it on to other folk. — Anonymous

I spun around at the door. “Yes?” “Word of advice,” he said. “Gem had nothing to do with this. Not to mention, Alastair contributes generously to the police department every year.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” Wes cracked his knuckles, then winced and shook out his hand. “Alastair Gem is not a man you want to offend.” Chapter 9 “Iexpect you’ll fill me in,” Jimmy said as I climbed back into the car. “Dare I suggest it be over a bucket of chicken?” I swerved into the left lane and put on my blinker for The Chicken Hut, a fried food joint near the station. We crawled through the drive thru line and put in our orders. A king-sized pail for Jimmy, a queen for me. A few minutes later, the tantalizing smell of fried chicken was working its way into the car’s upholstery. Jimmy had shiny fingers by the time we returned to the station parking lot. He mopped his chin with a napkin. “I’m ready to hear the details whenever you’re done with that wing.” I sighed, tossing the wing back into the bucket. I wasn’t all that hungry. It was hard to care much about food when a case consumed me. “My sister brought Wes home last night,” I said. “Like, on a date. Wes Remington—the manager of Rubies—was at my house. Rubies is Alastair Gem’s latest venture.” “No kidding? That’s neat.” “What’s neat?” “Gem is like the Tony Stark of the Twin Cities. His latest restaurant has the best food I’ve ever tasted—it set me back a year into retirement to eat there, though. Now I hear he’s got an Emerald hotel coming soon that’s gonna cost two grand a pop for a night. That man is rich, powerful, and handsome. The rest of us don’t stand a chance.” “I beg to differ,” I said. “Anyone who is that rich, handsome, and powerful has secrets to hide.” Jimmy shrugged. “Probably. Still doesn’t mean I wouldn’t date him, and I’m a happily married straight man.” “As it turns out, Wes doesn’t have an alibi for the night of the murder. He says he was upstairs working, but we don’t have anyone who can confirm it.” “Do you like him for Jane Doe’s murder?” I licked my fingers. “It’s too early to tell. My head says yes. He’s new to town and had easy access to the victim. But I don’t have any clue as to a motive. Why would he grab her specifically?” “We’re looking for a serial killer. Is there any saying why they do what they do?” “Maybe not,” I agreed. “But my gut’s telling me Wes isn’t our guy. He seemed...

Alric sighed heavily. “If I must go, can I at least be given the dignity of controlling my own horse?” There was a pause before he added, “I give you my word as king. I’ll not try to escape until we reach this abbey.” Hadrian looked at Royce, who nodded. He then pulled the crossbow from behind his saddle. He braced it against the ground, pulled the string to the first notch, and loaded a bolt. “It’s not that we don’t trust you,” Royce said as Hadrian prepared the bow. “It’s just that we’ve learned over the years that honor among nobles is usually inversely proportionate to their rank. As a result, we prefer to rely on more concrete methods for motivations—such as self-preservation. You already know we don’t want you dead, but if you have ever been riding full tilt and had a horse buckle under you, you understand that death is always a possibility, and broken bones are almost a certainty.” “There’s also the danger of missing the horse completely,” Hadrian added. “I’m a good shot, but even the best archers have bad days. So to answer your question—yes, you can control your own horse.

It’s making me suspicious of everyone. Everywhere I go I’m looking at people and wondering if it’s them. I hate it. I don’t want to be suspicious of people. I just want the whole thing to go away. To stop. At first I thought it was a few people ganging up on me, jumping on my feminism, as though being a feminist was the worst thing a woman could be. But after a while I realised that it wasn’t really about feminism at all. It was just one person with some sort of grudge against me. That person just kept on and on … and is still sending me letters now.” “We’ll find out who it is. I can look at the whole thing with fresh eyes.” “With a detective’s eyes, you mean?” “Is that so bad? We have to treat it like a police matter and look at all the possibilities. You’d be surprised at how many clues might be contained in as many letters as these. Physical clues, such as the paper and envelopes, the way the stamps are stuck on the envelopes, finger-prints and so on … and clues in the wording.” “There are some spelling and grammatical errors,” she sighed, almost in a gesture of defeat. “Exactly. Those errors can be clues.” “Just in this last letter, the writer has used dont without the apostrophe and your and you’re the wrong way round. They are mistakes that have been repeated again and again over the months. There are quite a lot of spelling mistakes in the earlier, longer letters. I’m not sure how much that will narrow it down, though. Loads of people don’t know when they’re supposed to use apostrophes, so they just guess. And loads of people can’t spell.” “It might help,” he nodded positively. “We should also look at who might have a motive for writing these letters. Is there anyone in your past you think could be responsible?” She shivered. “Like I told you, I’ve had months to think about it. I’ve wondered about practically everyone I’ve ever met and I hate thinking about people that way, especially people I know.” “I can be more objective and maybe I can come up

Elle sighed and seated herself on a couch. Collecting solid facts and enemy plans is much easier—and far more preferable—than trying to make sense of the questionable motives and drama that surround the prince.

I don't have the answers. Maybe depression's the natural reaction to a world full of cruelty and pain. But the thing I know about depression is if you want to survive it, you have to train yourself to hold on; when you can see no reason to keep going, you cannot imagine a future worth seeing, you keep moving anyway. That's not delusion. That's hope. It's a muscle you exercise so it's strong when you need it. You feed it with books and art and dogs who rest their head on your leg, and human connection with people who are genuinely interested and excited; you feed it with growing a tomato and baking sourdough and making a baby laugh and standing at the edge of oceans and feeling a horse's whiskers on your palm and bear hugs and late-night talks over whiskey and a warm happy sigh on your neck and the unexpected perfect song on the radio, and mushroom trips with a friend who giggles at the way the trees aren't acting right, and jumping in creeks, and lying in the grass under the stars, and driving with the windows down on a swirly two-lane road. You stock up like a fucking prepper buying tubs of chipped beef and powdered milk and ammo. You stock up so some part of you knows and remembers, even in the dark, all that's worth saving in this world.

He took Mephi. And I know where he’ll take him to.” He took his hands in mine. His fingers were cold, though mine weren’t much warmer. “Then you have to go.” There wasn’t anything else he could do. The thought of someone taking Thrana, of not knowing where she was, of knowing she was in unfamiliar hands—I couldn’t bear it. “You have to find him.” He ran his fingers over my knuckles, his gaze on our entwined hands. “I shouldn’t leave you. I’m your Captain of the Imperial Guard. You’ll need me now, more than ever.” Now that the Alanna were returning. Now that we knew that their motives were as varied as the fish in the sea. “We both know Mephi needs you more. Take whatever you need from the ship. Money. Supplies. Witstone. It’s all yours.” I could feel the pull to be out on the open sea, away from the mess of politics, trying to untangle the knots my father had wrought. “I wish I could go with you.” He sighed. “But you can’t.” I tugged him in closer, reaching up to press my lips to his. He tasted earthy, like mud and rainwater. His clothes were heavy with moisture, as were mine. But I could feel the heat of him beneath, and it warmed me more than a roaring fire. “Lin,” he said, breathless, again my mouth. To the depths of the Endless Sea with propriety. I seized his collar with mud-caked hands, pressing against him, knowing this could be the last time. The last kiss, the last embrace, the last time I ever saw him. It felt like drowning, but with no urge to come up for air. He caught me, one arm around my waist, the other lifting to cup my cheek, to dig fingers into the tangle of my hair. I wished I could live in this moment. I wished it never had to end. But for ever was a term for fools and poets. I was neither. I pulled away. “I don’t care where you came from. I don’t care about your heritage. Come back to me.” I didn’t ask, but he offered it anyway. “I promise.” He took my hand and held it over his heart. It beat, strong and steady, beneath my palm. “And I’ll never break a promise to you again.” Before I could respond he was gone.

He took Mephi. And I know where he’ll take him to.” He took his hands in mine. His fingers were cold, though mine weren’t much warmer. “Then you have to go.” There wasn’t anything else he could do. The thought of someone taking Thrana, of not knowing where she was, of knowing she was in unfamiliar hands—I couldn’t bear it. “You have to find him.” He ran his fingers over my knuckles, his gaze on our entwined hands. “I shouldn’t leave you. I’m your Captain of the Imperial Guard. You’ll need me now, more than ever.” Now that the Alanga were returning. Now that we knew that their motives were as varied as the fish in the sea. “We both know Mephi needs you more. Take whatever you need from the ship. Money. Supplies. Witstone. It’s all yours.” I could feel the pull to be out on the open sea, away from the mess of politics, trying to untangle the knots my father had wrought. “I wish I could go with you.” He sighed. “But you can’t.” I tugged him in closer, reaching up to press my lips to his. He tasted earthy, like mud and rainwater. His clothes were heavy with moisture, as were mine. But I could feel the heat of him beneath, and it warmed me more than a roaring fire. “Lin,” he said, breathless, again my mouth. To the depths of the Endless Sea with propriety. I seized his collar with mud-caked hands, pressing against him, knowing this could be the last time. The last kiss, the last embrace, the last time I ever saw him. It felt like drowning, but with no urge to come up for air. He caught me, one arm around my waist, the other lifting to cup my cheek, to dig fingers into the tangle of my hair. I wished I could live in this moment. I wished it never had to end. But for ever was a term for fools and poets. I was neither. I pulled away. “I don’t care where you came from. I don’t care about your heritage. Come back to me.” I didn’t ask, but he offered it anyway. “I promise.” He took my hand and held it over his heart. It beat, strong and steady, beneath my palm. “And I’ll never break a promise to you again.” Before I could respond he was gone.

You should have a reason to fight,” Meghnad sighed. “I have two. Firstly, my father’s victory and second, avenging the death of my brothers. You need a reason to do anything. Find a reason.

Oh, mummy, I want to be independent.” Mrs. Fisher sighed. Children on whom one gladly lavished time and money with no motive at heart but their happiness; children who, imagining fetters where none existed, broke away exulting, drunk with the illusion of escape.

When I hear somebody sigh, "Life is hard," I am always tempted to ask, "Compared to what?" -Sydney J Harris (1917-86)

I spoke no Spanish, so I was unable to haggle with the taxi-drivers. 'Benengeli,' I said, and the first cabbie shook his head and walked away, spitting copiously. The second named a number that had no meaning for me. I had come to a place where I did not know the names of things or the motives for men's deeds. The universe was absurd. I could not say 'dog', or 'where?', or 'I am a man'. Besides, my head was thick, like a soup.

Andrew sighed at Styrka’s unforgiving attitude; it was the fashion among Calvinists at Reykjavik to deny any weight to human motive in judging the good or evil of an act. Acts are good and evil in themselves, they said; and because Speakers for the Dead held as their only doctrine that good or evil exist entirely in human motive, and not at all in the act, it made students like Styrka quite hostile to Andrew.

There is a mountain placed before us. It's wide, big; high above the clouds. With no way around it; no choice about it. Just to climb it, even through low sighs. Some mountains, we choose. Often those that we pursue are easy to climb. They leave no bruise; we step on them like crumbs. No sweat, no fuse. But also no valuable lesson. Just an excuse after an excuse. There are harsh sessions on the high mountain. Hard lessons on the big mountain. No breaks, no fountains. Just hardships and rough times. No awards, no rewards. Just emotional, mental tides and fines. Fine, we usually accept the challenge. Out of options, we welcome the change. An exchange of comfort for caution. We become deranged for family. For our children, friends, even lovers. Some lovers who may become an enemy. We become a destiny with no back covers. With our back against the wall. Our back totally exposed to all. But, step by step, day by day, with our veins, we climb up but not in vain. Some days we want to go back to our fortress. Some days we only see black, no success. But, after a while, mounting in grime, we forget about the pain. The hardships start to fade. We start to familiarise the pain with the trees. We accept the bushes and rocks as home. We follow the footsteps of animals and bees; looking for shortcuts to roam. Seeking solace in the shade of what we see. We seek and become one with isolation. In isolation, we start to rely on ourselves more. We learn to love all our sores; to trust our own instincts. We become stronger and sharper in senses. And the stronger we become, the faster we mount in fun. In the end, we reach the top. Out of it all, we come out unbreakable, alive. Tired but, surely, revived.

You feel like there is so much more to you than you allow anyone to see. There is a sense of untapped potential hosting all the selves you could be. ‘But I know so little, and I’m so small,’ you shrug and sigh, ‘I wish I was a bird, but I don’t know how to fly.’ The grand oak tree you’re leaning against interrupts you with a whisper, ‘Little human, you’re forgetting a word, the one you put in the end but serves to begin it all. Instead of complaining about not having this or that, consider harnessing the power of “yet.” ‘You don’t know how to fly yet. ‘You don’t know how to love yet. ‘You don’t know how to be successful yet. ‘The things you can achieve expand indefinitely when you stop making plans based on what you already know and begin relying on what you can learn as you grow.

He sighed. “Look, all I’m saying is that if you rescue a person too many times, they’ll never learn from their mistakes. Sometimes, the tough consequences are the best motivators to make a change.

In his autobiography, Is That It?, Bob also tells the story of one scene in the film in which an American actress, keen on method acting, had to show that she was frightened of Pink. She asked Alan Parker what her motivation for doing this was. Alan sighed and told her, ‘The money’.

A Woman who let out a Sigh Outside a Mansion, should Never ask her Husband Why He Works Late

Need to Be Honest about My Issues Search me, God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting. (PSALM 139:23 – 24) Thought for the Day: Avoiding reality never changes reality. Mostly I’m a good person with good motives, but not always. Not when I just want life to be a little more about me or about making sure I look good. That’s when my motives get corrupted. The Bible is pretty blunt in naming the real issue here: evil desires. Yikes. I don’t like that term at all. And it seems a bit severe to call my unglued issues evil desires, doesn’t it? But in the depths of my heart I know the truth. Avoiding reality never changes reality. Sigh. I think I should say that again: Avoiding reality never changes reality. And change is what I really want. So upon the table I now place my honesty: I have evil desires. I do. Maybe not the kind that will land me on a 48 Hours Mystery episode, but the kind that pull me away from the woman I want to be. One with a calm spirit and divine nature. I want it to be evident that I know Jesus, love Jesus, and spend time with Jesus each day. So why do other things bubble to the surface when my life gets stressful and my relationships get strained? Things like … Selfishness: I want things my way. Pride: I see things only from my vantage point. Impatience: I rush things without proper consideration. Anger: I let simmering frustrations erupt. Bitterness: I swallow eruptions and let them fester. It’s easier to avoid these realities than to deal with them. I’d much rather tidy my closet than tidy my heart. I’d much rather run to the mall and get a new shirt than run to God and get a new attitude. I’d much rather dig into a brownie than dig into my heart. I’d much rather point the finger at other people’s issues than take a peek at my own. Plus, it’s just a whole lot easier to tidy my closet, run to the store, eat a brownie, and look at other people’s issues. A whole lot easier. I rationalize that I don’t have time to get all psychological and examine my selfishness, pride, impatience, anger, and bitterness. And honestly, I’m tired of knowing I have issues but having no clue how to practically rein them in on a given day. I need something simple. A quick reality check I can remember in the midst of the everyday messies. And I think the following prayer is just the thing: God, even when I choose to ignore what my heart is saying to me, You know my heart. I bring to You this [and here I name whatever feeling or thoughts I have been reluctant to acknowledge]. Forgive me. Soften my heart. Make it pure. Might that quick prayer help you as well? If so, stop what you are doing —just for five minutes — and pray these or similar words. When I’ve prayed for the Lord to interrupt my feelings and soften my heart, it’s amazing how this changes me. Dear Lord, help me to remember to actually bring my emotions and reactions to You. I want my heart reaction to be godly. Thank You for grace and for always forgiving me. In Jesus’ name. Amen.

having any. We slog through each day like we’re knee-deep in mud. Motivation has disappeared. Even brushing our teeth is an emotional chore. We sigh a lot. With all of this, plus the daily, relentless assault of unpredictable emotions, it isn’t surprising that symptoms of depression can overtake us for a period of time. “Life without you is depressing. No wonder I feel this way.” Questions to consider: What elements of depression have you seen in yourself so far? (Changes in eating or sleeping habits, motivation, energy, mood, relationships, withdrawal, disinterest in life, addiction issues, fierce denial, hopelessness, etc.)

AJ huffed a heavy sigh. “I’m not good at this.” She sat on the edge of the bed with her hands tucked under her legs. “Good at what?” “This…” he motioned between them “…this relationship stuff. I should care enough to ask you more about your past, the blood thing, the ridiculous profession you’ve chosen, the reason why you’re living with your brother … but I’m too fucking selfish. I can barely deal with my own pathetic life, I just—” She shook her head. “It’s fine. I have nothing to tell.” His head jerked back a fraction as his eyelids fluttered with rapid blinks. “What is that supposed to mean?” Jillian lifted a single shoulder. “You act like I’m on a cliff’s edge just waiting, begging you to ask me about my past and my ‘issues,’ but I’m not. The fact that you don’t ask me about it is why this…” she mimicked his motion between them “…relationship works.” He nodded with an absent stare. She’d gone too far. It was a slippery balance between too much and not enough. It’s human nature to desire what’s perceived as the unattainable. Was she making her past seem too unattainable? “Don’t.” AJ’s gaze snapped to hers. “Don’t what?” “I was simply stating a fact. Don’t interpret it as a game. I’m not playing hard to get with my emotions. It’s not a trap.” He rested his hands on his hips and stared at his feet. “It’s a gift, AJ. You will never have to be my gallant knight on his trusty steed, drawing your sword to defend my honor. I will never gawk at sparkly diamonds in the jewelry store window or ask you where you see our relationship going.” “You sound callous, but I know you’re not. I’ve experienced your compassion.” “That’s a gift too. I’ve never been compassionate toward you with an ulterior motive. I’m not callous. I’m strong. It takes a lot of strength to give unconditionally because the ego is a savage, demanding beast.” He narrowed his eyes a bit. “So nothing … you don’t want anything from me in return.” Jillian smirked, prowling toward him. “I’m compassionate, not a saint.” She slid her hands under his shirt, tracing the definition of each firm plane of muscle. He quirked a brow. “So you want me for my body?” A provocative smirk stole her lips as she pushed up his shirt and teased her teeth over his skin. “I think we both know it’s not for your stellar personality.” “You’re such a bitch,” he growled, grabbing her ass and lifting her up. She wrapped her legs around his waist and laughed. “But an honest bitch.

I’ve never had such mixed-up feelings about anyone. I don’t understand him. Tonight in bed, he—” “Wait,” Leo said. “Some things are better discussed between sisters. I’m sure this is one of them. We’ll reach Ramsay House by morning, and you can ask Amelia anything you like.” “I don’t think she would know anything about this.” “Why not? She’s a married woman.” “Yes, but it’s . . . well . . . a masculine problem.” Leo blanched. “I wouldn’t know anything about that, either. I don’t have masculine problems. In fact, I don’t even like saying the phrase ‘masculine problems.’ ” “Oh.” Crestfallen, Poppy pulled a lap blanket over herself. “Damn it. What exactly are we calling a ‘masculine problem’? Did he have trouble running the flag up? Or did it fall to half-staff?” “Do we have to speak about this metaphorically, or—” “Yes,” Leo said firmly. “All right. He . . .” Poppy frowned in concentration as she searched for the right words, “. . . left me while the flag was still flying.” “Was he drunk?” “No.” “Did you do or say something to make him leave?” “Just the opposite. I asked him to stay, and he wouldn’t.” Shaking his head, Leo rummaged in a side compartment beside his seat and swore. “Where the blazes is my liquor? I told the servants to stock the carriage with drink for the journey. I’m going to fire the bloody lot of them.” “There’s water, isn’t there?” “Water is for washing, not drinking.” He muttered something about an evil conspiracy to keep him sober, and sighed. “One can only guess as to Rutledge’s motivations. It’s not easy for a man to stop in the middle of lovemaking. It puts us in a devil of a temper.

I walk with my head high. Yesterday made me sigh. But, Today is going to be fun. And Tomorrow as bright as the sun.

She wanted She wanted to win all battles, She wanted to possess all that delights and startles, And when she was supposed to fight her fight, She for some reason surrendered before fate’s might, She wanted to fall in love and be his forever, She wanted to ride the sprinting moments of joy that end never, And when she found him, she failed to express herself, She for some reason drew comparison between herself and himself, She wanted to travel far and wide, She wanted to reach there where there was no place to hide, And when it was time for her to rise above all and be exalted, She for some reason felt less vigorous and least excited, She wanted to feel his kiss, she wanted to make him hers, She wanted to be with him in life’s every season with no restrictions and no moral spars, And when it was time for her to hold him with her heart, She extended just her hands, and stretched her mind’s thoughts, with the missing love soaked part, She wanted to live in a world where she existed just with him, She felt this feeling deeply and it at all was not just a whim, And when he opened his world to her and asked her to tread into it, She felt her heart had turned into a bandit, She wanted her feelings to bloom like the summer’s brilliance, She wanted to swim in his love and fragrance, And when he presented her his heart and laid it at her feet, She felt what I call “the unfortunate lover’s defeat,” She wanted everything, if not everyone, she aspired for a lot, She wanted to find herself a role in life’s every story and a part in it's every plot, And when the universe granted her this wish, she hesitated to be split into so many versions, Because to love everything one needs endless reasons, So, she finally wanted to be just with him and find in him all her joy begetting reasons, She wanted in him to find her life’s all seasons, And when finally the moment arrived, he stood before her eyes, And since then a part of her every moment into his always open eyes dives, Now she wants nothing no more, she just wants to be like the sky, Where she can travel as far as imagination can take her, and feel his love before they die, And when she became the sky and rose really high, The man leapt with joy and touched the sky, and both felt the joy’s loudest sigh!