Soul Scripts Quotes

Excellent. I've been told I have a lovely, melodic reading voice." He flipped the book open to the front page, where the title was printed in ornate script. Across from it was a long dedication, the ink faded now and barely legible, though Clary could make out the signature: With hope at last, William Herondale.

For several years, I had been bored. Not a whining, restless child's boredom (although I was not above that) but a dense, blanketing malaise. It seemed to me that there was nothing new to be discovered ever again. Our society was utterly, ruinously derivative (although the word derivative as a criticism is itself derivative). We were the first human beings who would never see anything for the first time. We stare at the wonders of the world, dull-eyed, underwhelmed. Mona Lisa, the Pyramids, the Empire State Building. Jungle animals on attack, ancient icebergs collapsing, volcanoes erupting. I can't recall a single amazing thing I have seen firsthand that I didn't immediately reference to a movie or TV show. A fucking commercial. You know the awful singsong of the blasé: Seeeen it. I've literally seen it all, and the worst thing, the thing that makes me want to blow my brains out, is: The secondhand experience is always better. The image is crisper, the view is keener, the camera angle and the soundtrack manipulate my emotions in a way reality can't anymore. I don't know that we are actually human at this point, those of us who are like most of us, who grew up with TV and movies and now the Internet. If we are betrayed, we know the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script. It's a very difficult era in which to be a person, just a real, actual person, instead of a collection of personality traits selected from an endless Automat of characters. And if all of us are play-acting, there can be no such thing as a soul mate, because we don't have genuine souls. It had gotten to the point where it seemed like nothing matters, because I'm not a real person and neither is anyone else. I would have done anything to feel real again.

Love has its own communication. It's the language of the heart, while it has never been transcribed, has no alphabet, and can't be heard or spoken by voice, it is used by every human on the planet. It is written on our souls, scripted by the finger of God, and we can hear, understand, and speak it with perfection long before we open our eyes for the first time.

I love you today. I will love you tomorrow. I will love you always. Because when we are reborn, I will fall in love with you again and again and again." - Faye Hall, from an untitled script

Music shouldn't be just a tune, it should be a touch.

Some people when they see cheese, chocolate or cake they don't think of calories.

Have you ever experienced a beauty of soul, an esthetic grace, that was so intense it made you want to cry?" From Central Park Song ( A Screenplay )

Bismilahir-rahmanir-rahim! I call to witness the ink, the quill, and the script, which flows from the quill; I call to witness the faltering shadows of the sinking evening, the night and all she enlivens; I call to witness the moon when she waxes, and the sunrise when it dawns. I call to witness the Resurrection Day and the soul that accuses itself; I call to witness time, the beginning and end of all things - to witness that every man always suffers loss.

Music is the fastest motivator in the world.

And today is really the happiest day of your life, because today you woke up and stumbled across the shadow of your soul in broad daylight." From Central Park Song: a Screenplay

The past is a script we are constantly rewriting.

Dearest creature in creation, Study English pronunciation. I will teach you in my verse Sounds like corpse, corps, horse, and worse. I will keep you, Suzy, busy, Make your head with heat grow dizzy. Tear in eye, your dress will tear. So shall I! Oh hear my prayer. Just compare heart, beard, and heard, Dies and diet, lord and word, Sword and sward, retain and Britain. (Mind the latter, how it’s written.) Now I surely will not plague you With such words as plaque and ague. But be careful how you speak: Say break and steak, but bleak and streak; Cloven, oven, how and low, Script, receipt, show, poem, and toe. Hear me say, devoid of trickery, Daughter, laughter, and Terpsichore, Typhoid, measles, topsails, aisles, Exiles, similes, and reviles; Scholar, vicar, and cigar, Solar, mica, war and far; One, anemone, Balmoral, Kitchen, lichen, laundry, laurel; Gertrude, German, wind and mind, Scene, Melpomene, mankind. Billet does not rhyme with ballet, Bouquet, wallet, mallet, chalet. Blood and flood are not like food, Nor is mould like should and would. Viscous, viscount, load and broad, Toward, to forward, to reward. And your pronunciation’s OK When you correctly say croquet, Rounded, wounded, grieve and sieve, Friend and fiend, alive and live. Ivy, privy, famous; clamour And enamour rhyme with hammer. River, rival, tomb, bomb, comb, Doll and roll and some and home. Stranger does not rhyme with anger, Neither does devour with clangour. Souls but foul, haunt but aunt, Font, front, wont, want, grand, and grant, Shoes, goes, does. Now first say finger, And then singer, ginger, linger, Real, zeal, mauve, gauze, gouge and gauge, Marriage, foliage, mirage, and age. Query does not rhyme with very, Nor does fury sound like bury. Dost, lost, post and doth, cloth, loth. Job, nob, bosom, transom, oath. Though the differences seem little, We say actual but victual. Refer does not rhyme with deafer. Foeffer does, and zephyr, heifer. Mint, pint, senate and sedate; Dull, bull, and George ate late. Scenic, Arabic, Pacific, Science, conscience, scientific. Liberty, library, heave and heaven, Rachel, ache, moustache, eleven. We say hallowed, but allowed, People, leopard, towed, but vowed. Mark the differences, moreover, Between mover, cover, clover; Leeches, breeches, wise, precise, Chalice, but police and lice; Camel, constable, unstable, Principle, disciple, label. Petal, panel, and canal, Wait, surprise, plait, promise, pal. Worm and storm, chaise, chaos, chair, Senator, spectator, mayor. Tour, but our and succour, four. Gas, alas, and Arkansas. Sea, idea, Korea, area, Psalm, Maria, but malaria. Youth, south, southern, cleanse and clean. Doctrine, turpentine, marine. Compare alien with Italian, Dandelion and battalion. Sally with ally, yea, ye, Eye, I, ay, aye, whey, and key. Say aver, but ever, fever, Neither, leisure, skein, deceiver. Heron, granary, canary. Crevice and device and aerie. Face, but preface, not efface. Phlegm, phlegmatic, ass, glass, bass. Large, but target, gin, give, verging, Ought, out, joust and scour, scourging. Ear, but earn and wear and tear Do not rhyme with here but ere. Seven is right, but so is even, Hyphen, roughen, nephew Stephen, Monkey, donkey, Turk and jerk, Ask, grasp, wasp, and cork and work. Pronunciation (think of Psyche!) Is a paling stout and spikey? Won’t it make you lose your wits, Writing groats and saying grits? It’s a dark abyss or tunnel: Strewn with stones, stowed, solace, gunwale, Islington and Isle of Wight, Housewife, verdict and indict. Finally, which rhymes with enough, Though, through, plough, or dough, or cough? Hiccough has the sound of cup. My advice is to give up!!!

I don't know that we are actually human at this point, those of us who are like most of us, who grew up with TV and movies and now the Internet. If we are betrayed, we know the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script. It's a very difficult era in which to be a person, just a real, actual person, instead of a collection of personality traits selected from an endless Automat of characters. And if all of us are play-acting, there can be no such thing as a soul mate, because we don't have genuine souls. It had gotten to the point where it seemed like nothing matters, because I'm not a real person and neither is anyone else. I would have done anything to feel real again.

There was, in fact, a street sign to that effect—the first I’d seen in all of Devil’s Acre. Louche Lane, it read in fancy handwritten script. Piracy discouraged. “Discouraged?” I said. “Then what’s murder? Frowned upon?” “I believe murder is ‘tolerated with reservations.’ ” “Is anything illegal here?” Addison asked. “Library late fines are stiff. Ten lashes a day, and that’s just for paperbacks.” “There’s a library?” “Two. Though one won’t lend because all the books are bound in human skin and quite valuable.

I think that whenever children be born that are not wanted they should be killed directly, before their souls come to 'em, and not allowed to grow big and walk about!

We have a right to write our own script even if it disagrees with those who planted us where we are. In fact, if we do not share our personal stories, they will eventually be forgotten or told by someone else. See, I believe our soul wants the life of us to be remembered by at least one, or two, maybe more. In order for people like us to obtain social equality, we need to fill the worldwide web with realistic adoption stories—stories that can convince the mainstream that we should have access to personal documents that pertain to us, birth certificates, and papers that reveal our true identities.

The script sits in front of you. The writer’s translated into ink what is in his spirit and his soul and his mind. Bum. [Thumps table.] I come along, I pick it up, and the ink goes into my eyes, into my mind, into my body, flows around and that part starts to inhabit me. And I know a good part when I see one.

His gaze on me was intense, I couldn't look away. I felt as if I was revealing my entire soul to him in this moment.

It's not how long you see something. It's how you intensely you feel it" From Central Park Song: a Screenplay

Freewill at the level of mind is an illusion. The options you see, the thoughts you get and the option you choose is all part of hard script. The real freewill is at the soul level and you exercise it only in the moments when your soul is awake.

Sacrifice of the self is sheer stupidity if sacrifice is not for the self.

Beauty is the only human aspect which cannot be captured on any canvas howsoever hard an artist tries. At the most, the undaunted artist can replicate the beauty on paper but what is a replica in comparison to the original! The humbling resemblance can only be respected, not truly adored. Beauty cannot be imprisoned in the lens of a camera. The images of beauty are a moment of its essence. Beauty cannot be displayed to evoke pleasure for all on a cinema screen. Those are just its imprints, mere illusions of its existence. Beauty cannot be described by words; it cannot be written or read about. There are no suitable words in all the languages of the world, ancient or modern to hold it between a paper and a pen or a script and an eye. Beauty can only be experienced from far, its delightful aroma can only be tasted through one’s eyes and its pleasurable sight can only be felt from the soul. Beauty can only be best described at its origin through a befuddling silence, the kind that leaves one almost on the verge of a pleasurable death, just because one chooses beauty over life. There is nothing in this world to hold something so pure, so divine except a loving heart. And it is the only manner through which love recognises love; the language of love has no alphabet, no words.

ERIC: What are you always writin' in that book anyway? RODNEY: Poetry. TYRONE: Poetry? Rodney stops sketching and sentimentally flips through a few dozen pages of sketches and handwritten poems and notes. RODNEY: Poetry and pictures. Snapshots of our lives developed in the darkrooms of our souls." From CENTRAL PARK SONG -- a screenplay

Make films that purify the soul with the flow of rational, vigorous and compassionate thinking.

Film gives us a second chance at a first impression.

You are always held by your soul's unconditional love for you.

Stories are how we think. They are how we make meaning of life. Call them schemas, scripts, mental maps, ideas, metaphors, or narratives. Stories are how we inspire and motivate human beings. Great stories help us to understand our place in the world, create our identity, discover our purpose, form our character and define and teach human values.

We live like actors in a play who are given only one line at a time, going through the motions without understanding the full story. But when you get in touch with your soul, you see the whole script for the drama.

It’s about how the sunrise can be the most important thing in the world to a person who’s lost touch with his soul.

After closing a bad chapter in life, allow your soul to heal your old and new wounds. Otherwise the script of next chapter will be the same, only characters will change.

It's been the longest time Since I've been in this place, Where I spend my whole day Hoping I'll see your face. Then I script things to say, And maybe what you'd say back. You don't know it yet, But, girl, it's a fact That I can see us Staying up late, Talking all night, But I guess I'll have to wait. 'Cause it's brand-new, Yeah, I know we just met. I want to be there with you, But not just yet. Girl, you've got that look, Like you're hard to impress. So I'm bumbling with words, 'Cause my mind is a mess. You were out of the blue And you caught me by surprise, With a slight smile, that long stare, And a challenge in your eyes I could feel all this In that single look, Like you could see my soul. You could read me like a book, And I think it's something. Though I know we just met, I'm gonna get there with you. You just don't know it ... yet.

She broke the seal to find the flowing, masculine script that had come to mean the world to her. Courage, my love. I need you to possess the same fire that led you from Scotland to Normandy that first day when we met. Whatever the day brings, know that I will always love you. You carry with you, my heart, my soul, my very being. Be strong for me, Kenna. Ever your knight, S Postscriptum S doesn't stand for Stryder. She laughed at that, even though her eyes were filled with tears. -Simon in a letter to Kenna

Bismilahir-rehmanir-rahim I call to witness the ink, the quill, and the script, which flows from the quill; I call to witness the faltering shadows of the sinking evening, the night and all she enlivens; I call to witness the moon when she waxes, and the sunrise when it dawns. I call to witness the Resurrection Day and the soul that accuses itself; I call to witness time, the beginning and end of all things - to witness that every man always suffers loss.

Each of us must discover our own soul, feed our own passion, compose our own music, write our own script, and create our own future. created by: reda

For few matters you need to be solo, for some matters you need soul mate and for many matters you need society,

Will you hold me Nick And fulfill this craving, Touch my waist, And trace in Italics? And kiss my lips, For they are laced With a veiled wish. Hold aloft my chin, Like you want to win Me, and on my skin, Tell me can you sniff A submission to sin? Look into my eyes Dearest, can you read My peering soul script? Because it says honey, That you are my beginning And the endings of my end.

Your life script is like a newspaper cutting. On the front, there is a clean cut article detailing your life, but on the back side there are some random news items which have nothing to do with your life. If you are clueless about what’s happening in your life, you are reading it from the back side. Aware souls read it correctly so that whatever is in the script (mind) manifests outside.

Did you know that Sylvester Stallone’s script for the movie “Rocky” was rejected over 70 times? Jack Canfield’s and Mark Victor Hansen’s “Chicken Soup for the Soul” was rejected a 130 times and that Canfield was actually laughed at when he said that he wanted to sell 1 million books. His editor told him he‘d be lucky to sell 20,000. Well, the first book “Chicken Soup for the Soul” sold 8 million copies, the whole series about 500 million! Even J.K. Rowlings’ “Harry Potter” was rejected 12 times!

Frank Halford was a master at the school and remembers Adams as “very tall even then, and popular. He wrote an end-of-term play when Doctor Who had just started on television. He called it ‘Doctor Which.’ ” Many years later, Adams did write scripts for Doctor Who. He describes Halford as an inspirational teacher who is still a support. “He once gave me ten out of ten for a story, which was the only time he did throughout his long school career. And even now, when I have a dark night of the soul as a writer and think that I can’t do this anymore, the thing that I reach for is not the fact that I have had best-sellers or huge advances. It is the fact that Frank Halford once gave me ten out of ten, and at some fundamental level I must be able to do it.

I cannot shun the past because it contains information that is useful to script future goals. Looking back into the opaque window of reductive retrospect, what essential opportunities exist today that beckon one to seek with unrestrained enthusiasm? What iridescent signals flare from our conceptual self that if we heedlessly ignore their luminous summons, such deliberate acts of omission will suture the apex of our souls, relegating us to the dreaded curse of mucking along in an ordinary life stalled out by our overweening fear of estrangement?

I am alone as the pearl is alone in its shell. I have withdrawn into myself, but the sea – life hits me and forces me to open. It opens my womb, takes out my round pearl – soul, and strings it on a necklace. I cannot breathe under its weight. It holds all my dear, lost pearls...

Women have been trained to be deeply relational creatures with "permeable boundaries," which make us vulnerable to the needs of others. This permeability, this compelling need to connect, is one of our greatest gifts, but without balance it can mean living out the role of the servant who nurtures at the cost of herself. Referring to this feminine script in her essay "Professions for Women," Virginia Woolf describes the syndrome and offers a drastic remedy: "She was intensely sympathetic. She was immensely charming. She was utterly unselfish. She excelled in the difficult arts of family life. She sacrificed herself daily. If there was chicken, she took the leg; if there was a draft she sat in it - in short she was so constituted that she never had a mind or wish of her own, but preferred to sympathize always with the minds and wishes of others...I did my best to kill her. My excuse, if I were to be had up in a court of law, would be that I acted in self-defense. Had I not killed her, she would have killed me." At the very least we need to disempower this part of ourselves, to relieve ourselves of the internal drive to forfeit our souls as food for others.

If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script. It’s a very difficult era in which to be a person, just a real, actual person, instead of a collection of personality traits selected from an endless automat of characters. And if all of us are play-acting, there can be no such thing as a soul mate, because we don’t have genuine souls.

I love everything that flows,” said the great blind Milton of our times. I was thinking of him this morning when I awoke with a great bloody shout of joy: I was thinking of his rivers and trees and all that world of night which he is exploring. Yes, I said to myself, I too love everything that flows: rivers, sewers, lava, semen, blood, bile, words, sentences. I love the amniotic fluid when it spills out of the bag. I love the kidney with its painful gallstones, its gravel and what-not; I love the urine that pours out scalding and the clap that runs endlessly; I love the words of hysterics and the sentences that flow on like dysentery and mirror all the sick images of the soul; I love the great rivers like the Amazon and the Orinoco, where crazy men like Moravagine float on through dream and legend in an open boat and drown in the blind mouths of the river. I love everything that flows, even the menstrual flow that carries away the seed unfecund. I love scripts that flow, be they hieratic, esoteric, perverse, polymorph, or unilateral. I love everything that flows, everything that has time in it and becoming, that brings us back to the beginning where there is never end: the violence of the prophets, the obscenity that is ecstasy, the wisdom of the fanatic, the priest with his rubber litany, the foul words of the whore, the spittle that floats away in the gutter, the milk of the breast and the bitter honey that pours from the womb, all that is fluid, melting, dissolute and dissolvent, all the pus and dirt that in flowing is purified, that loses its sense of origin, that makes the great circuit toward death and dissolution. The great incestuous wish is to flow on, one with time, to merge the great image of the beyond with the here and now. A fatuous, suicidal wish that is constipated by words and paralyzed by thought.

Discussion of theology is not for everyone, I tell you, not for everyone-it is no such inexpensive or effortless pursuit. Nor, I would add, is it for every occasion, or every audience; neither are all its aspects open to inquiry. It must be reserved for certain occasions, for certain audiences, and certain limits must be observed. It is not for all people, but only for those who have been tested and have found a sound footing in study, and, more importantly, have undergone, or at the very least are undergoing purification of body and soul. For one who is not pure to lay hold of pure things is dangerous, just as it is for weak eyes to look at the sun's brightness. What is the right time? Whenever we are free from the mire and noise without, and our commanding faculty is not confused by illusory, wandering images, leading us, as it were, to mix fine script with ugly scrawling, or sweet-smelling scent with slime. We need actually "to be still" in order to know God, and when we receive the opportunity, "to judge uprightly" in theology. Who should listen to discussions of theology? Those for whom it is a serious undertaking, not just another subject like any other for entertaining small-talk, after the races, the theater, songs, food, and sex: for there are people who count chatter on theology and clever deployment of arguments as one of their amusements. What aspects of theology should be investigated, and to what limit? Only aspects within our grasp, and only to the limit of the experience and capacity of our audience. Just as excess of sound or food injures the hearing or general health, or, if you prefer, as loads that are too heavy injure those who carry them, or as excessive rain harms the soil, we too must guard against the danger that the toughness, so to speak, of our discourses may so oppress and overtax our hearers as actually to impair the powers they had before.

We are all working from the same dog-eared script. It’s a very difficult era in which to be a person, just a real, actual person, instead of a collection of personality traits selected from an endless Automat of characters. And if all of us are play-acting, there can be no such thing as a soul mate, because we don’t have genuine souls. It had gotten to the point where it seemed like nothing matters, because I’m not a real person and neither is anyone else. I would have done anything to feel real again.

Likewise, trauma is a psychic injury, lodged in our nervous system, mind, and body, lasting long past the originating incident(s), triggerable at any moment. It is a constellation of hardships, composed of the wound itself and the residual burdens that our woundedness imposes on our bodies and souls: the unresolved emotions they visit upon us; the coping dynamics they dictate; the tragic or melodramatic or neurotic scripts we unwittingly but inexorably live out; and, not least, the toll these take on our bodies.

Deleuze's findings are confirmed by those of an experienced woman psychiatrist who for many years has made a study of automatic writing. In conversation this lady has informed me that, sooner or later, most automatists produce scripts in which certain metaphysical ideas are set forth. The theme of these scripts is always the same: namely, the the ground of the individual soul is identical with the divine Ground of all being. Returning to their normal state, the automatists read what they have written and often find it in complete disharmony with what they have always believed.

Blind Heart’s. In the circle of life, a sorrowful tale, Where death and life dance an endless wail. Hungry eyes search for morsels to devour, Survival's cruel game with each passing hour. Angst and fear grip hearts, cold and bleak, Aching souls yearning for solace they seek. In a world that lacks fairness, unjust and unkind, Tears fall like rain, leaving scars behind. Hatred and love, a twisted embrace, In this nature of existence, a bitter chase. For when darkness looms, Love hides in despair, Yet hate finds its mark, leaving hearts threadbare. We, people who turn blind eyes to the cries, As if suffering and anguish were mere lies. Ignoring the plight that surrounds us all, Humanity's downfall, a deafening fall. But what of the animals, creatures so dear? Caught in this cycle, their voices unclear. Silently they suffer, their pain left unheard, In nature's cruel script, an unspoken word. Children on ground, black and white Dying, Drying while survival trying. Scars defining not body, but soul Oh light, forgive us Lord. The circle spins on, in sorrow it turns, A tragic symphony, where hope rarely burns. In this poem of life, where sadness takes hold, Let us open our eyes, let compassion unfold.

Each of us wages a private battle to thrive. Whenever a person fully immerses oneself in life’s aromatic flower garden of pleasures and encounters life’s warship of armor-plated rigors, they blend and bend to make reasonable accommodations for surviving. Scripted and unscripted encounters with superior militant forces bruise us mightily and eventually cut us to the core. Every person’s life contains a minefield of obstacles that function as potential barriers to achieving our ultimate manifestation. The expended labor of continuously hefting oneself over one contentious hurdle after another is what leads a conscientious person onto the path of needing to write in order to create emotional poultices to ameliorate painful wounds.

I don't know that we are actually human at this point, those of us who are like most of us, who grew up with movies and TV and now the internet. If we are betrayed, we know the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script. It's a very difficult era in which to be a person, just a real, actual person, instead of a collection of personality traits selected from an endless automat of characters. And if all of us are play-acting, there can be no such thing as a soul mate, because we don't have genuine souls. It had gotten to the point where it seemed like nothing matters, because i'm not a real person and neither is anyone else. I would have done anything to feel real again.

I don't know that we are actually human at this point, those of us who are like most of us, who grew up with TV and movies and now the Internet. If we are betrayed, we know the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script. It's a very difficult era in which to be a person, just like a real actual person, instead of a collective personality trait selected from an endless automat of characters. And if all of us are play-acting, there can be no such thing as a soul mate, because we don't have genuine souls. It had gotten to the point where it seemed like nothing matters, because I'm not a real person and neither is anyone else. I would have done anything to feel real again.

The secondhand experience is always better. The image is crisper, the view is keener, the camera angle and the soundtrack manipulate my emotions in a way reality can’t anymore. I don’t know that we are actually human at this point, those of us who are like most of us, who grew up with TV and movies and now the Internet. If we are betrayed, we know the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script. It’s a very difficult era in which to be a person, just a real, actual person, instead of a collection of personality traits selected from an endless automat of characters. And if all of us are play-acting, there can be no such thing as a soul mate, because we don’t have genuine souls.

Ever since I had ceased to see actors solely as the depositories, in their diction and acting ability, of an artistic truth, they had begun to interest me in their own right; with the feeling that I was watching the characters from some old comic novel, I was amused to see the naïve heroine of a play, her attention drawn to the new face of some young duke who had just taken his seat in the theatre, listen abstractedly to the declaration of love the juvenile lead was addressing to her, while he, through the rolling passion of this declaration, was in turn directing an enamoured eye at an old lady seated in a stage box, whose magnificent pearls had caught his interest; and in this way, largely owing to what Saint-Loup had told me about the private lives of actors, I saw another drama, silent but telling, being played out beneath the words of the play that was being performed, yet the play itself, however uninspired, was still something that interested me too; for within it I could feel germinating and blossoming for an hour in the glare of the footlights, created out of the agglutination on the face of an actor of another face of grease-paint and pasteboard, and on his individual soul the words of a part, the ephemeral and spirited personalities, captivating too, who form the cast of a play, whom one loves, admires, pities, whom one would like to meet again after the play is over, but who by that time have already disintegrated into the actors who are no longer what they were in their roles, into a script which no longer shows the actors’ faces, into a coloured powder that can be wiped off by a handkerchief, who have reverted, in a word, to elements that contain nothing of them, because their dissolution is complete as soon as the play has ended, and this, like the dissolution of a loved one, causes one to doubt the reality of the self and to meditate on the mystery of death.

The secondhand experience is always better. The image is crisper, the view is keener, the camera angle and the soundtrack manipulate my emotions in a way reality can’t anymore. I don’t know that we are actually human at this point, those of us who are like most of us, who grew up with TV and movies and now the Internet. If we are betrayed, we know the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script. It’s a very difficult era in which to be a person, just a real, actual person, instead of a collection of personality traits selected from an endless automat of characters. And if all of us are play-acting, there can be no such thing as a soul mate, because we don’t have genuine souls. It had gotten to the point where it seemed like nothing matters, because I’m not a real person and neither is anyone else. I would have done anything to feel real again.

EVERYDAY MAINTENANCE OF THE SOUL What does it mean to care for your soul? Care of the soul is the constant practice of bringing loving attention to the problems, conflicts, and longings of our lives. Emotional suffering is something to be attended to, not split off from. We can learn to read our life as a story, rather than as a clinical case. Moreover, if the story we have been telling ourselves is a melodrama or tragedy, we need to rewrite the story. Every human life, when seen from the perspective of the unrelenting Divine Mercy, is the story of grace unfolding. Love is revealing itself in the precise details of each human life, if only we do not impose the script of self-pity, bitterness, and fearfulness. The soul is where the divine attributes of God may be awakened from their latent state to be integrated into our character. These qualities are the soul's natural inheritance from the Divine. It is through communion with the Divine that the soul takes on the spiritual attributes of kindness, generosity, courage, forgiveness, patience, and freedom.

We were the first human beings who would never see anything for the first time. We stare at the wonders of the world, dull-eyed, underwhelmed. Mona Lisa, the Pyramids, the Empire State Building. (…) I’ve literally seen it all, and the worst thing, the thing that makes me want to blow my brains out, is: The secondhand experience is always better. The image is crisper, the view is keener, the camera angle and the soundtrack manipulate my emotions in a way reality can’t anymore. (…) If we are betrayed, we know the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script. It’s a very difficult era in which to be a person, just a real, actual person, instead of a collection of personality traits selected from an endless automat of characters. And if all of us are play-acting, there can be no such thing as a soul mate, because we don’t have genuine souls. It had gotten to the point where it seemed like nothing matters, because I’m not a real person and neither is anyone else.

i didn’t know it for most of my growing up… but my mama had dreams. dreams that weren’t of ring shapes and dress colors. she had dreams that were drenched in art and tasted like adventure… ones that felt like being kissed until her heart burst… ones that opened up her whole soul like a wildflower on fire. but i didn’t know it. i didn’t know it because she tucked them away in pretty memory boxes and hid them in tattered journals that she pushed aside for perfectly-scripted scrapbooks, and she buried all her burning desires under yes ma’ams and sunday dresses and sweet, supportive smiles, while any part of her that ever maybe might could’ve known that she mattered… by herself, for herself, and belonging. to. herself. suffocated quietly under the white noise of all those voices that had told her that all that really mattered was that she had been chosen… by him. and when i started to see that inside of her was a whole other woman that she ached to be… i knew i couldn’t go through my life aching for the me i’d never be, in that same way. so all i’ve ever wanted… is to know that i matter. by myself. for myself. and belonging to myself. chosen by no one, but me.

We were the first human beings who would never see anything for the first time. We stare at the wonders of the world, dull-eyed, underwhelmed. Mona Lisa, the Pyramids, the Empire State Building. Jungle animals on attack, ancient icebergs collapsing, volcanoes erupting. I can't recall a single amazing thing I have seen firsthand that I didn't immediately reference to a movie or TV show. A fucking commercial. You know the awful singsong of the blasé: Seeeen it. I've literally seen it all, and the worst thing is, the thing that makes me want to blow my brains out, is: The secondhand experience is always better. The image is crisper, the view is keener, the camera angle and the soundtrack manipulate my emotions in a way reality can't anymore. I don't know that we are actually human at this point, those of us who are like most of us, who grew up with TV and movies and now the Internet. If we are betrayed, we know the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script. It's a very difficult era in which to be a person, just a real, actual person, instead of a collection of personality traits selected from an endless automat of characters. And if all of us are play-acting, there can be no such thing as a soul mate, because we don't have genuine souls. It had gotten to the point where it seemed like nothing matters, because I'm not a real person and neither is anyone else.

For several years, I had been bored. Not a whining, restless child's boredom (although I was not above that) but a dense, blanketing malaise. It seemed to me that there was nothing new to be discovered ever again. Our society was utterly, ruinously derivative (although the word derivative as a criticism is itself derivative). We were the first human beings who would never see anything for the first time. We stare at the wonders of the world, dull-eyed, underwhelmed. Mona Lisa, the Pyramids, the Empire State Building. Jungle animals on attack, ancient icebergs collapsing, volcanoes erupting. I can't recall a single amazing thing I have seen firsthand that I didn't immediately reference to a movie or TV show. A fucking commercial. You know the awful singsong of the blasé: Seeeen it. I've literally seen it all, and the worst thing, the thing that makes me want to blow my brains out, is: The secondhand experience is always better. The image is crisper, the view is keener, the camera angle and the soundtrack manipulate my emotions in a way reality can't anymore. I don't know that we are actually human at this point, those of us who are like most of us, who grew up with TV and movies and now the Internet. If we are betrayed, we know the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script. It's a very difficult era in which to be a person, just a real, actual person, instead of a collection of personality traits selected from an endless Automat of characters. And if all of us are play-acting, there can be no such thing as a soul mate, because we don't have genuine souls. It had gotten to the point where it seemed like nothing matters, because I'm not a real person and neither is anyone else. I would have done anything to feel real again.

This is your one and only life. Your lost lines are waiting. Start where you are. Be open. Be bold. Explore. Face your greatest fears. Wrestle with the deep questions of life. Find and inhabit a story that ignites your soul. Anyone can find and live their lost lines, but not everyone will.

Multiple factors play into the narrative of what it now means to be a man like, the shift in societal expectations of the role of men and women, our culture’s relentless drumbeat that tells us our biggest ambition should be the pursuit of a safe and comfortable and convenient lifestyle, the rise of soul-sucking habits like video games and porn, the devaluing of marriage and sex, a general, gradual, steady, relentless lowering of the bar of what it really means to be a man.

We all come equipped with a low frequency signal that is being emitted from the recesses of our soul. It is something deep, something primal, something innate and intense and profound. It gnaws at us and calls us to live our lost lines.

Make movies my friend – make nice, inspiring and bold movies that will penetrate the darkest corners of the human mind and illuminate the soul.

Shai knelt on the floor amid a pattern of scattered pages, each filled with cramped script or drawings of seals. Behind her, morning opened her eyes, and sunlight seeped through the stained glass window, spraying the room with crimson, blue, violet.

The school for once was haunted – and students merely like dead souls wandering about. Everyone was in their own worlds – a world of textbooks. The street lights were on for longer durations. Playgrounds were for once study places. It was time for seriousness. Everyone dreaded to fail. It was as though the exams were a manifestation of death.

Our soul is a lot like the African elephant’s memory. Our soul intuitively remembers where it has buried the richest part of our life’s story even in the future chapters that haven’t been written yet by the light of our awareness. The soul knows. It remembers. It never forgets. The process of remembering becomes a lesson for us in the power of surrendering our limited perspective that only see what’s in front of us, and what we think may be waiting for us in some future moment. However, our soul sees deep into the distance of some future horizon of a time period that is waiting on the gift of time to mature to its fullness, to blossom on its own – outside of our own expectations and envisioned dreams because it is all part of our life’s predetermined story; a script carved in infinite time. That process of remembering becomes a lesson in the divine gift of believing, believing that the next moment is there waiting on us because our soul has already visited this path before, yet the lesson in it for us is that any future moment remains always just out of our reach, as we entrust our soul’s strength of memory to guide us on blind faith and firm footing to where our story needs to go to encourage our highest learning potential. We will thus forever be known by the tracks that we refollow when we follow the memory of our soul’s original path left on the dust of time. A lesson inspired by the mighty African elephant in what it means to surrender to life...

This ancient script was graven in his soul.

I say: if the debt you feel has not been paid, then pray for the grace to forgive those you believe are indebted to you. You will come to know a peace you have never known, and you will embrace a feeling of freedom simply because you are free. Those whose lives had been marred by the ravages of Jim Crow segregationist laws live far richer spiritual lives by practicing radical forgiveness towards those who oppressed them than they would by seeking retributive justice. This is because an obsession with justice and entitlement shackles the soul in some sense to the compensations of the one who has harmed one. A spirit of aggrievement, paradoxically, places one in a dependent role on the other; in this instance, one is not free. Radical forgiveness frees the soul from resentment and fosters an ethic of care towards those who have harmed one. Radical forgiveness not only forges new relationships, but it also heralds a model for a new type of humanity, a new planetary ethic, and humanism devoid of bitterness that will change the world. To the black individual rising and striving to make something superlative of his or her own life, who refuses to be shackled by the racial script that would ossify the soul and calcify the heart, you are a historical process emerging in this world. You know as I do that for this to happen, the race to which we were assigned must die so that the individual can rise. The individual must rise!

Where the baobab tree was the soul of the village, the palace was its heart, the inner machinations of what we were. Anarchic, mystical, complete. It was a hut the size of three houses and just as spacious inside. There were sleeping and cooking and bathing spaces, all separated by piles of strategically grouped books. It was the chaos of Nimm organized into one large space. You could walk through the open entranceway and see across the huge palace. My way was blocked by a great stack of vertically organized books.

The film of life is not always the script in our minds.

Mind is not necessarily dependent on the education process. Mind possesses of itself all eloquence, beauty, and poetry. Mind has the power to express prose. Spirit, God, is heard when the human mind’s noise is silent. We are all capable of more than we do. The action of Soul confers the freedom that explains excellent impromptu speeches, admirable movie scripts, or meaningful texts.

Because the priests say that God created our souls, and that just puts us under the control of another puppeteer. If God created our will, then he’s responsible for every choice we make. God, our genes, our environment, or some stupid programmer keying in code at an ancient terminal—there’s no way free will can ever exist if we as individuals are the result of some external cause.” “So—as I recall, the official philosophical answer is that free will doesn’t exist. Only the illusion of free will, because the causes of our behavior are so complex that we can’t trace them back. If you’ve got one line of dominoes knocking each other down one by one, then you can always say, Look, this domino fell because that one pushed it. But when you have an infinite number of dominoes that can be traced back in an infinite number of directions, you can never find where the causal chain begins. So you think, That domino fell because it wanted to.” “Bobagem,” said Miro. “Well, I admit that it’s a philosophy with no practical value,” said Ender. “Valentine once explained it to me this way. Even if there is no such thing as free will, we have to treat each other as if there were free will in order to live together in society. Because otherwise, every time somebody does something terrible, you can’t punish him, because he can’t help it, because his genes or his environment or God made him do it, and every time somebody does something good, you can’t honor him, because he was a puppet, too. If you think that everybody around you is a puppet, why bother talking to them at all? Why even try to plan anything or create anything, since everything you plan or create or desire or dream of is just acting out the script your puppeteer built into you.” “Despair,” said Miro. “So we conceive of ourselves and everyone around us as volitional beings. We treat everyone as if they did things with a purpose in mind, instead of because they’re being pushed from behind. We punish criminals. We reward altruists. We plan things and build things together. We make promises and expect each other to keep them. It’s all a made-up story, but when everybody believes that everybody’s actions are the result of free choice, and takes and gives responsibility accordingly, the result is civilization.” “Just a story.

I’d known my family’s darkest secrets since I was a child and kept that knowledge hidden most of my life. I never gave the smallest clue that I’d known my father was a mafia boss or how I’d discovered his involvement. As far as they were concerned, I was angelic Sofia—a sweet, artistic soul who needed to be shielded and protected from life’s darker side. Every one of us wore masks in my family. We acted a part, keeping strictly to the script and guarding our secrets ruthlessly, and it was exhausting.

To turn yourself inside out to impress another human being, you will become a stranger in your own skin. Twisting oneself into knots on behalf of someone else will do two things. It will make you a scattered soul ripped to shreds with stress. And, just make the other person hungry for pretzels. Strength is marrow born. Flip the script and let that opposing force choke on the crushing mound of their own disbelief. " - A.H. Scott 4/8/16

To embody a slice of life on stage/film/script/book is awe-inspiring; like peeking into a window to the soul or prima materia

Manipulation is not of God, it is the highest form of sorcery for it enslave the soul to the will of man.....

Healthy entertainment is a beautiful blend of stimuli that can connect with the viewer at a sentimental level, then sow the seeds of a certain idea or feed the mind with inspiration and courage. In short, healthy entertainment does not evoke raw emotions in the mind of a viewer only to make them wreak havoc, rather it guides those emotions in a healthy direction. This leads to not only an entertained viewer, but also an inspired soul. And that should be the purpose of film-making, and indeed the entire entertainment industry, rather than feeding the general population with garbage.

A message from Love: Write my name in silent script upon your heart; and then… go anywhere, and be what you have written.

In this regard I saw a sudden surge of private outreach surrounding each family and each child in need. Waves of individuals began to form personal relationships, beginning with those who saw the family every day—merchants, teachers, police officers on the beat, ministers. This contact was then expanded by other volunteers working as “big brothers,” “big sisters,” and tutors—all guided by their inner intuitions to help, remembering their intention to make a difference with one family, one child. And all carrying the contagion of the Insights and the crucial message that no matter how tough the situation, or how entrenched the self-defeating habits, each of us can wake up to a memory of mission and purpose. As this contagion continued, incidents of violent crime began mysteriously to decrease across human culture; for, as we saw clearly, the roots of violence are always frustration and passion and fear scripts that dehumanize the victim, and a growing interaction with those carrying a higher awareness was now beginning to disrupt this mind-set. We saw a new consensus emerging toward crime that drew from both traditional and human-potential ideas. In the short run, there would be a need for new prisons and detention facilities, as the traditional truth was recognized that returning offenders to the community too soon, or leniently letting perpetrators go in order to give them another chance, reinforced the behavior. Yet, at the same time, we saw an integration of the Insights into the actual operation of these facilities, introducing a wave of private involvement with those incarcerated, shifting the crime culture and initiating the only rehabilitation that works: the contagion of remembering. Simultaneously, as increasingly more people awakened, I saw millions of individuals taking the time to intervene in conflict at every level of human culture—for we all were reaching a new understanding of what was at stake. In every situation where a husband or wife grew angry and lashed out at the other, or where addictive compulsions or a desperate need for approval led a youthful gang member to kill, or where people felt so restricted in their lives that they embezzled or defrauded or manipulated others for gain; in all these situations, there was someone perfectly placed to have prevented the violence but who had failed to act. Surrounding this potential hero were perhaps dozens of other friends and acquaintances who had likewise failed, because they didn’t convey the information and ideas that would have created the wider support system for the intervention to have taken place: In the past perhaps, this failure could have been rationalized, but no longer. Now the Tenth Insight was emerging and we knew that the people in our lives were probably souls with whom we had had long relationships over many lifetimes, and who were now counting on our help. So we are compelled to act, compelled to be courageous. None of us wants to have failure on our conscience, or have to bear a torturous Life Review in which we must watch the tragic consequences of our timidity.

Goddess, how I love her. She makes me weak and strong at the same time. She makes me decisive and indecisive. She bewilders me and calms my soul. Without her, I care not for much. I go through the motions of my day, but they are acts of a play that do not include the script. I am incomplete.

But I need you all, my dear students, to speak beauty more than figures, speak phrases of encouragement more than precise mathematical statistics, speak words of innovation more than historical events and you should speak with your soul rather than just for the sake. What good is it to be famous, if you can’t speak well? So, by the end of this year, we shall have many motivational speakers, and all of us will live a motivated life. Speaking is an art, and everyone cannot become an artist. But give in your heart and soul, and nothing is impossible.

ECHOES OF LOVE: A DANCE BENEATH THE ARCHWAYS Beneath the archways, where shadows play, As the world gives way, begin the odyssey. Uncertainty weaves into the grand scheme of life, A mystical altar, where destinies are intertwined. I walk the path, seeking the balm of solace, Enduring burden, sweet hymn of love. With hopes gone, a peace is about to descend, Still the echoes remain, they dissolve in silence. The flawed script in the story I wrote, Whispers of well-being, truths worth absorbing. "I'm fine," I say, a deceptive glare, Exposing the lies, an invisible love. A waltz with shadows on your street, Cynic's steps, very judicious dance. Terrible notions, a conspiracy unfolds, Regret is echoing at the threshold of love. Rumors of happiness, far-fetched, As I stumble in the field of love. In excess, I stumble and strain, Hope of solace, of regaining love. Did I stumble in that fleeting call? Huge weakening of pride, slow decline of strength. A gift given, deemed inadequate, In closeness, bonds become inadequate. A crazy search for a cure for love, Wandering aimlessly, purpose uncertain. Your realm echoes with such blasphemous footsteps, In the despair of the night, capricious dreams. Happiness, heard a rumor softly, As I wrestle with love like a flightless bird. Juggling too much reduces the weight of love, In the noise of love, a desperate clown. The desire to turn back, the love to amend, Unraveling habits, unraveling at every turn. A desperate attempt, from the quagmire of love, Hope you find love worth savoring. GUIDE ME, LET SALVATION BEGIN, A CHANCE TO IMPROVE, A REVENGE FOR LOVE. TO IMPROVE, HABITS HAVE TO BE BROKEN, A SELF-CALCULATING, STRIVING SOUL. THOUGHTS ENTANGLED IN THE HOPEFUL VISION OF LOVE, A CHANCE TO IMPROVE, A DECISION OF LOVE. WITNESS THE TRANSFORMATION, LET IT HAPPEN, INSPIRE IT, IN THE DANCE OF LOVE'S LIBERATION. LET ME ENTER AGAIN, A DOOR A LITTLE AJAR, A LOVE REBUILT, A HEALING STAR. WATCH AS LOVE APPEARS, WATCH, IN THE RELAXATION OF LOVE, A STORY RETOLD. I KEEP DREAMING, MAYBE, JUST MAYBE, LOVE'S EMBRACE, WAVING DESTINY. WITH EVERY STEP FORWARD, LOVE IS BECOMING FREE, SELF-MADE AGREEMENT, THE DEGREE OF LOVE.

Songs of Resilience In the embrace of dreams, just hours ago, A peaceful respite from the relentless woe. A pounding headache, an unwelcome guest, Little did I know, life's twists manifest. Within this short span, reality unfolds, Intricate tales in life's narrative, it molds. The stillness of night, a canvas unknown, Does fate weave a story, or am I on my own? Ups and downs, orchestrated or chance, Life's peculiar dance, a cosmic trance. Unknowingly scripting each fleeting scene, A puzzle of purpose in moments between. Change, the sole constant in this grand display, Amidst chaos, paving the extraordinary way. Understanding life's symphony, a daunting quest, Yet, in unraveling, the soul finds rest. Amidst uncertainty, duty stands tall, To weather the storm, to rise after a fall. Life's complexities may dance and twirl, Yet, steadfast commitment, an unwavering swirl. The universe, keeper of secrets untold, Yet my promises, my dreams, I'll hold. In a world of rights, respect is key, Through unexpected journeys, I'll journey with glee. Adversities may knock, storms may roar, Hope clung to, dreams cherished, forevermore. In the face of bad, promises kept, Through life's ebb and flow, I'll intercept. For every twist, every turn, in this grand scheme, I stand resolute, keeping my hope and dream. In the tapestry of life, a promise redeemed, Through the unexpected, my spirit esteemed.

Beneath the archways, where shadows play, As the world gives way, begin the odyssey. Uncertainty weaves into the grand scheme of life, A mystical altar, where destinies are intertwined. I walk the path, seeking the balm of solace, Enduring burden, sweet hymn of love. With hopes gone, a peace is about to descend, Still the echoes remain, they dissolve in silence. The flawed script in the story I wrote, Whispers of well-being, truths worth absorbing. "I'm fine," I say, a deceptive glare, Exposing the lies, an invisible love. A waltz with shadows on your street, Cynic's steps, very judicious dance. Terrible notions, a conspiracy unfolds, Regret is echoing at the threshold of love. Rumors of happiness, far-fetched, As I stumble in the field of love. In excess, I stumble and strain, Hope of solace, of regaining love. Did I stumble in that fleeting call? Huge weakening of pride, slow decline of strength. A gift given, deemed inadequate, In closeness, bonds become inadequate. A crazy search for a cure for love, Wandering aimlessly, purpose uncertain. Your realm echoes with such blasphemous footsteps, In the despair of the night, capricious dreams. Happiness, heard a rumor softly, As I wrestle with love like a flightless bird. Juggling too much reduces the weight of love, In the noise of love, a desperate clown. The desire to turn back, the love to amend, Unraveling habits, unraveling at every turn. A desperate attempt, from the quagmire of love, Hope you find love worth savoring. Guide me, let salvation begin, A chance to improve, a revenge for love. To improve, habits have to be broken, A self-calculating, striving soul. Thoughts entangled in the hopeful vision of love, A chance to improve, a decision of love. Witness the transformation, let it happen, Inspire it, in the dance of love's liberation. Let me enter again, a door a little ajar, A love rebuilt, a healing star. Watch as love appears, watch, In the relaxation of love, a story retold. I keep dreaming, maybe, just maybe, Love's embrace, waving destiny. With every step forward, love is becoming free, Self-made agreement, the decree of love.

the accident is what happened; the injury is what lasts. Likewise, trauma is a psychic injury, lodged in our nervous system, mind, and body, lasting long past the originating incident(s), triggerable at any moment. It is a constellation of hardships, composed of the wound itself and the residual burdens that our woundedness imposes on our bodies and souls: the unresolved emotions they visit upon us; the coping dynamics they dictate; the tragic or melodramatic or neurotic scripts we unwittingly but inexorably live out; and, not least, the toll these take on our bodies.

The job interview is perhaps the most obvious example of this sort of unpaid emotional labour: here the candidate must appear sufficiently confident and enthusiastic to satisfy a selection panel assessing "presentation" and "personality", as if these were objective scientific criteria. So the interview, regardless of the job, becomes a kind of talent show audition hinging on generic questions about change, teamwork etc. (the equivalents of the standard repertoire of X Factor ballads), while the interviewee must project an all-purpose positivity by extemporising around this script without revealing its artificiality. The candidate must project the right image and hit the right notes, and must put his 'heart and soul' into every performance, even for the most dreary role.

Even now, it still seems unbelievable to me that by pulling together a motley collection—the soft yarn, the sharp needles, the scripted pattern, the smoothing hook, the intangibles of creativity, humanity, and imagination—you can create something that will hold a piece of your soul. But you can.

In the dance of hearts, a poignant song, I loved a soul that felt so wrong. Rejected echoes, silent cries, Yet hope persisted, reaching skies. Through the tears, a tale unfolds, Love's narrative, as destiny molds. Their gaze averted, paths diverged, Yet in my heart, the flame surged. As I stepped back, released the tether, Love's script unfolded, strangely weathered. In the silence of my absence keen, Echoes of affection unforeseen. When life's curtain veiled my view, They found the love that once they knew. A cruel paradox, a bitter truth, Love realized in the void of youth. Yet, in this pain, a wisdom gleaned, A love transcendent, undeterred, uncleaned. For in the ebb and flow of fate, Love persists, resilient, innate.

Dear Jesus, I have finally found the courage to admit I've craved food more than You. I have wept over giving up food while hardly giving a thought to You giving Your life for my freedom. I've been bound up by feelings of helplessness. I've been angry that I have to deal with this weight issue and have been mad at You for allowing this to be on of my lots in life. I've made excuses. I've pointed fingers. I've relied on food for things it could never give me. I've lied to myself about the realities of why I gain weight. I've settled and excused and justified my issues. I've been enthralled by buttered bread while yawning through Your daily bread. For all that, I am so sorry. These are not just little issues. These for me are suns -- missing the mark of your best for my life. With my whole heart, mind, and soul, I repent. I turn from the dieting mindset I turn from what I must give up and weep no more. I remove my toe keeping open the door to my old habits, my old mindset, my old go--to scripts. I choose freedom. I choose victory. I choose courage. And above all else, I choose You. Amen.

trauma is a psychic injury, lodged in our nervous system, mind, and body, lasting long past the originating incident(s), triggerable at any moment. It is a constellation of hardships, composed of the wound itself and the residual burdens that our woundedness imposes on our bodies and souls: the unresolved emotions they visit upon us; the coping dynamics they dictate; the tragic or melodramatic or neurotic scripts we unwittingly but inexorably live out; and, not least, the toll these take on our bodies

If I am privileged enough to see an upturn, I want to return here with my spirit mended; smiling at the most marvelous of scripts ever written.

The author despises his demonic nature and desires to slay his contemptible ego via a calculated surgical vivisection. Wishing to shed his ugly warts and contemptible character flaws that he gleaned by living a greedy and anxiety filled life, and yearning to emulate the wisdom and emotional unflappability of the emblematic tortoise, the author undertook a contemplative investigation into the fundamental nature of human existence, a narrative examination of an ignorant and troubled man’s life. Transcendental meditation (‘TM’) is an increasingly popular technique to achieve inner peace and wellness. Proponents’ of TM claim that regular periods of meditation improves a person’s physical energy by enabling the meditator’s body to settle into a profound state of rest and relaxation. TM notionally promotes a restful state of mind “beyond thinking,” alleviates stress, reduces blood pressure, depression, and anger by assisting practitioners obtain a reprieve from painful and distracting thoughts. The author wrote this self-investigative script in order to pursue the same type of physiological and psychological rejuvenation that a person ostensibly attains when ‘transcending’ their ordinary thoughts and attains a pure state of consciousness. He encountered many obstacles blocking his path seeking self-awareness and imperturbable mental serenity including his manic nature, fear of change, stubborn intractability, pessimism, skepticism, self-doubt, mental stupor, and epic stupidity. Attempting to replicate the stoic demeanor and resoluteness of a sagacious tortoise, the author continued plodding along drafting this interminable scroll seeking to become the cartographer of a transformative, life-affirming journey cleansing and revitalizing a weary body and an emotionally stagnated soul.

If our vision is based on the social mirror, we make choices based on expectations of others. It’s been said that “when man discovered the mirror, he began to lose his soul.”If our self-vision is no more than a reflection of the social mirror, we have no connection with our inner selves, with our own uniqueness and capacity to contribute. We’re living out of scripts handed to us by others—family, associates, friends, enemies, the media. And what are those scripts? Some may seem constructive: “You’re so talented!” “You’re a natural ball player!” “I always said you should be a doctor!” Some may be destructive: “You’re so slow!” “You can’t do anything right!” “Why can’t you be more like your sister?” Good or bad, these scripts can keep us from connecting with who we are and what we’re about.

God has penned greatness across the script of your soul. And despite how hard people or circumstance have worked to erase that story, I would have you wake up every morning resting in the fact that God’s pen is eternally indelible.

Human ego and drunk poets have ruined the powerful concept of soul and turned it into a flowery notion. Your character (body-mind) can function on its own. Soul doesn't do anything. It just witnesses what the character does. The character would go on as per its script even if your soul weren't here to witness it.

Love has its own communication—one you can’t prove in a courtroom, in a lab experiment, or on a doctor’s chart. It’s the language of the heart, and while it has never been transcribed, has no alphabet, and can’t be heard or spoken by voice, it is used by every human on the planet. It is written on our souls, scripted by the finger of God, and we can hear, understand, and speak it with perfection long before we open our eyes for the first time.

I don't want to push my chips forward and go out and meet something I don't understand. A man would have to put his soul at hazard. He'd have to say, 'Ok...I'll be part of this world'.