Soak Up Every Moment Quotes

I don’t think I’ll ever forget this day,’ Connie said. ‘I want to soak up every single moment, so that I can remember it when I’m old. Remember that I…we, did this. I want to have stories to tell when I’m old. I want to have done things.

I'm living at a peak of clarity and beauty I never knew existed. Every part of me is attuned to the work. I soak it up into my pores during the day, and at night—in the moments before I pass off into sleep—ideas explode into my head like fireworks. There is no greater joy than the burst of solution to a problem. Incredible that anything could happen to take away this bubbling energy, the zest that fills everything I do. It's as if all the knowledge I've soaked in during the past months has coalesced and lifted me to a peak of light and understanding. This is beauty, love, and truth all rolled into one. This is joy.

Soak up every moment, be generous with your love, and be thankful for those who love us back.

If peace comes from seeing the whole, then misery stems from a loss of perspective. We begin so aware and grateful. The sun somehow hangs there in the sky. The little bird sings. The miracle of life just happens. Then we stub our toe, and in that moment of pain, the whole world is reduced to our poor little toe. Now, for a day or two, it is difficult to walk. With every step, we are reminded of our poor little toe. Our vigilance becomes: Which defines our day—the pinch we feel in walking on a bruised toe, or the miracle still happening? It is the giving over to smallness that opens us to misery. In truth, we begin taking nothing for granted, grateful that we have enough to eat, that we are well enough to eat. But somehow, through the living of our days, our focus narrows like a camera that shutters down, cropping out the horizon, and one day we’re miffed at a diner because the eggs are runny or the hash isn’t seasoned just the way we like. When we narrow our focus, the problem seems everything. We forget when we were lonely, dreaming of a partner. We forget first beholding the beauty of another. We forget the comfort of first being seen and held and heard. When our view shuts down, we’re up in the night annoyed by the way our lover pulls the covers or leaves the dishes in the sink without soaking them first. In actuality, misery is a moment of suffering allowed to become everything. So, when feeling miserable, we must look wider than what hurts. When feeling a splinter, we must, while trying to remove it, remember there is a body that is not splinter, and a spirit that is not splinter, and a world that is not splinter.

You never knew when a moment would be your last. So why not soak up every memory?

Sometimes it took death for me to see life, don't live with regrets keep your head high. In a world filled with beauty I don't want to blink twice; soak up every moment because you can't stop time.

but what they don't understand is that I'm living at a peak of clarity and beauty I never knew existed. Every part of me is attuned to the work. I soak it up into my pores during the day, and at night-in the moments before I pass off to sleep-ideas explode into my head like fireworks. There is no greater joy than the burst of solution to a problem.

They all think I’m killing myself at this pace, but what they don’t understand is that I’m living at a peak of clarity and beauty I never knew existed. Every part of me is attuned to the work. I soak it up into my pores during the day, and at night—in the moments before I pass off into sleep—ideas explode into my head like fireworks. There is no greater joy than the burst of solution to a problem.

Every part of me is attuned to the work. I soak it up into my pores during the day, and at night--in the moments before I pass off into sleep--ideas explode into my head like fireworks. There is no greater joy than the burst of solution to a problem.

I had to first overcome the nightmares: my dreams were populated by menaces, shadows, murderous persecutions, disgusting events and objects, ambiguous sexual relations that excited me while also making me feel guilty. Here, I was a character inferior to my level of consciousness in the real world, capable of misdeeds that I would never have allowed myself to perpetrate while awake. I repeated many times, like a litany, “It is I who dream, just as it is I who am awake, and not a perverse and vulnerable child. The dreams happen in me; they are part of me. All that appears is myself. These monsters are aspects of me that have not been resolved. They are not my enemies. The subconscious is my ally. I must confront the terrible images and transform them.” I often had the same nightmare: I was in a desert, and a psychic entity determined to destroy me would come from the horizon as a huge cloud of negativity. I would wake up screaming and soaked in sweat. Now, tired of this undignified flight, I decided to offer myself in sacrifice. At the climax of the dream, in a state of lucid terror, I said, “Enough, I will stop wanting to wake up! Abomination, destroy me!” The entity approached threateningly. I stood still, calm. Then, the immense threat dissolved. I woke up for a few seconds, then peacefully went back to sleep. I realized it was I myself who had fed my terrors. I now knew that what terrifies us loses all its power in the moment that we stop fighting it. I began a long period during which whenever I had dreams, instead of running I would face my enemies and ask them what they wanted to tell me. Gradually, the images transformed before me and began to offer me presents: sometimes a ring, other times a golden sphere or a pair of keys. I now understood that just as every devil is a fallen angel, every angel is also a demon that has risen.

I might have taken a little more time, I might have allowed myself a longer goodbye.. soaking up every little detail until the memory was firmly lodged in my mind forever. But that's not how it works is it? And maybe it's better that way. Because some things are never meant to be anything more than a moment. And that was one of them." -Cait

He had not stopped looking into her eyes, and she showed no signs of faltering. He gave a deep sigh and recited: "O sweet treasures, discovered to my sorrow." She did not understand. "It is a verse by the grandfather of my great-great-grandmother," he explained. "He wrote three eclogues, two elegies, five songs, and forty sonnets. Most of them for a Portuguese lady of very ordinary charms who was never his, first because he was married, and then because she married another man and died before he did." "Was he a priest too?" "A soldier," he said. Something stirred in the heart of Sierva María, for she wanted to hear the verse again. He repeated it, and this time he continued, in an intense, well-articulated voice, until he had recited the last of the forty sonnets by the cavalier of amours and arms Don Garcilaso de la Vega, killed in his prime by a stone hurled in battle.When he had finished, Cayetano took Sierva María's hand and placed it over his heart. She felt the internal clamor of his suffering. "I am always in this state," he said. And without giving his panic an opportunity, he unburdened himself of the dark truth that did not permit him to live. He confessed that every moment was filled with thoughts of her, that everything he ate and drank tasted of her, that she was his life, always and everywhere, as only God had the right and power to be, and that the supreme joy of his heart would be to die with her. He continued to speak without looking at her, with the same fluidity and passion as when he recited poetry, until it seemed to him that Sierva María was sleeping. But she was awake, her eyes, like those of a startled deer, fixed on him. She almost did not dare to ask: "And now?" "And now nothing," he said. "It is enough for me that you know." He could not go on. Weeping in silence, he slipped his arm beneath her head to serve as a pillow, and she curled up at his side. And so they remained, not sleeping, not talking, until the roosters began to crow and he had to hurry to arrive in time for five-o'clock Mass. Before he left, Sierva María gave him the beautiful necklace of Oddúa: eighteen inches of mother-of-pearl and coral beads. Panic had been replaced by the yearning in his heart. Delaura knew no peace, he carried out his tasks in a haphazard way, he floated until the joyous hour when he escaped the hospital to see Sierva María. He would reach the cell gasping for breath, soaked by the perpetual rains, and she would wait for him with so much longing that only his smile allowed her to breathe again. One night she took the initiative with the verses she had learned after hearing them so often. 'When I stand and contemplate my fate and see the path along which you have led me," she recited. And asked with a certain slyness: "What's the rest of it?" "I reach my end, for artless I surrendered to one who is my undoing and my end," he said. She repeated the lines with the same tenderness, and so they continued until the end of the book, omitting verses, corrupting and twisting the sonnets to suit themselves, toying with them with the skill of masters. They fell asleep exhausted. At five the warder brought in breakfast, to the uproarious crowing of the roosters, and they awoke in alarm. Life stopped for them.

Every part of me is attuned to the work. I soak it up to my pores during the day, and at night - in the moments before I pass off into sleep - ideas explode into my head like fireworks.

Frank closed his troubled blue eyes and tipped his head back, but quickly regretted it. The moment he blocked out the light of the campfire, he was back on the smoke cover land. The ground beneath him seemed to be reaching up, eager to soak the life blood of the men around him. In every direction, the cries of the wounded screamed out. The constant sound of the drums echoed across the hills and through the valleys as the thundering cannons answered their call. With a gloved hand, he rubbed his eye lids as if the action might disperse the memories. It didn't.

BOWLS OF FOOD Moon and evening star do their slow tambourine dance to praise this universe. The purpose of every gathering is discovered: to recognize beauty and love what’s beautiful. “Once it was like that, now it’s like this,” the saying goes around town, and serious consequences too. Men and women turn their faces to the wall in grief. They lose appetite. Then they start eating the fire of pleasure, as camels chew pungent grass for the sake of their souls. Winter blocks the road. Flowers are taken prisoner underground. Then green justice tenders a spear. Go outside to the orchard. These visitors came a long way, past all the houses of the zodiac, learning Something new at each stop. And they’re here for such a short time, sitting at these tables set on the prow of the wind. Bowls of food are brought out as answers, but still no one knows the answer. Food for the soul stays secret. Body food gets put out in the open like us. Those who work at a bakery don’t know the taste of bread like the hungry beggars do. Because the beloved wants to know, unseen things become manifest. Hiding is the hidden purpose of creation: bury your seed and wait. After you die, All the thoughts you had will throng around like children. The heart is the secret inside the secret. Call the secret language, and never be sure what you conceal. It’s unsure people who get the blessing. Climbing cypress, opening rose, Nightingale song, fruit, these are inside the chill November wind. They are its secret. We climb and fall so often. Plants have an inner Being, and separate ways of talking and feeling. An ear of corn bends in thought. Tulip, so embarrassed. Pink rose deciding to open a competing store. A bunch of grapes sits with its feet stuck out. Narcissus gossiping about iris. Willow, what do you learn from running water? Humility. Red apple, what has the Friend taught you? To be sour. Peach tree, why so low? To let you reach. Look at the poplar, tall but without fruit or flower. Yes, if I had those, I’d be self-absorbed like you. I gave up self to watch the enlightened ones. Pomegranate questions quince, Why so pale? For the pearl you hid inside me. How did you discover my secret? Your laugh. The core of the seen and unseen universes smiles, but remember, smiles come best from those who weep. Lightning, then the rain-laughter. Dark earth receives that clear and grows a trunk. Melon and cucumber come dragging along on pilgrimage. You have to be to be blessed! Pumpkin begins climbing a rope! Where did he learn that? Grass, thorns, a hundred thousand ants and snakes, everything is looking for food. Don’t you hear the noise? Every herb cures some illness. Camels delight to eat thorns. We prefer the inside of a walnut, not the shell. The inside of an egg, the outside of a date. What about your inside and outside? The same way a branch draws water up many feet, God is pulling your soul along. Wind carries pollen from blossom to ground. Wings and Arabian stallions gallop toward the warmth of spring. They visit; they sing and tell what they think they know: so-and-so will travel to such-and-such. The hoopoe carries a letter to Solomon. The wise stork says lek-lek. Please translate. It’s time to go to the high plain, to leave the winter house. Be your own watchman as birds are. Let the remembering beads encircle you. I make promises to myself and break them. Words are coins: the vein of ore and the mine shaft, what they speak of. Now consider the sun. It’s neither oriental nor occidental. Only the soul knows what love is. This moment in time and space is an eggshell with an embryo crumpled inside, soaked in belief-yolk, under the wing of grace, until it breaks free of mind to become the song of an actual bird, and God.

And as we walk back down the street, me gingerly clutching what at this point constitutes my entire collection, my father says, ‘One day, when you’re all grown up and I’m not here any more, you’ll remember the sunny day we went to the market together and bought a boat.’ My throat feels tight because, as soon as he says it, I am already there. Standing on another street, without my father, trying to get back. And yet I’m here, with him. So I try to soak up every aspect of the moment, to help me get back when I need to. I feel the weight of the chunky parcel under my arm, and the warmth of the sun, and my father’s hand in mine. I smell the flowers with their sharp undertang of cheap hot dog, and taste the slick of toffee on my teeth, and hear the chattering hagglers. I feel the joy of an adventurous Saturday with my father and no school, and I feel the sadness of looking back when it is all gone. When he is gone.

And yet, if this was it, if this was the only way I could ever have her… I was thankful. I’d take every stolen moment, every fake kiss, every lesson she’d let me teach her. I’d ground myself down to sand and let her leave me behind in the end if it meant I got to soak up everything that she was right now. A fool, that’s what I was. A fool who wouldn’t stop playing the game he knew he’d lose.

Life is short. You and everyone around you will live, on average, a little more than seventy years. That will feel like less than a bathroom break compared with the eternity ahead of us. Everything in the world is teaching you to stretch out every moment as long as possible, to soak up every last drop from your time here on earth. But you weren’t made for this, and you won’t be here long. We have to stop believing the lie that everything we have here is all we have, and start thinking of everything we have here as something to invest in what’s to come. If the whole world passed away today, would we love what’s left? We develop those spiritual muscles now by saying, with everything we have and do now, that Jesus is our greatest treasure. Life is short, and everything we have and see here is passing away. Everything but Jesus.

As soon as she releases me, Galen grabs my hand and I don’t even have time to gasp before he snatches me to the surface and pulls me toward shore, only pausing to dislodge his pair of swimming trunks from under his favorite rock, where he had just moments before taken the time to hide them. I know the routine and turn away so he can change, but it seems like no time before he hauls me onto the beach and drags me to the sand dunes in front of my house. “What are we doing?” I ask. His legs are longer than mine so for every two of his strides I have to take three, which feels a lot like running. He stops us in between the dunes. “I’m doing something that is none of anyone else’s business.” Then he jerks me up against him and crushes his mouth on mine. And I see why he didn’t want an audience for this kiss. I wouldn’t want an audience for this kiss, either, especially if the audience included my mother. This is our first kiss after he announced that he wanted me for his mate. This kiss holds promises of things to come. When he pulls away I feel drunk and excited and nervous and filled with a craving that I’m not sure can ever be satisfied. And Galen looks startled. “Maybe I shouldn’t have done that,” he says. “That makes it about fifty times harder to leave, I think.” He tucks my head under his chin and I wrap my arms around him until both our breathing returns to normal. I take the time to soak in his scent, his warmth, the hard contours of his-well, his everything. It’s really not fair that he has to leave when he’s only just gotten back. We didn’t have much time to talk on the way back home. We haven’t had much time for anything. “Emma,” he murmurs. “The water isn’t safe for you right now. Please don’t get in it. Please.” “I won’t.” I really won’t. He said please, after all. He lifts my chin with the crook of his finger. His eyes hold all the gentleness and love in the world, with a pinch of mischief. “And take good notes in calculus, or I’ll be forced to cheat off you and for some weird reason that makes me feel guilty.” I wonder what Grom the Triton king would think of that. That Galen basically just stated his intention to keep doing human things. Galen pushes his lips against my forehead, then disentangles himself from me and leads me back toward the water. My body feels ten degrees cooler when his arms fall, and it’s got nothing to do with the temperature outside. We reach the others just in time to see Rayna all but throw herself at Toraf. I can’t help but smile as they kiss. It’s like watching Beauty and the Beast. And Toraf’s not the Beast.

16 November 2013, my cricketing journey finally came to an end at the Wankhede Stadium. After somehow managing to complete my farewell speech, I was having a conversation with my family, trying to soak in every moment, when my team-mate Virat Kohli walked up to me. He said, ‘Paaji aapne kaha tha aap ko yaad dilane ke liye ki aapko pitch pe jana hain.’ (You asked me to remind you that you had to go to the pitch one final time.) To be honest, I hadn’t forgotten; I was just trying to put the moment off for a little longer. It was to be my final visit to

Fireheart sprang forward and burst through the curtain of lichen. Tigerclaw and Bluestar were writhing on the floor of the den. Bluestar’s claws scored again and again across Tigerclaw’s shoulder, but the deputy’s greater weight kept her pinned down in the soft sand. Tigerclaw’s fangs were buried in her throat, and his powerful claws raked her back. “Traitor!” Fireheart yowled. He flung himself at Tigerclaw, slashing at his eyes. The deputy reared back, forced to release his grip on Bluestar’s throat. Fireheart felt his claws rip through the deputy’s ear, spraying blood into the air. Bluestar scrambled to the side of the den, looking half stunned. Fireheart could not tell how badly hurt she was. Pain lanced through him as Tigerclaw gashed his side with a blow from his powerful hindpaws. Fireheart’s paws skidded in the sand and he lost his balance, hitting the ground with Tigerclaw on top of him. The deputy’s amber eyes blazed into his. “Mousedung!” he hissed. “I’ll flay you, Fireheart. I’ve waited a long time for this.” Fireheart summoned every scrap of skill and strength he possessed. He knew Tigerclaw could kill him, but in spite of that he felt strangely free. The lies and the need for deceit were over. The secrets—Bluestar’s and Tigerclaw’s—were all out in the open. There was only the clean danger of battle. He aimed a blow at Tigerclaw’s throat, but the deputy swung his head to one side and Fireheart’s claws scraped harmlessly through thick tabby fur. But the blow had loosened Tigerclaw’s grip on him. Fireheart rolled away, narrowly avoiding a killing bite to his neck. “Kittypet!” Tigerclaw taunted, flexing his haunches to pounce again. “Come and find out how a real warrior fights.” He threw himself at Fireheart, but at the last moment Fireheart darted aside. As Tigerclaw tried to turn in the narrow den, his paws slipped on a splash of blood and he crashed awkwardly onto one side. At once Fireheart saw his chance. His claws sliced down to open a gash in Tigerclaw’s belly. Blood welled up, soaking into the deputy’s fur. He let out a high-pitched caterwaul. Fireheart pounced on him, raking claws across his belly again, and fastening his teeth into Tigerclaw’s neck. The deputy struggled vainly to free himself, his thrashing growing weaker as the blood flowed. Fireheart let go of his neck, planting one paw on Tigerclaw’s outstretched foreleg, and the other on his chest. “Bluestar!” he called. “Help me hold him down!” Bluestar was crouching behind him in her moss-lined nest. Blood trickled down her forehead, but that did not alarm Fireheart as much as the look in her eyes. They were a vague, cloudy blue, and she stared horror-struck in front of her as if she was witnessing the destruction

I wanted to tell you that life is a lot shorter than you could ever have imagined. And those people that love you that you think will be there forever, won’t be. I wanted to tell you not to waste your time pretending to live without really living. Take your shoes off when everyone has theirs on. Wear what you want. Say how you feel. And say it often. Say it when you’re most afraid to. Love so hard that it hurts. Don’t pretend to be someone to make other people comfortable, and don’t let others steal your confidence because they are struggling with their own. I want to hear that you lived your life free of the restrictions that others wanted to choke you with. I want to hear that you had the courage to risk it all, once. That you soaked every last tear out of that heartbreak and are stronger for it. I want to hear that you feel the wind and the rain and the sun. I want to hear you scream so loud that the clouds shake. Because this is all you have. All we have. Right now. I don’t want you to wake up one day and realize that you spent so much time worrying about life that you forgot to live it.

Just like rain, let it all flow incessantly until the sky clears out. Sometimes a part of me asks how is it that the ones who love the most, dearly, tenderly giving their all, find their hollow end meeting with scars that they never deserved. How is it that sometimes Life turns cold for those who sprinkle the most amount of sunshine, the hand that wipes other's pain how is that parched with betrayals and misunderstandings. But I guess it is about life lessons, how a soul grows through it all, as if the soul walks across the pyre of fire to know and eventually become its own mettle. Through it all the heart becomes more open and the mind more understanding, a unique strength of peace walks inside the very fire that rages the soul. Patience flows in through perseverance and the ashes mould in the teardrop of resilience to wear the smile of kindness. I have realised that when the worst happens to us, the soul is confronted with two choices, either to become bitter with repeating the question why or to become better with understanding the way how to walk ahead. Eventually it boils down to two simple emotions, love and hate, astonishingly born out of the same part of our mind and heart. It is a selection of either vengeance or forgiveness, not an easy choice to make especially when we are at our most vulnerable self. Whatever we choose becomes our reality, as if we get soaked in it, and somehow Time runs by. And when years pass by and we look back and see the path, and reflect on our choice we understand the meaning of both the choices, to some they take the shape of peace and to some they take the shape of agony, but looking closely we can see that the agony is the pathway leading to peace, forgiveness is the destination, sooner or later we all reach that space to find it in us to forgive, some in years while some in lifetimes. And perhaps, that is why we all undergo all that happens to us, chained in our Karma. So even when Life seems unfair, give it your all. Love with all your soul and no matter what comes by, don't stop walking along this shore of Time, because no matter how long it takes, you will find your Home. And when Life puts up a question as to why some who broke your soul find pleasure so easy, remind yourself the difference between pleasure and peace and don't forget to acknowledge the fact that perhaps you have paid your Karmic debt in full while theirs might just be beginning. So break if you must, but remind yourself about the gift of Life and Love every passing moment that breathes like a dream in an illusion of Time. Let your Faith walk hand in hand with you as you tread softly towards your destination, because no matter the years or the lifetimes, someday the sky shall be clear for the rainbow of your soul to smile in the Justice of Him, who knows all, sees all, feels all and does all.

FEBRUARY 16 Misery If peace comes from seeing the whole, then misery stems from a loss of perspective. We begin so aware and grateful. The sun somehow hangs there in the sky. The little bird sings. The miracle of life just happens. Then we stub our toe, and in that moment of pain, the whole world is reduced to our poor little toe. Now, for a day or two, it is difficult to walk. With every step, we are reminded of our poor little toe. Our vigilance becomes: Which defines our day—the pinch we feel in walking on a bruised toe, or the miracle still happening? It is the giving over to smallness that opens us to misery. In truth, we begin taking nothing for granted, grateful that we have enough to eat, that we are well enough to eat. But somehow, through the living of our days, our focus narrows like a camera that shutters down, cropping out the horizon, and one day we're miffed at a diner because the eggs are runny or the hash isn't seasoned just the way we like. When we narrow our focus, the problem seems everything. We forget when we were lonely, dreaming of a partner. We forget first beholding the beauty of another. We forget the comfort of first being seen and held and heard. When our view shuts down, we're up in the night annoyed by the way our lover pulls the covers or leaves the dishes in the sink without soaking them. In actuality, misery is a moment of suffering allowed to become everything. So, when feeling miserable, we must look wider than what hurts. When feeling a splinter, we must, while trying to remove it, remember there is a body that is not splinter, and a spirit that is not splinter, and a world that is not splinter.

Sometimes we woke in the night, huddled against the cold. Then, in the darkness, the world and everything in it became as skinless as water, no boundaries to show where one wave ended and the next began, our bodies like paired oars, each movement driving us further into the unknown. Time and sensation blurred. Tiny moments of golden brilliance, gossamer-thin and stretched to breaking, in a life otherwise steeped in grim shadow. I did not simply hold Pétur in my arms; I embraced him with blood and bone, clasped him with muscle and spirit, everything that I was and hoped to be. God might strike me down, but I felt saved and whole. Afterwards, we fell asleep intertwined. In those last moments of wakefulness, blinking up at the stars, as I sensed Pétur’s sweat cooling on my skin, I felt utterly human and fallen, and utterly content. And in those heat-soaked rags of time, I wished for every mountain in Iceland to shudder down rocks upon us, concealing us for ever from the gaze of the world. If we were ever found, our bodies would be dragged from the rubble together: tangled, knotted – inseparable. But such moments of savage contentment are as fleeting as the reflection of the swelling moon blinking upon the surface of the sea. Only ever minutes old, they dissolve with a passing cloud, or a gust of wind. In every human heart glows a tiny flame of hope that tomorrow will bring a love that might satisfy the smouldering yearning to be known. In some hearts, that fire is greedy and becomes a devouring inferno. It leaves only dead ash and dry dust behind. The wind whirls it into emptiness. But there is such heat while it burns … And the light is infinite.

Life is pretty short yet magnanimous if we know just how to live right. It isn't that easy, it takes a lot of our soul, sometimes too many broken pieces to finally come together in binding a masterpiece that smiles like a solitary star forever gazing around at the music of an eternal cosmos. The most brutal yet beautiful truth about Life is that It is marked, marked with Time where every moment takes us closer to death, it doesn't have to sound or feel bad or scary because death is the most inevitable truth in this mortal world. While the knowledge of death jolts our mind with the uncertainty of Life, clutches us in the emotion of fear to think of pain or the loss of bonds, when we acknowledge that as a part of our souls' journey and take every moment as our precious gift, a blessing to experience this Life with its beautiful garden of emotions blossoming with wonderful smiles that we can paint on others, then we make our Life magnanimous, then we make even the very face of death as that of an angel coming to take us to a different voyage, soaked in a lot of memories and experiences beautifully binding our soul. I have realised that when we live each day as if it's the last day of our life, we become more loving and gentle to everyone around and especially to our own selves. We forgive and love more openly, we grace and embrace every opportunity we get to be kind, to stay in touch with everything that truly matters. I have realised that when we rise every morning with gratitude knowing that the breath of air still passes through our body, just in the mere understanding that we have one more day to experience Life once again, we stay more compassionate towards everything and everyone around and invest more of our selves into everything and everyone that truly connect and resonate with our soul. I have realised that when we consciously try to be good and kind, no matter however bad or suffocating a situation is we always end up taking everything at its best holding on to the firm grip of goodness, accepting everything as a part of our souls' lesson or just a turn of Time or Fate and that shapes into our strength and roots our core with the truest understanding of Life, the simple act of going on and letting go. Letting go of anything and everything that chains our Soul while going on with a Heart open to Love and a Soul ready to absorb all that falls along the pathway of this adventure called Life. I have realised that when we are kind and do anything good for another person, that gives us the most special happiness, something so pure that even our hearts don't know how deep that joy permeates inside our soul. I have realised that at the end of the day we do good not because of others but because of our own selves, for if tomorrow death comes to grace me I hope to smile and say I have Lived, loved unconditionally and embraced forgiveness, kindness and goodness and all the other colours of Love with every breath I caught, I have lived a Life magnanimous. So each time someone's unkind towards you, hold back and smile, and try to give your warmth to that person. Because Kindness is not a declaration of who deserves it, it's a statement of who you are. So each time some pieces of your heart lay scattered, hold them up and embrace everyone of them with Love. Because Love is not a magic potion that is spilled from a hollow space, it's a breath of eternity that flows through the tunnel of your soul. So each time Life puts up a question of your Happiness, answer back with a Smile of Peace. Because Happiness is not what you look for in others, it's what you create in every passing moment, with the power of Life, that is pretty short when we see how counted it stands in days but actually turns out absolutely incredibly magnanimous when loved and lived in moments.

Then he drops his head back down, pulls my panties all the way to my ankles, and finally makes contact. I fall back against the bed, gasping at the soft, hot, wet feel of Callum's mouth on the most sensitive spot of my body. This is way, way better than any dream. The slow circles he makes with his tongue send heat through every inch of me. Callum is the master of slow burn, setting me on fire from the inside out with just his tongue. It doesn't seem to matter where he chooses to taste me. Every single time his mouth makes contact, I'm engulfed in flames. I'm gasping, whimpering, moaning his name. He hums his approval. He speeds up, then slows down. Then repeats it again and again. Everything he does, it's all divine. With my body on fire, my brain in a pleasure-mush state, I can't form words; only sounds. Pressure builds behind the heat, like I'm boiling over. I twist both hands into the pillow, supporting my head. It's either that or rip the hair from his scalp, because I absolutely cannot handle this level of ecstasy. Callum increases the pressure and then throws in a wild card: suction. Holy hot damn. My whimpers turn into screams. The pressure between my legs builds and builds until every limb is shaking. Just then he eases up, and I finally catch my breath. But then he's back at it, humming against me. I could swear I hear him chuckling. Before I can be sure, he's amping up the pressure, speeding up until I'm thrashing. I don't know how much longer I'll be able to hold on. Seconds, maybe. But minutes? No way on God's green Earth. More pressure, more suction, then bam. Explosion. The simmering slow burn is nowhere to be found. This is a volcanic eruption of ecstasy. It's every muscle ablaze, tensing as climax claims me. It's me shouting, gasping, panting, tugging at the bedsheets, tugging at Callum. It's babbling, going cross-eyed, ending in a sweat-soaked pile in the middle of the bed and never, ever feeling more satisfied than in this moment.

With Marlboro Man’s strong hands massaging my tired shoulders, I walked in front of him down the narrow porch toward the driveway, where my dusty car awaited me. But before I could take the step down he stopped me, grabbing a belt loop on the back of my Anne Kleins, and pulling me back toward him with rapid--almost shocking--force. “Woooo!” I exclaimed, startled at the jolt. My cry was so shrill, the coyotes answered back. I felt awkward. Marlboro Man moved in for the kill, pulling my back tightly against his chest and wrapping his arms slowly around my waist. As I rested my arms on top of his hands and leaned my head back toward his shoulder, he buried his face in my neck. Suddenly, September seemed entirely too far away. I had to have this man to myself 24/7, as soon as humanly possible. “I can’t wait to marry you,” he whispered, each word sending a thousand shivers to my toes. I knew exactly what he meant. He wasn’t talking about the wedding cake. I was speechless, as usual. He had that effect on me. Because whatever he said, when it came to his feelings about me or his reflections on our relationship, made whatever I’d respond with sound ridiculously…lame…bumbling…awkward. If ever I said anything to him in return, it was something along the lines of “Yeah…me, too” or “I feel the same way” or the equally dumb “Aww, that’s nice.” So I’d learned to just soak up the moment and not try to match him…but to show him I felt the same way. This time was no different; I reached my arm backward, caressing the nape of his neck as he nuzzled his face into mine, then turned around suddenly and threw my arms around him with every ounce of passion in my body. Minutes later, we were back at the sliding glass door that led inside the house--me, leaning against the glass, Marlboro Man anchoring me there with his strong, convincing lips. I was a goner. My right leg hooked slowly around his calf. And then, the sound--the loud ringing of the rotary phone inside. Marlboro Man ignored it through three rings, but it was late, and curiosity took over. “I’d better get that,” he said, each word dripping with heat. He ran inside to answer the phone, leaving me alone in a sultry, smoky cloud. Saved by the bell, I thought. Damn. I was dizzy, unable to steady myself. Was it the wine? Wait…I hadn’t had any wine that night. I was drunk on his muscles. Wasted on his masculinity.

I am in no rush. Let Life happen to me just as Life has planned. Because at the end of the day, when the sun sets there is always a horizon somewhere waiting to call forth another sun, in a paradox of Time. Because at the end of each chapter, the story walks towards its culmination. But just like it is not in the setting or rising of the sun but in the sunshine that one basks, just like it is not the finishing line but the voyage through the storyline where one finds the true understanding of the book, Life is about exploring the voyage all the while knowing full well that each chapter shall find its beginning middle and end just how it's meant to be. It is about the truth that Life is but a dream in Time's illusion and the only sharp truth is to love and be loved, and through that assemble moments in Time that smile beyond Time, to make a garden of experiences through lessons and understandings that Life puts at our journey only to walk us closer to our destination. It is not about the destination rather about the journey, and perhaps about who we share the journey with at each crossroad. And no matter how Time walks by, until and unless we cross all the alleys along the way, until and unless we climb up the peak bit by bit, we cannot reach that destination where we belong. But if we tread along the mountain peak or a winding alley soaking in all the freshness of the air enjoying the crispness of our walk, the journey becomes even more enriching not just to our soul but to all of our senses and our very heart. While if we try to run along the way, we might actually topple down a bad turn, taking in a scar that might demand another cup of our soul's portion to heal. Such is Life. A journey that takes smiles and tears, a voyage that bathes in hope and hopelessness, but in all of it, it never stays stagnant, always tiptoeing to exactly where we are meant to be, at any point of our journey. So when something seems to go stagnant or few things make no sense, I tell myself to pause and pat my soul acknowledging each and every decision or detour of mine as part and parcel of Life's plan. I close my eyes and breathe in the freshness of air that flows in every part of my soul to know, to feel alive to all that this journey has shared with me, while believing in the grace and magnanimity of Time who takes Time but eventually shows and leads us to where we belong. And I hear my heart smiling, Let Life happen to me just as Life has planned. I am in no rush.

Edgerton/Assassins of Dreamsongs 169 The thick, frosty rain had long since subsided. A thin, fur clad figure peered through the thick, rain soaked foliage, just outside the army's encampment. The old Wizard's raspy whisper suddenly broke the silence. He shivered against the cold and swore to himself, as no eyes peered back at him from the forest. "Damnable rabbits!" He shook both stiff, old legs from the bitter cold of the forest night and from the puddle he had been standing in. The half-asleep guard paid no attention or tribute to the thin, fur clad bearer of wood, as he trudged through the camp's outer perimeter with a load of firewood in his arms. Slumber played a barbaric tune to the rhythms of the wind through the trees, while the army slept. Arkin readjusted the stack of wood held precariously in his arms, as he walked through the center of camp. His steady, silent pace took him around large mud puddles and before a roaring fire built beneath a rocky shelf. The large bonfire spit colorful sparks into the blackness and the cold of the night. His thin arms let fall the wood he had gathered, while he surveyed the camp. A long, walking stick suddenly appeared in his hand, as if by magic, while his senses took in all around him. The small, white haired Wizard leaned lazily on his heavy staff for a thoughtful moment, while his calculating eye took in the figures huddled on the ground around the small campfires. Edgerton/Assassins of Dreamsongs 170 In the forest, two sets of eyes suddenly blinked their timidity at Arkin and then disappeared. "Dull witted rabbits to save a future King," he grumbled. "Will wonders never cease." From an ancient leather pouch, old weathered hands drew a sparkling dust that seemed to be alive in its’ every glimmer. The old man watched its’ mesmerizing glow for a moment. Then, as if youth possessed his body once again, Arkin began dancing like a misguided wood nymph through the camp, sprinkling the powder on the slumbering figures. The old Wizard's ritualistic dance took him the complete circumference of the camp. An old Wizard smiled broadly, as he danced by the giant, blond Nobleman chained helplessly to a tree. Their eyes met in an exchanged mischievous greeting. Garish beamed his roguish smile at him, hope renewed once more. The blond, captive Nobleman had to fight back the mounting laughter in his throat, from the comforting sight of his mentor and the queer fairy dance he was performing. His gaze followed the little man's every step with pure delight. The little Grand Master Wizard slowed his mischievous fairy dance only long enough to retrieve the glimmering Sword of Damen from the pile of weapons in the center of the camp. Edgerton/Assassins of Dreamsongs 171 The Old Man carefully concealed the sword under his cloak and continued his fairy dance, while sprinkling the sparkling powder over the sleeping figures. Stooping low, he picked up a shield and flung it over his shoulder. Once again the old, fur clad Wizard’s movements brought him to where he had first entered the camp, through the forest. The half-asleep guard awakened faintly, to watch the little man in his queer dance, as he moved towards him. He made no effort to detain the Old One but merely stared in disbelief, as Arkin vanished into the forest once again. The guard stood dazed in disbelief at the sight and then rubbed away the sleep from his eyes, uncertain if he had been daydreaming.

He had done all he could to avoid her over the last couple of weeks, though the effort was more challenging than he had expected, especially when thoughts of her never left his consciousness. Then came the night they collided outside the Mawbry's town house. For a brief and painful moment, he had held her warm body against him, and the elemental shift she had caused in his core had spread like a shock wave through his system. Now, here she was, dressed again in modest white, her brunette hair falling in loose waves, the red glow of the fire behind her casting her figure into a decadent display of shadow and light. As his hungry gaze soaked up every detail of the woman who had been haunting his thoughts, he noticed something odd in her manner. Her lovely gray eyes were lowered, and with her hair shielding much of her face, she presented a perfect example of shy modesty. The posture struck Avenell as wrong. Despite Miss Chadwick's innocence and quiet manner, she was not one to avert her gaze. He had observed her enough in the preceding weeks to know she had an unnerving tendency to view her surroundings with direct, consuming attention.

I could feel the tension leaving her as she gave in, her kisses rich and consuming as I explored her mouth with mine. I moved my hand that final inch, my thumb dragging its way up the centre of her panties until I found her clit and pressed down, making her gasp in pleasure. I began circling my thumb against her through her panties and she arched her back, her thighs widening further to give me all the access I wanted to destroy her. I kissed harder as I began to unhook her shirt buttons with my free hand, wanting to see those fucking tits I'd been jerking off over in the flesh. Her hands continued to move across my bare skin as I kept working her clit and I gave up trying to take my time with her as she started panting with need. I shifted my hand, pushing her panties aside and growling with desire as I found her pussy soaked and ready for me and I immediately sank a finger deep inside her. Tory moaned, her voice rough and breathy and so fucking sexy that I had to fight the urge to drop my pants and drive my cock into her here and now so that I could hear what it sounded like when I really made her scream. But thanks to fucking Teddy, I knew I didn't have time to fuck her the way I ached to and I didn't want to rush through something I'd been daydreaming about for so long. So I was going to feel her coming for me like this, take control of her pleasure and leave her wanting more so that she was aching for me as much as possible the next time we found ourselves alone like this and I could really show her what I was made of. My other hand found her tit and I squeezed it through her bra, groaning at the fullness in my palm and breaking our kiss as I worked my way down her body to better service her hardened nipple. Tory leaned back, giving me a perfect fucking view of her with her shirt swinging wide and her skirt hitched up around her waist as I drove my finger in and out of her tight pussy. I yanked her bra down, my dick jerking at the sight of her pink nipple before my mouth descended on it and I sucked it between my lips, coupling the move with the addition of a second finger driving inside her. She moaned even louder, her pussy tightening like a vice around my fingers while I sucked on her nipple and felt her body surging towards its climax like I was playing the most exquisite instrument in the world. The moment I felt her coming for me, I reared up and kissed her hard, swallowing her cries of pleasure and tasting her lust as I dragged my tongue over hers. My dick was fucking aching and I growled with a desperate, needy plea of my flesh which I knew I didn't have time to answer as the heat of our kisses softened and I slowly drew my fingers back out of her, fixing her panties into place again. I broke off our kiss with a surge of effort, mentally planning to give Teddy the lesson from hell for forcing me to cut this shit short after I'd waited so long to claim it. Tory blinked up at me in surprise and I had to fight the urge to pout like a bitch as I read the desire in her body and knew she'd been hoping to come all over my cock again after that stunning first round. “I have a student coming in a minute to learn the art of Vampirism from an expert,” I explained, wishing I could just cancel the damn thing, but my mom had already been calling me out on not attending a bunch of these sessions and as our family name was linked to them, it was a bad look for me to miss any more of them. “So that was purely for my benefit?” Tory asked in surprise as she began to re-button her shirt. My jaw ticked with frustration, though I couldn't claim she was the only one of us who had gotten something out of that. “Oh no, I got plenty from that too,” I promised her, my gaze sweeping over her body appreciatively as I began to mentally plan all the things I wanted to do to every inch of her if I was lucky enough to get to do this with her again. (Caleb POV)

Before the better things of the new covenant could be established, the old covenant things had to be perfectly fulfilled and done away with. Our kinsman redeemer was born under the covenant written on the stone Tables of the Covenant in the ark. He perfectly kept all of that covenant’s terms and earned the life and righteousness that it promised. He earned every blessing it promised because he kept every precept it demanded. He literally brought to the Tables of the Covenant the holy, sinless and obedient life it demanded. Every precept must be fulfilled. Every term had to be obeyed just as every prophecy had to be fulfilled. Not a jot or tittle could be left unfinished. On the cross our Lord’s mind went down through the Old Testament, and he saw one thing in Psalm 69:21 not yet finished (“They put gall in my food and gave me vinegar for my thirst.” Psalm 69:21). Later, knowing that all was now completed, and so that the Scripture would be fulfilled, Jesus said, “I am thirsty.” A jar of wine vinegar was there, so they soaked a sponge in it, put the sponge on a stalk of the hyssop plant, and lifted it to Jesus’ lips. When he had received the drink, Jesus said, “It is finished.” With that, he bowed his head and gave up his spirit (John 19:28-30). The moment the last old covenant prophecy was fulfilled, our Lord cried out, “It is finished” and gave up his spirit. The rending of the veil was the evidence that the old was finished and the new had come.

I might have taken a little more time, I might have allowed myself a longer goodbye.. soaking up every little detail until the memory was firmly lodged in my mind forever. But that's not how it works is it? And maybe it's better that way. Because some things are never meant to be anything more than a moment. And that was one of them. -Cait

each generation makes its own history, and each generation is judged and defined by the history it makes. Grace has continued to make history as she has nurtured new ideas in Detroit and raised new possibilities of reuniting the efforts of all of us into a new movement. We must start with the question I heard Grace pose at a meeting I attended: “What does it mean to be a human being in the twenty-first century?” What does it mean to develop the life-affirming relationships that we are destined to have and that we must have not only for our own survival as a human species but also for the survival of the planet itself? What does all this mean? These questions are just as fundamental today as they were seventy or eighty years ago. Reflecting on all the changes that have happened, we have the chance now at this very critical moment to find and assert our pathway. We exist in a failed paradigm. It has failed us. It has failed human development. It has failed social development. It has failed everything that is needed to sustain human life. How do we come out of these ashes? How do we bring out of these ashes the ideas, the motivation, and the spirit of this particular moment and take it to the next step? These are the questions that Grace, now ninety-five years old, asks herself every moment throughout the day. And she invites us—every single one of us and those beyond us—to ask these same questions. As we move forth in the twenty-first century, I want to thank you, Grace. I want to thank you so much for being a part of my life. And certainly I am going to soak up whatever I can from you as long as you are here and as long as you are able and willing to give it. Thank you so much from all of us, from every single one of us.

Sean told her about the question Rosie had posed while they were in the parking lot of the grocery. Franci had to lean against the counter, laughing so hard she was doubled over, yet trying to keep quiet lest Rosie come running soaking wet to the kitchen to see who would dare have fun without her. “Yeah, funny,” Sean said. “What would you have said?” She wiped her eyes. “Well, I have a special book about all that. It’s right about time to look at it together, but I didn’t know how to explain you to Rosie, so I’ve been putting it off. I guess I can go ahead with it now.” “A book? Come on!” “No, really. It talks about all the differences in the mommy’s and daddy’s bodies—it’s very cute. Sweet. Non-threatening.” She smiled at him. “If you’re very good, I’ll read it to you later.” “If you’re very good, I’ll show you how it’s done.” He leered at her. “By the way,” he said. “How was it done in this case? We were always very careful. Do you remember?” “Every detail,” she said, turning away from him to put away dishes. He turned her back. “Could I have a couple of details, please?” She took a breath. “Remember I used to go off the pill for a couple of months a year and your job was to be very good about the condoms? Well, there were a couple of times you got real worked up and just let it slide.” She shrugged. “It was as much my doing as yours. I was also a little worked up.” Silence enveloped them for a moment. He leaned forward and kissed her brow. “We were like that,” he whispered. “I’m not sorry about that. Big accident. Huge reward. She’s awesome.” Franci

Why do you love your camera, Dylan?" he asks. I sit down and think about it. I could list a million reasons. Gray sits next to me. "It helps me to see." I say. "I appreciate so much more when I have it. It widens my perspective; it makes me want to soak up every detail. It never misses a thing, it never blinks. The Whole word is crisper and brighter and clearer. It sees beauty whithout judging it. It makes me want to take every temporary moment and make it permanent." I stop rambling and look over at Gray. He's smiling. "Exactly," he says. "I'm you camera," I say, stunned. It's the greatest compliment he could ever give me.

Live and soak up every single moment. Lean into them, even the moments that terrify you. That’s how you know you’re alive.

I wanted to feel the nights and the days and every second in-between, to soak up all the moments we could

Shank off, you faithless skiv!” “Then say my name,” Taein said as he rose and adjusted his coat. “You know exactly who I am.” “You’re the Unkillable Kid—” The mugger said through a froth of blood, his squirming growing weaker. Taein picked him up by the lapels and drew the mugger’s face so close he could see the broken blood vessels in his eyes. “Say. My. Name.” “Taein,” Big said, and he burst into tears. And Taein he was, after all. He was the prince of purloining, scourge of the streets, survivor against all natural odds, reckless to the point of delusion. He was Taein, survivor of the BlackBlades, the Unkillable Kid himself, (or unkillable as far as he knew, at least), and if a good thrashing was all that could beat back the numbness anymore, even just for a few adrenaline-soaked moments, so be it. It was better to feel anything other than his usual state of abysmal emptiness—even pain—because that emptiness haunted him like a starving child, dogging his heels every waking minute, leaching through his very bloodstream as a hard frost crawls along a windowpane.  He was Taein—terror of thieves, conductor of chaos, sweetheart of spite—and if brushing hands with death was all that could shake him halfway to life anymore, so be it.

I take a moment to drink him in, my gaze soaking up every incredible inch of this man—this stranger, in a way, and yet… so much more. He is beautiful.

It’s unfortunate that I’m just now living. Don’t be like me. Live and soak up every single moment. Lean into them, even the moments that terrify you. That’s how you know you’re alive.

If you want me to breathe in this wreckage, I have to lean into it, head-on. Place my whole weight in the wreckage, allow it to hold me up, hold me down. It means reliving every single moment. The hardest, darkest, sharpest ones. The happy ones before he died that bring a specific kind of pain. It means being pregnant all over again. Counting down the days. Filled with that exquisite excitement that is absolutely unique to the moment you meet your child. Sometimes I want to go looking for the pain. I want to marinate in it, allow it to soak into my skin. It’s a tonic of sorts. A flush of the system. A way to demolish the foundation and start from nothing. Which sometimes—dare I say it—can make you feel good on the other end. It rewards you to taste fearlessness. To have nothing to lose. The grief is disarming, but sometimes the afterward is intoxicating. Because what can you do to me now? This cockiness was hard-won. I’m new land craving to be built upon. KATE SUDDES, Writing Your Grief student, on the death of her son, Paul

I got tired,” I said, then tried to find the words that would make him understand. “I don’t mean tired like ‘it’s been a long day’ tired, either. Imagine that you just really don’t want to fucking get out of bed, like you can’t find the energy or the desire to start your day at all. Your body is heavy and your mind is fuzzy, but then you think ‘alright, if I get up, I can go get my favorite coffee’. So, you manage to pull your clothes on and make it down the block to get some; and they’re out. Then you leave and it starts raining, really raining, so now you’re wet and cold because you didn’t think to grab an umbrella. Then you make it home just to realize you’ve locked yourself out. So, you sit there on the front porch, coffee-less, soaked to the bone, thinking about how you didn’t even want to get out of bed in the first place. Can you imagine that feeling?” Scott took a moment to think about it, then just slowly nodded. “Yeah, I think so. It’s kind of a ‘what was the point?’ feeling, right?” “Exactly,” I said. “Now take that feeling, multiply it by about fifty, and that’s how I feel every day. That’s what getting out of bed is like, every day. Every single time, I have to find a reason. Even when it’s a good day, I still feel like I’m sitting out there in the rain, my back to a locked door. And I just think to myself that I wouldn’t have to feel that way if I was dead. That kind of tired is bone deep, and suffocating, and I hate it. And I hope you never have to really understand it, because it’s an awful way to be.

I looked up at Josh. His chest rose and fell a little too fast. He had this look on his handsome face—a touch of anxiety, worry, and anticipation around his brow, like he was afraid at any minute all this would be taken from him, like I might suddenly change my mind. I deserved that. This was a shotgun wedding. Josh was the one holding the shotgun. This whole thing was some flash-bang-chaos campaign to hustle me into marriage before I got my bearings. He wanted to lock me down before I freaked out on him and ran. That’s why he’d rushed this. Only, the joke was on him—I wanted to be locked down, and I’d never change my mind. I’d never leave him again. If he wanted this rust bucket of a body so badly, he could have it, and I’d just have to spend the rest of my life making sure he felt secure and loved. I looked at him, my eyes steady, and I took a deep breath. “Joshua, I vow to text you back.” Everyone in the room laughed, my fiancé included, and his face relaxed. I continued. “I will answer every call you make to me for the rest of my life. You’ll never chase me again.” His eyes filled with tears, and he seemed to let go of a breath he’d been holding. “I promise to always go to family day at the station so you know that you’re loved. I vow to support you and follow you anywhere until you’ve found the place that makes you happy. I’ll be your best friend and try and fill that hole in your heart. I’m going to take care of you and cherish you, always and no matter what.” I smiled at him. “I’ll orbit around you and be your universe, because you’ve always been my sun.” He wiped at his eyes, and he had to take a moment before he read his own vows. While I waited, I let his face anchor me. I soaked him in, let his love remind me again and again that I was worth it. He looked at his paper and then seemed to decide he didn’t need it, setting it down on the desk. He gathered up my hands. “Kristen, I vow that no matter what health issues lie ahead, I will love and take care of you. I will show you every day of your life that you’re worth everything. I will carry your worries. All I ask is that you carry your own dog purse.” The room chuckled again. “I promise to love Stuntman Mike and slay your spiders, and keep you from getting hangry.” Now I was laughing through tears. “I will always defend you. I’ll always be on your side.” Then he turned to Sloan. “And I vow to protect and care for you, Sloan, like you’re my sister, for the rest of my life.” This did it. The tears ran down my face, and I was in his arms and weeping before I knew I’d closed the distance. We were both crying. We were all crying, even the witnesses who had no idea how hard the journey had been to get here, the sacrifices that were made for this union. Or who we’d lost along the way.

...he thinks how he'd like to have a foot in his brain, a steel foot wearing a steel boot so he could kick pain and bitterness far away, each time they came he could kick away betrayal, and despair, and bad people, harsh people, the kind of people who cut love to their own size and not to the size of love itself, people who say I love on Monday and by Tuesday won't give you a second glance, say I can't live without you on Monday and by Tuesday say I can't stand you anymore, on Monday say we'll get through this together and by Tuesday say you have to stand on your own two feet, we all have to take responsibility for ourselves, on Monday say I want us to live together forever and by Tuesday say what do you mean I came into your life, fucked everything up, and now I’m leaving like nothing ever happened, what do you mean, I don’t understand – you think I misled you or something? – people who say you’re my forever person on Monday and by Tuesday say you’re getting too clingy, you’re asking too much, don’t text me anymore, don’t call, people who laugh with all their heart while yours drips blood, who watch TV calmly at night until they fall asleep without a care in the world, while you stare through the window at the darkness and feel that darkness swallowing you up, people who forget you overnight and spend their days and nights with friends in cafés and bars , while you remember everything – each moment, each word, each kiss, each night, each day – you remember each whisper, each cry, each embrace, each smile, each laugh, you remember, remember, remember, and you struggle, your hands dipped in blood, your heart soaked in blood, your eyes soaked in clear, crystalline blood, you struggle, every hour, every moment, every morning, every night, to eradicate everything you remember from your body and heart and mind, to uproot everything your body and heart and mind remember, you struggle to douse with blood the blaze that consumes you, you struggle not to remember, you struggle to forget the sweetness in those eyes that gazed into your eyes, the taste of that other mouth when it kissed yours, the smell of that other body tangled with yours, you struggle not to remember, to not remember. You struggle to learn to not remember.

I didn’t expect you to call me,” Ashton said softly while studying the plate of biscuits in her hands. I’d had a moment of intense weakness when I’d woken up form an incredibly good dream she had starred in. All I could think about was being near her again. “I hated the way we left things last night.” She blushed and glanced up at me. “I’m really sorry about how I acted.” Damn, damn, damn, I wasn’t going to be able to resist her. Pushing Sawyer to the deep, dark forgotten part of my mind, I walked over to her, took the plate of biscuits, and put them down on the counter. “I told you last night: I started it. I should be the one apologizing.” She let out a small laugh and stared down at her feet. “No, I distinctly remember it being my leg that was hiked up in your lap and my hand that was up your shirt. You had completely stopped touching me. Thanks for trying to take the blame off me, but I was there, Beau.” I slipped my arms around her waist and pulled her to me. Right now I didn’t care who she belonged to. I wanted her and I couldn’t see past my need. “Look at me,” I whispered, slipping my finger under her chin and tilting her face up so I could see her eyes. “The only reason I didn’t grab you and haul you onto my lap last night was because for the first time in my life, I want something that belongs to the only person I love. I started touching you last night because I couldn’t keep my hands off you. I thought if I could touch you just a little bit, I’d be able to handle it. But then you didn’t react the way I expected.” I stopped and closed my eyes. Staring down at her while I talked about her reaction to my touch was difficult. Those big, innocent green eyes soaked in every word out of my mouth. God, she was perfect. “And my good intentions were fading fast. If you’d kept touching me for just a few more seconds, I’d have lost it. I was hanging on by a thread. A very thin thread.” She stepped back out of my embrace and gave me a little grin. “Okay. Thank you for saying that.” She turned and walked over to the counter then began taking the plastic wrap off the biscuits. “We both love him. Neither of us wants to hurt him. But…we’re drawn to each other. We have history. The three of us. For the past few years, it’s been just me and Sawyer. I didn’t want it to be that way; it just happened. I think we can all be friends again. I want us to be. So while he’s gone, let’s just enjoy being friends. I promise to keep my hands to myself if you promise the same.” She peered at me over her shoulder as she moved to set the biscuits on plates she’d found in the dish rack. Telling her how I’d do anything she asked wasn’t exactly the best move. I nodded and went to get glasses and orange juice so we could eat breakfast together. Just like we use to.

Aging with all my self. To my younger self, I'm not twenty-something anymore, and in just a month's time I shall walk into another decade of a whole new experience. I don't have youth on my side, but I have a heart of Life enlightened with the very spirit of Life itself, something that draws youth on its lap. Wisdom has been churned out from the mistakes and failures, and lessons have been disguised as soul fillers, and gratitude dances on my lips, waving my heart with a bunch of memories. Perhaps, the memories have been earned. Earned at the cost of those lost turns, cold betrayals, numb tears, forced smiles and a voyage walking through a rainbow of mad jest of Life. With that being said, I wouldn't go back and change even a bit. Through all of that heartache, I have unearthed a heart that is resilient, and pliant, I have met a soul that is strong and loving, and deeper than any thousand paged novel I could get lost in. I have come across beautiful souls in beautiful lands, I have soaked in different cultures and walked my way through observing hearts, listening to stories that run beyond time and tide. I have grown with each one of those smiles and tears, the sands of places that mark my soles make my soul whole in a strange but palpable tune. I have got lost in pathways and met a gypsy soul wandering in the space of infinite time, weaving moments through Life to take back a bunch of images and experiences from a journey called Life. My story has been filled with pages of ups and downs and my cup of Life has had several toxic turns, but in all of that, I have grown, along with one or two grey hair. My pages have often tasted Life in the most happy hue from voyages and dreams that kept overlapping and smiling across the tips of Time. And all of this, has helped me to nurture and nourish an invincible desire to live a life, with a passion no longer on hold, but a heart that is free forever to fly in the tunes of its own whisper. So as I open another day, walking closer to close the page of this twenty-something, I wear a smile that the youth of wisdom paints on my heart. And age, with all the grace that only Age can bring, while loving, forgiving and embracing my younger self in every air of Time. Love, a soul aging gracefully with the Smile of Life.

Maybe the best way to hold on to her wasn’t to obsess over her paintings or wear her skates or listen to her music or copy her style or worry over what would happen when I finally lost Peanut. Maybe the best way to keep her with me was to embrace her spirit. To emulate her courage. To bring the warmth and love to the world that she always—fearlessly—had. She had loved us without reservation. She adored us wildly. And laughed. And danced. And soaked it all up—every atom of her life—every moment of her time She felt it all. She lived it all. That’s what I loved about her. Not just that she was a great mom or a great wife or a great dog rescuer. She was a great person. She knew some divine secret about how to open up to being alive that the rest of us kept stubbornly missing. She’d wanted me to know it, too. She’d wanted me to say yes to everything. She’d wanted me to go all in.