Vibrant Soul Quotes

At night I no longer dreamed, nor did I let my imagination work during the day. The once vibrant escapes of watching myself fly through the clouds in bright blue costumes, were now a thing of the past. When I fell asleep, my soul became consumed in a black void. I no longer awoke in the mornings refreshed; I was tired and told myself that I had one day less to live in this world. I shuffled through my chores, dreading every moment of every day. With no dreams, I found that words like hope and faith were only letters, randomly put together into something meaningless - words only for fairy tales.

Perhaps all women are part faerie, for what woman can deny her faerie blood when the portals to her own land are open; when the full moon sings its insistent song; when sorrow and passion and rage pulse through her body at moon times. This is why women are the chosen ones of Faerie, pat of the vibrant, fluid, emotional soul of the world…

You cannot trade the courage needed to live every moment for immunity from life's sorrows. We may say we know this but ours is the culture of the deal-making mind. From infancy, we have breathed in the belief that there is always a deal to be made, a bargain to be struck. Eventually, we believe, if we do the right thing, if we are good enough, clever enough, sincere enough, work hard enough, we will be rewarded. There are different verses to this song - if you are sorry for your sins and try hard not to sin again, you will go to heaven; if you do your daily practise, clean up your diet, heal your inner child, ferret out all your emotional issue's, focus your intent, come into alignment with the world around you, hone your affirmations, find and listen to the voice of your higher self, you will be rewarded with vibrant health, abundant prosperity, loving relations and inner peace - in other words, heaven! We know that what we do and how we think affects the quality of our lives. Many things are clearly up to us. And many others are not. I can see no evidence that the universe works on a simple meritocratic system of cause and effect. Bad things happen to good people - all the time. Monetary success does come to some who do not do what they love, as well as to some who are unwilling or unable to see the harm they do to the planet or others. Illness and misfortune come to some who follow their soul's desire. Many great artist's have been poor. Great teachers have lived in obscurity. My invitation, my challenge to you here, is to journey into a deeper intimacy with the world and your life without any promise of safety or guarantee of reward beyond the intrinsic value of full participation.

He had the eyes of a man that had seen things. Eyes that were soulful and wise, yet vibrant and sultry. Eyes that made me want to run away, yet urged me to stay.

The festival of the summer solstice speaks of love and light, of freedom and generosity of spirit. It is a beautiful time of year where vibrant flowers whisper to us with scented breath, forests and woodlands hang heavy in the summer’s heat and our souls become enchanted with midsummer magic.

The poet must always, in every instance, have the vibrant word... that by it's trenchancy can so wound my soul that it whimpers.... One must know and recognize not merely the direct but the secret power of the word; one must be able to give one's writing unexpected effects. It must have a hectic, anguished vehemence, so that it rushes past like a gust of air, and it must have a latent, roistering tenderness so that it creeps and steals one's mind; it must be able to ring out like a sea-shanty in a tremendous hour, in the time of the tempest, and it must be able to sigh like one who, in tearful mood, sobs in his inmost heart.

Culture is an elevated expression of the inner voice which the different peoples of the Earth have heard in the depths of their being, a voice which conveys the vibrant compassion and wisdom of the cosmic life. For different cultures to engage in interaction is to catalyze each other's souls and foster mutual understanding.

Nehemia was gone. That vibrant, fierce, loving soul; the princess who had been called the Light of Eyllwe; the woman who had been a beacon of hope—just like that, as if she were no more than a wisp of candlelight, she was gone. When it had mattered most Celaena hadn't been there. Nehemia was gone.

I did not tremble to lose what men called beauty, but I feared the loss of my spirit and humor and love of living, the things I believed made my soul human and vibrant.

Marriage is what you make of it, and God has many versions of what that looks like based on what different souls need, in order to grow.

A vibrant body, a radiant mind, a loving heart, and an honorable life.

How’d this happen?” Melody asked in a stunned whisper. She never expected to fall in love and certainly not this swiftly or with this much finality. “We just met.” “I don’t believe that,” Clay argued as he turned her palm over in his and traced the lines of it with the pad of his finger. “I’m pretty sure we’ve known each other forever. Seeing you the first time was like coming home, and there ain’t been anything to happen since that’s disabused me of the notion.” “Yeah,” Melody agreed, the bright skyline blurring to a sea of vibrant color. She remembered seeing Clay in Hal’s Diner the first time. Alone and eating his turkey, she’d been compelled to reach out to him. “Do you really believe in soul mates?” “I do now.

This moon, O lunar landscape glow, by reflecting sunlight's passing flow...of energy and vibrant waves to mirror back our feelings so.

Art is supposed to tell a story. It is supposed to be a piece of the soul that created it. Art is supposed to be alive, vibrant. It is supposed to speak directly to the spirit. To say things words alone could never say. Art is the essence of being.

Perhaps all women are part faerie, for what woman can deny her faerie blood when the portals to her own land are open; when the full moon sings its insistent song; when sorrow and passion and rage pulse through her body at moon times. This is why women are the chosen ones of Faerie, part of the vibrant, fluid, emotional soul of the world…

As politicians weigh courses of action against their political agendas the death toll weighs heavy on the conscience of the world. The once vibrant Syrian streets are now haunted by the souls of the innocent and the historic monuments that told of an unrivalled Arab civilisation no longer stand tall.

Soulful healing asks, while you are healing your body with herbs from Earth, that you look for the meaning in what is happening within your body as it relates to your whole being.

Your heart and soul are full of beautiful, colorful, vibrant threads, and you deserve to shine.

There is nothing more prestigious then a beautiful soul painting the world with his or her vibrant colors

Where does Death reside? In the dead, of course, and in the souls of the living; in their fears of the future and in the losses of their pasts. Death lives in the too-quiet silences, in the deepest parts of night. Death makes a home in the moments of stiffness, the seconds before a fall; in the heavy-hearted candor on the surgeon's hands, the archer's bow, the executioner's axe, the injectioner's needle. Death lurks, he stalks, he waits - or so we would believe, anyway, in our selfish vanities and prides, because Death lives so vibrantly in our consciousness that it is exceedingly difficult to imagine he might actually have a home of his own.

So although in Genesis 2, ezer is often translated "helper" or "helpmeet," its meaning includes far more. Woman is Man's ezer- she is a delivering, warring, supporting, shielding, capable, and vibrant female image bearer of God.

Self-care is refreshing for the soul and makes you a vibrant person

What if you lose your muse? Your mind will keep searching for an unknown palm, an empty core of clustered starry moisture, a broken harmony of a long lost song. Your heart will trample across moments, scattered here and there hoping to smile through a blank verse, an unmade sculpture, a void cosmos walking through a violet sky. And your soul? That, a sparkle of a crimson sun will dance along the glitter of a fragmentary dream, and in a love that clutches you in transience of an eternity, hold your breath in a paradise of a vibrant vision, and there you will find your muse again, once again. So what if you lose your muse?

There’s magic in people who aren’t afraid to be a little weird, sometimes messy, but always real. They choose to shine their light instead of dimming it to fit in. These are the rare souls who bring sunshine with them wherever they go, and who can trip over their own feet and call it a dance. They’ve realized that a secret to living a life of joy is to embrace being a hot mess of happiness instead of trying to be perfect.

Self-doubt and lack of conscious awareness undermine a person’s quest to live a life of dutiful service. Self-assurance infuses us with poise and the strength of character to blunt our destructive impulses. Self-awareness allows us to be cognizant of the whirlwind of infinite beauty that surrounds us and reinforces us with the forte to apply our vibrant life force in an expressive motif that exposes the mistiness of our inner soul to the outer world.

Healing light shines upon your soul even when the clouds roll in and the sky goes gray. The beauty of your rainbow fills the space between the gray and the blue providing balance to your soul. I see the rainbow's reflection in your eyes always. May God's light maintain the vibrant color of your heart.

This is the very reason that some lives end seemingly early and by their own hands because Mother Nature doesn't understand that a personage can out-age a body. It is the reason that someone unwell can look so very vibrant on the outside, giving no indication that death lurks around the corner. Souls saturated in sickness, negativity, and ill-thoughts cannot weather the years well.

One aspect of soulful healing that is most challenging and therefore most fruitful is the need to release a part of your story that may be lying underneath and behind the illness. Healing requires a willingness to rewrite the story you tell yourself about what has happened in your life and why it’s happened. There is often an emotional attachment to the pattern that doesn’t allow for easy change.

A knowledge of hearts and a wise comprehension of life resound in the word of the Briton; like a nimble fop the short-lived word of the Frenchman flashes and scatters; whimsically does the German contrive his lean, intelligent word, not accessible to all; but there is no word so sweeping, so pert, so bursting from beneath the very heart, so ebullient and vibrant with life, as an aptly spoken Russian word.

Where is my soul?" Mari asked again. "In my past. In what I wanted my life to be. I left my soul captive in that moment when I still had a house, a husband, a job I wanted to leave but never had the courage to. My soul was in my past. But today it's here, I can feel it again in my body, vibrant with enthusiasm. I don't know what to do. I only know that it's taken me three years to understand that life was pushing me in a direction I didn't want to go in.

I can feel the presence of a vault of heavenly stars shining upon her, a mysterious, supernatural light. Her captivating soul is putting me under a spell, and I can feel her rich, ethereal inner essence. This extraordinary encounter makes me feel as if I have just arrived at a temple. I have been given access to the Divine. As I enter the room where the holy of holies resides, I can feel the spark of the Almighty deep within her. Her intense vibrant force makes me want to cry, and I am struck by the realization of how very close to her I am

A sundry of intimate encounters with the vibrant intellect of perceptive thinkers dissolves a recluse’s shroud of seclusion. Can I manufacture the needed first aid kit to arrest my internal hemorrhaging? Can I stave off my mental deterioration by exploring the written words of renowned authors? Can I map a course out of my present quandary by scouring the libraries brimming with the beautiful mind works of previous generations of eminent writers? Will diligent encounters with the incisive thoughts of outstanding essayist shred the indivisible bars shielding my indeterminate self and release me from of the monochrome cage of self-imposed isolation? Can respected writers’ perceptive soul-searching create a template for my inchoative thoughts spontaneously to mature?

We say that we mourn the dead, and there is some truth in that. We lament the flower frozen in full bloom, cut off at the moment of promise, or another long wilted, whose slow fading and drawn-out, painful diminishment cast a shadow over a vibrant and glorious past. And yet. Once the eyes are closed and the heart is stilled, we come to understand that the worst of the pain has passed. For them. The dead have no more use for pain, for memory or regret. Regret is for the living. And so when we stand at the bedside, the graveside, the casket, our mourning is less for the beloved departed than it is for ourselves. We mourn the missed opportunity, the word unspoken or spoken in haste, the hole in our lives and the unsettling of our souls, our own disappointments and the loss of innocence. We gaze upon the stillness that is unending and feel our self-importance crack and the myth of our immortality smash. We stare upon the face of death to see ourselves more clearly, to satisfy our curiosity, to make peace with the inescapable. We hold our breath, try to imagine what it would be like never to take another and what the departed know now that we don’t. We try to conjure what the life we have left would look like if such knowledge were ours. We try to imagine ourselves kind and expansive and giving, balanced and patient, more honest, more thankful, more peaceful, content with what we have, mindless of what we have not. We imagine ourselves happy. For a moment, we believe we can be. And then, because we can’t help ourselves, we breathe and, breathing, are reminded of the many other things we cannot help. The faith of a moment fades and hope is replaced by the intimate knowledge of our imperfections. Lonely, weeping, we stand with our feet anchored to the ground, watching our better angels fly above us and beyond us to time out of mind, and we mourn.

Londoners have intense loyalties to the areas from which they come. Those born in Croydon will argue that theirs is a borough with access to the green belt, excellent shopping and wide, pleasant streets, while the rest of the city flatly knows that Croydon is a soulless hole whose only redeeming feature is the novelty of the electric tram and a large DIY store with reasonable parking. Likewise, those from Hackney would contend that their borough is vibrant and exciting, instead of crime-ridden and depressed; those from Acton would argue that their suburb is peaceful and gentle instead of soul-destroyingly dull, samey and bleak; and the people of Amersham would proclaim that their town is the ideal combination of leafy politeness and speedy transport links instead of, clearly, the absolute end of the earth. However, no one, not one mind worthy of respect, could defend Willesden Junction as anything but an utter and irredeemable dump.

towheads, the older one only slightly darker. He was looking at a picture of Anders with his arms around his wife and in that photo they were not much older than children themselves. There were pictures of birds, too, a group of prairie chickens standing in a field, an eastern bluebird so vibrant it appeared to have been Photoshopped. Anders took a lot of pictures of birds. Karen pulled off her hat and pushed her straight pale hair behind her ears. The flush that had been in her cheeks from the momentary burst of cold had faded. “This isn’t good news, right?” she said, twisting the rings on her finger, the modest diamond and the platinum band. “I’m glad to see you but I can’t imagine you’re just dropping by to say hello.” And for a split second Marina felt the slightest surge of relief. Of course she would know. Even if she hadn’t heard she would know in that way a soul knows. Marina wanted so badly to put her arms around Karen then,

There was a moment of stillness before something in him seemed to snap. she pounced on her with a sort of tigerish delight, and clamped his mouth over hers. She squeaked in surprise, wriggling in his hold, but his arms clamped around her easily, his muscles as solid as oak. He kissed her possessively, almost roughly at first, gentling by voluptuous degrees. Her body surrendered without giving her brain a chance to object, applying itself eagerly to every available inch of him. The luxurious male heat and hardness of him satisfied a wrenching hunger she hadn't been aware of until now. It also gave her the close-but-not-close-enough feeling she remembered from before. Oh, how confusing this was, this maddening need to crawl inside his clothes, practically inside his skin. She let her fingertips wander over his cheeks and jaw, the neat shape of his ears, the taut smoothness of his neck. When he offered no objection, she sank her fingers into his thick, vibrant hair and sighed in satisfaction. He searched for her tongue, teased and stroked intimately until her heart pounded in a tumult of longing, and a sweet, empty ache spread all through her. Dimly aware that she was going to lose control, that she was on the verge of swooning, or assaulting him again, she managed to break the kiss and turn her face away with a gasp. "Don't," she said weakly. His lips grazed along her jawline, his breath rushing unsteadily against her skin. "Why? Are you still worried about Australian pox?" Slowly it registered that they were no longer standing. Gabriel was sitting on the ground with his back against the grass-covered mound, and- heaven help her- she was in his lap. She glanced around them in bewilderment. How had this happened? "No," she said, bewildered and perturbed, "but I just remembered that you said I kissed like a pirate." Gabriel looked blank for a moment. "Oh, that. That was a compliment." Pandora scowled. "It would only be a compliment if I had a beard and a peg leg." Setting his mouth sternly against a faint quiver, Gabriel smoothed her hair tenderly. "Forgive my poor choice of words. What I meant to convey was that I found your enthusiasm charming." "Did you?" Pandora turned crimson. Dropping her head to his shoulder, she said in a muffled voice, "Because I've worried for the past three days that I did it wrong." "No, never, darling." Gabriel sat up a little and cradled her more closely to him. Nuzzling her cheek, he whispered, "Isn't it obvious that everything about you gives me pleasure?" "Even when I plunder and pillage like a Viking?" she asked darkly. "Pirate. Yes, especially then." His lips moved softly along the rim of her right ear. "My sweet, there are altogether too many respectable ladies in the world. The supply has far exceeded the demand. But there's an appalling shortage of attractive pirates, and you do seem to have a gift for plundering and ravishing. I think we've found you're true calling." "You're mocking me," Pandora said in resignation, and jumped a little as she felt his teeth gently nip her earlobe. Smiling, Gabriel took her head between his hands and looked into her eyes. "Your kiss thrilled me beyond imagining," he whispered. "Every night for the rest of my life, I'll dream of the afternoon in the holloway, when I was waylaid by a dark-haired beauty who devastated me with the heat of a thousand troubled stars, and left my soul in cinders. Even when I'm an old man, and my brain has fallen to wrack and ruin, I'll remember the sweet fire of your lips under mine, and I'll say to myself, 'Now, that was a kiss.'" Silver-tongued devil, Pandora thought, unable to hold back a crooked grin. Only yesterday, she'd heard Gabriel affectionately mock his father, who was fond of expressing himself with elaborate, almost labyrinthine turns of phrase. Clearly the gift had been passed down to his son.

There are two great mythological themes that weave throughout human history: the heroic and shamanic journeys. In the former, the hero journeys out of the ordinary world into a realm of primal forces, finding and facing monsters and allies in a quest for healing. In the latter, the protagonist enters another order of reality, a landscape of mystery and power to be pulled apart and put back together in a new and more powerful way. These great stories remind us that the soul is not accessible merely through the rational mind. The thinking intellect is a small part of the larger self. The soul makes its appearance known in dream and deep imagery, in feeling states (dark or light) that transcend the usual boundaries of the self, and in the sacred time and space accessed in ritual and ceremony. The entrance to this vibrant territory lies in another way of seeing, a creative and active quality of perception that engages our full capacity, across the threshold where mind, body, and emotions merge within a path of heart.

My mind is a manifestation of breath. The more aligned with breath I am, the clearer my mind becomes. My body is a manifestation of breath. The more aligned with breath I am, the more vibrant and open my body becomes. My emotions are a manifestation of breath. The more aligned with breath I am, the more harmonious my emotions shall be. My world is a manifestation of breath. The more aligned with breath I am, the more fulfilling my relationships shall be. Every aspect of reality is a manifestation of breath. The more aligned with breath I am, the more real I shall be. Instead of living in the reality of my ego’s fantasy I shall dwell in the reality of my soul’s eternal light, where I can simply abide with my breath as an announcer of well-being, becoming aware that within me as my breath, well-being and perfection are always existing. And to signal to the Universe that in recognizing my breath as evidence of perfection I am ready, willing, and able to receive more perfection. And to receive it with worthiness and joy as a gift for myself and for those who don’t know the worthiness of their own eternal light, allowing my happiness to be a service to all. And so I’m free.

These associations—Cavafy, my mother polishing the silver, a missionary aunt who fled the familiar turf of Tennessee for the otherness of Korea (presumably with the intent of teaching them something, hopefully with the result of being taught), my Mamaw’s fragrant old bureau with its smell of wax and polish—all of them would be brought to bear upon my painting of peppermints, but none of them would be visible; there’s no reason the viewer would know any of this. I could render only what can be seen—color and form, though the painter’s splendid artifice reveals to us texture, too, and rich associations of scent and flavor, all arriving through the gates of the eyes. And yet there is something more here, and that something is what nags at me to write this book, what tugs at my sleeve and my sleep. Why, if all that is personal has fallen away, should these pictures matter so? Why should they be alight with a feeling of intimacy? Interiority makes itself visible. In my imaginary still life, the “context and commentary” of my experience would be gone, but something would remain, something distilled and vibrant in the quality of attention itself. Is that what soul or spirit is, then, the outward-flying attention, the gaze that binds us to the world? Coorte’s asparagus, his gooseberries and shells, distill this quality down to its quietest, most startling essence: the eye suffuses what it sees with I. Not “I” in the sense of my story, the particulars of my life, the way my father tended his old asparagus beds each spring, the way my beloved loved the forms and colors of shells. But “I” as the quickest, subtlest thing we are: a moment of attention, an intimate engagement. Is that the lesson, then, that ultimately I becomes an eye? What is left of Adriaen Coorte but this? Isn’t that enough? […] That, I think, is the deepest secret of these paintings, finally, although it seems just barely in the realm of the sayable, this feeling that beneath the attachments and appurtenances, the furnishings of selfhood, what we are is attention, a quick physical presence in the world, a bright point of consciousness in a wide field from which we are not really separate. That, in a field of light, we are intensifications of that light.

For a moment, the fog remained unmoved. It sat around, swirling in place, very clearly listening but showing no sign of offering answers. Then, just as Nausicaä began to contemplate conjuring a few more fireballs, the fog began to thin. Little by little it drained from the air until, finally, all that was left was a vaguely damp, translucent haze. She could only stare at what was revealed. “Huh,” she breathed when speech at last overcame her surprise. “This is…new.” It wasn’t just the changelings that had gathered. They were present, of course—one mere step away. Nausicaä briefly took in the unmistakable pale green tint of his fawn-brown skin and the snaking twists of ivy that grew from the sharp flares of his little shoulders. But there were others. There were so many others. In all of Nausicaä’s very long life, she had never encountered so many of magic’s children in one place. The crowd of them stretched far in almost every direction, faces of all shapes and sizes peeking out of the foliage and trees. There were centaurs, goblins, brownies, imps and sprites. There were redcaps, with their crimson-stained hats and vicious scythes, which glinted in the moonlight. There were kelpies dripping sodden weeds, lilies strangled in their manes. Littered throughout the branches above were crows that weren’t really crows at all, but sluagh—wandering souls of the violent dead who preyed on those soon to die. There were larger things too. Unnameable things. Things that had undoubtedly been calling this forest their home long before Nausicaä had ever been born. She narrowed her eyes at the distance—something massive as a mobile hill stood still as silence too far away for mortal eyes to see. Their form was not unlike an overlarge, poisonous tree frog, all vibrant blues and yellows and greens, a crown of velvet antlers on their head and hundreds of glittering black eyes on their face. A freaking Forest Guardian, she would hazard a guess, not that she’d ever seen one to say for sure. “Uh…okay, well, weird time to have a company meeting, but you do you, I guess. I’m going to…go. Gar, maybe it’s best you stick with these guys until I square things up with my Reaper. Thanks for lifting the fog, forest brats! Good luck with…whatever this is. May the force be with you.” She turned back around. There weren’t any faeries in front of her, either—just trees and misty gloom and a darkness unnatural even for this time of night. And, of course, the glass-chime tinkling of magic, which now sounded to her a bit distressed.

Christopher entered the room, having to bend his head to pass through the small medieval doorway. Straightening, he surveyed their surroundings briefly before his piercing gaze found Beatrix. He stared at her with the barely suppressed wrath of a man to whom entirely too much had happened. Beatrix wished she were a swooning sort of female. It seemed the only appropriate response to the situation. Unfortunately, no matter how she tried to summon a swoon, her mind remained intractably conscious. “I’m so sorry,” she croaked. No reply. Christopher approached her slowly, as if he thought she might try to bolt again. Reaching her, he took her upper arms in a hard grip that allowed no chance of escape. “Tell me why you did it,” he said, his voice low and vibrant with…hatred? Fury? “No, damn you, don’t cry. Was it a game? Was it only to help Prudence?” Beatrix looked away with a wretched sob. “No, it wasn’t a game…Pru showed me your letter, and she said she wasn’t going to answer it. And I had to. I felt as if it had been written for me. It was only supposed to be once. But then you wrote back, and I let myself answer just once more…and then one more time, and another…” “How much of it was the truth?” “All of it,” Beatrix burst out. “Except for signing Pru’s name. The rest of it was real. If you believe nothing else, please believe that.” Christopher was quiet for a long moment. He had begun to breathe heavily. “Why did you stop?” She sensed how difficult it was for him to ask. But God help her, it was infinitely worse to have to answer. “Because it hurt too much. The words meant too much.” She forced herself to go on, even though she was crying. “I fell in love with you, and I knew I could never have you. I couldn’t pretend to be Pru any longer. I loved you so much, and I couldn’t--” Her words were abruptly smothered. He was kissing her, she realized dazedly. What did it mean? What did he want? What…but her thoughts dissolved, and she stopped trying to make sense of anything. His arms had closed around her, one hand gripping the back of her neck. Shaken to her soul, she molded against him. Taking her sobs into his mouth, he licked deep, his kiss strong and savage. It had to be a dream, and yet her senses insisted it was real, the scent and warmth and toughness of him engulfing her. He pulled her even more tightly against him, making it difficult to breathe. She didn’t care. The pleasure of the kiss suffused her, drugged her, and when he pulled his head back, she protested with a bewildered moan. Christopher forced her to look back at him. “Loved?” he asked hoarsely. “Past tense?” “Present tense,” she managed to say. “You told me to find you.” “I didn’t mean to send you that note.” “But you did. You wanted me.” “Yes.” More tears escaped her stinging eyes. He bent and pressed his mouth to them, tasting the salt of grief. Those gray eyes looked into hers, no longer bright as hellfrost, but soft as smoke. “I love you, Beatrix.” Maybe she was capable of swooning after all.

If you examine the teachings of any spiritual master you will hear a resounding call for spiritual action. Belief and faith are only the first steps of spirituality. Granted, belief is an important first step, but belief alone was never intended to be the sole core of religion and spirituality. Jesus, Buddha, Muhammad, and other enlightened spiritual leaders never taught us to become dependent upon man-made beliefs. Their lives were vibrant examples of personal spiritual action and spiritual exploration. Ask yourself this critical question: Are you content to settle for man-made traditions and beliefs, or are you ready to take the next step in your spiritual evolution?

Light shone through a large crack in the wall of the maze ahead of us. A slim, slender silhouette cast a shadow against the passage floors. Der Erlkönig. I did not marvel then that I knew the shape of his body as well as my own reflection. I watched the Goblin King's shadow play his violin, his right arm moving in a smooth, practiced bowing motion. Käthe tried to pull me away, but I did not go with her. I moved closer to the light, and pressed my face to the crack. I had to look, I had to see. I had to watch him play. The Goblin King's back was turned to me. He wore no fancy coat, no embroidered dressing gown. He was simply dressed in trousers and a fine cambric shirt, so fine I could see the play of muscles in his back. He played with precision and with considerable skill. The Goblin King was not Josef; he did not have my brother's clarity of emotion or my brother's transcendence. But the Goblin King had his own voice, full of passion, longing, and reverence, and it was unexpectedly... vibrant. Alive. I could hear the slight fumblings, the stutters and starts in tempo, the accidental jarring note that marked his playing as human, oh so human. This was a man- a young man?- playing a song he liked on the violin. Playing it until it sounded perfect to his imperfect ears. I had stumbled upon something private, something intimate. My cheeks reddened. "Liesl." My sister's voice sliced through the sound of the Goblin King's playing like a guillotine, stopping the music mid-phrase. He glanced over his shoulder, and our eyes met. His mismatched gaze was unguarded, and I felt both ashamed and emboldened. I had seen him unclothed in his bedchamber, but he was even more naked now. Propriety told me I should look away, but I could not, arrested by the sight of his soul bared to me. We stared at each other through the crack in the wall, unable to move. The air between us changed, like a world before a storm: hushed, quiet, waiting, expectant.

A colorless luminous, non-vibrant, invisible ether, self-existent in our body from the day of our birth till we depart is called our “soul.

That which is manifested with its glorious ambition in the center of the chest, a luminous, non-vibrant invisible flame, self-existent in our body from the day of our birth till we depart, is our SOUL.

Be as Innocent as a Child and as Smart as a Man of the World

David rode thought the snow, the dark branches of the leafless trees in either side, and the orange and peach of sunset at the horizon, and he felt...incandescently happy. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt like this, like joy was a fossil fuel buried deep in his soul, and he had suddenly struck deep and his a gusher. He felt vibrant and alive, wanting to be in this moment and nowhere else, wishing he cold bottle it up and keep it forever,

Cheri Davis is a fun, energetic, positive, and beautiful friend. We both share a vibrant and positive energy which is a rare and wonderful quality. No matter what is going on in the world, we have a magic ability to energize each other and make the day better simply by speaking. She once said to me, “Susan, our low is most people's high.” Indeed. We will not always match the energies of others, and when theirs is lower than ours, that can be a very good thing!

My goal is to live my life as a more awakened, vibrant, alive human being. My prayer is to not let any moment pass without my acknowledgement and full experience of it. In order to do that, I’ve got to practice. —Oprah

As you run your hands over the cloth, you pour your energy into it. The Japanese word for healing is te-ate, which literally means “to apply hands.” The term originated prior to the development of modern medicine when people believed that placing one’s hand on an injury promoted healing. We know that gentle physical contact from a parent, such as holding hands, patting a child on the head, and hugging, has a calming effect on children. Likewise, a firm but gentle massage by human hands does much more to loosen knotted muscles than being pummeled by a massage machine. The energy that flows from the person’s hands into our skin seems to heal both body and soul. The same is true for clothing. When we take our clothes in our hands and fold them neatly, we are, I believe, transmitting energy, which has a positive effect on our clothes. Folding properly pulls the cloth taut and erases wrinkles, and makes the material stronger and more vibrant.

We need to help others in order to make ourselves happy and create a better world. When we are only taking from the world and not giving anything in return, we are creating an imbalance in our spiritual energies. If we develop the habit of giving back to the world as much as we are taking from it, we feed our souls and lead a more vibrant life.

This realm burst at the seams with vibrant life, neighbors arguing in the middle of the sidewalk, joggers racing by early in the morning, and countless couples wandering into The Water’s Edge, so tangled with one another she couldn’t tell where one piece of their thread began and the other ended.

He adored me. And though my paintings terrified him, something in his deep soul allowed him to worship my seeming talent-the deftness of my composition, my vibrant colors, my graceful speed.

The lost. Not you. No, not with that loving heart of yours. Not with those kind eyes that see the greatness in others. With that resilient soul that refuses to quit, and that has the tenacity to love during the most trying times and the darkest days. Not with your pure character that holds firm to good values. That refuses to follow society's path of anger and hate. Not with your energy that invigorates every individual you encounter. They lost. But you didn't. You're gaining an opportunity to take your heart, your inner light, and your vibrant soul to someone who will cherish it and recognize it for the divine blessing that it is . And that's why you can't surrender. That's why you can't give up.

The world doesn't need more people confining themselves into ever-shrinking containers of what's acceptable, pulling their raw edges in tighter to take up less space. People have these strange rules they create for each other, where they feel everyone must think and feel and act the same way they do. It's scary, letting your freak flag fly, letting the vibrant colors of your soul show in a world that encourages gray conformity. And when you do, some people will absolutely mock you. They will question you and dismiss you and discourage you and even berate and belittle you, your choices somehow a threat to their life even when they in no way affect it. But some other people, the ones who have niches in their soul that align with yours, won't. Those people will see the streaks of color, those unfurled edges of your personality, and it will encourage them to show and embrace their own. And little by little, this world will become a more beautiful and colorful place, one filled with people running after their dreams, alive with possibility and no longer afraid.

May God bless you with all the colours of life - may your days be filled with joy, happiness, and friendship, and may your heart be filled with the beautiful shades of love. On this auspicious occasion, I hope you and your family have a wonderful time playing with vibrant colours, singing and dancing to cheerful tunes, and sharing laughter and happiness with your loved ones. May your life be as colourful and bright as the beautiful hues of Holi. Wishing you and your family a happy and blessed Holi. May your day be filled with fun, frolic, and endless memories to cherish.

man is composed of two dimensions, the body and the soul. The body, by its nature, grows weary, and needs to rest. The soul, on the other hand, never grows weary; it is the vibrant soul that pushes you to work even when your body itself would rather languish and be cared for by someone else.

In the vibrant garden of life, let the green of serenity, the pink of joy, and the yellow of optimism bloom. Amidst the petals, find peace, and let it flourish within your soul.

You have to be able to relish in the things that set your soul on fire, little or large. Pursue things that make that fire. Sometimes they work, and sometimes they don’t. Sometimes it’s easy, and sometimes it’s hard. Don’t be afraid to let yourself out. Don’t dull yourself or live in such hesitation. You are a vibrant human being.

I hesitantly reached for a variety pack of bunnies. Four vibrant, differently-colored little creatures stared back at me with malice in their souls. I hid the package beneath my frozen lasagna to gain some reprieve, checked out, and drove home—the weight of the marshmallows in my bag dragging me down to hell.

Whoever had painted this had talent, capturing the somber expressions of Ione, Rhahar, and then Rhain, the God of Common Men and Endings often depicted in Atlantia. The red hair of Aios, the Goddess of Love, Fertility, and Beauty, was as vibrant as fire, not having faded in the years since the ceiling was painted. Penellaphe, the Goddess of Wisdom, Loyalty, and Duty, appeared peaceful and serene, while Bele, the Goddess of the Hunt, looked as I imagined she would if awake: like she was about to whack someone across the head with her bow. Even the different shades of skin, from the rich-brown-hued Theon, the God of Accord and War, and his twin, Lailah, the Goddess of Peace and Vengeance, to the deeper, cooler black skin of Saion, the God of Sky and Soil, were rendered with exquisite detail.

I'm a firm believer that the kindness you put out into the world will always find its way back to you, multiplied. I'm a firm believer that when show up as your realest and most vibrant self… you don’t lose anybody, they lose you. I'm a firm believer that playing small doesn’t serve anyone. The world needs your wildest and most ambitious self. I'm a firm believer that if your gut says no, it’s your soul saving you a lot of trouble. I'm a firm believer that being a bit delusional is how you turn the life you imagine into the life you live. I'm a firm believer that the way people treat you is a reflection of how they feel about themselves, not you. I'm a firm believer that the oddballs are the ones who change the world while everyone else is busy fitting in. I'm a firm believer that if it requires you to shrink, rather than grow, it’s not for you.

Poem never sent little things you do for me makes me appreciate you so much it’s the elegant way you do things that makes me embrace your mind heart and soul you are everything beautiful that touches my feelings you are everything real that makes my world vibrant

It was almost laughable, because why would a woman so vibrant, so alive, love a monster from Hell?

It’s soul-crushing, the way he kisses me. It feels like love, but even that seems so colorless when my entire being feels vibrant beneath his touch.

Barry White’s music fills your room. Deeply orchestrated in rich, vibrant melody, it wafts through the essence of your being, charging your pulses towards thin-framed agglutination of body and soul. His voice, thunder-clad, accompanies a wave of hedonism already seated in your soul, but stirred to full revolution, at the sound of it. Barry was a gifted genius. A maestro of imposing degree, he lives on in our hearts . . . and in our ears.

When looking at the big picture of life, I find myself the weaver and the woven, the artist and the canvas. A symphony of creation plays within my soul, coaxing forth an insatiable yearning to explore the unfathomable depths of human experience. I am a vessel, filled to the brim with the intoxicating brew of inspiration, a force as elusive as a springtime breeze yet as powerful as the wildest storm. It strikes unbidden, a siren's song that lures me towards the uncharted waters of creativity and innovation, fanning the embers of my spirit into a blaze that illuminates my existence. Yet, of late, I perceive a disquieting shift within my innermost self. A pall of ordinariness has descended upon my world, casting its dreary shadow upon the vibrant tapestry that once spoke to me in hues of myriad emotions. The world, which once shimmered with the uncaptured beauty of a million sunsets, now lies barren and cold, bereft of the inspirational light that once guided my every step. The colors have dimmed, the music has faded, and I stand at the precipice, yearning for the spark that will reignite the fire within. I am Jonathan Harnisch, and this is my cry into the void.

Lifting the heavy curtain of the flesh He stood upon a threshold serpent-watched, And peered into gleaming endless corridors, Silent and listening in the silent heart For the coming of the new and the unknown. He gazed across the empty stillnesses And heard the footsteps of the undreamed Idea In the far avenues of the Beyond. He heard the secret Voice, the Word that knows, And saw the secret face that is our own. The inner planes uncovered their crystal doors; Strange powers and influences touched his life. A vision came of higher realms than ours, A consciousness of brighter fields and skies, Of beings less circumscribed than brief-lived men And subtler bodies than these passing frames, Objects too fine for our material grasp, Acts vibrant with a superhuman light And movements pushed by a superconscient force, And joys that never flowed through mortal limbs, And lovelier scenes than earth’s and happier lives. A consciousness of beauty and of bliss, A knowledge which became what it perceived, Replaced the separated sense and heart And drew all Nature into its embrace. 01.03_006:018-023

KALI THE MOTHER The stars are blotted out, The clouds are covering clouds, It is darkness vibrant, sonant. In the roaring, whirling wind Are the souls of a million lunatics Just loose from the prison-house, Wrenching trees by the roots, Sweeping all from the path. The sea has joined the fray, And swirls up mountain-waves, To reach the pitchy sky. The flash of lurid light Reveals on every side A thousand, thousand shades Of Death begrimed and black — Scattering plagues and sorrows, Dancing mad with joy, Come, Mother, come! For Terror is Thy name, Death is in Thy breath, And every shaking step Destroys a world for e'er. Thou "Time", the All-Destroyer! Come, O Mother, come! Who dares misery love, And hug the form of Death, Dance in Destruction's dance, To him the Mother comes.

Before he could incriminate himself, Samuel stepped up to him. David froze. He saw that Samuel had the high priestly ephod on him, a vest with a pocket that carried the mysterious Urim and Thummim, the oracles of Yahweh. David shivered. He loved the cult of sacrifice, so he had learned everything he could about the priesthood, what they wore, and all the rituals of sacrifice. He didn’t want to become a priest, but he reveled in the beauty of sacrifice and how it cleansed the transgressions that sullied his soul. Samuel said to David, “Son, how old are you?” “Seventeen.” “You are small but ruddy of complexion,” said Samuel. It was a reference to David’s vibrant colored skin. “You are handsome and you have strong, bright eyes.” David did not know how to respond to the Seer. It was as if Samuel were considering him for auction. “Each of your brothers have passed before me and I have sought to discern the will of Yahweh. Your siblings are taller, stronger, older and more experienced. But Yahweh has said to me, ‘Do not look on their appearance or on the height of their stature.’ For Yahweh sees not as man sees: man looks on the outward appearance, but Yahweh looks on the heart. And Yahweh has not chosen any of the others.

We say that we mourn the dead, and there is some truth in that. We lament the flower frozen in full bloom, cut off at the moment of promise, or another long wilted, whose slow fading and drawn-out, painful diminishment cast a shadow over a vibrant and glorious past. And yet. Once the eyes are closed and the heart is stilled, we come to understand that the worst of the pain has passed. For them. The dead have no more use for pain, for memory or regret. Regret is for the living. And so when we stand at the bedside, the graveside, the casket, our mourning is less for the beloved departed than it is for ourselves. We mourn the missed opportunity, the word unspoken or spoken in haste, the hole in our lives and the unsettling of our souls, our own disappointments and the loss of innocence. We gaze upon the stillness that is unending and feel our self-importance crack and the myth of our immortality smash. We stare upon the face of death to see ourselves more clearly, to satisfy our curiosity, to make peace with the inescapable.

I feel free. Like some whimsical child in an enchanted forest, I feel free. Amazed at the power of the colors that surround me, I feel free. The cool water that quenches my thirst also warms my skin as I bathe, my pores opening to the pleasure of the clear pools embracing my soul. The colors reflect on the mirrored glass that supports me. I can see beauty all around. Here I float, effortlessly, and here I will remain. I feel free. I make my commitments and my agreements in complete liberation. I love freely, openly, within the bounds of my own moral compass. I give, and I take, learning to do each with equal excitement, with equal vigor. The odd thing about receiving is how hard it can be. Yet, we owe it to those we love, who love us back, to do just that. Then, we can explore the vibrant colors of our enchanted forests together, and bathe one another in the refreshing springs of nature's own charity. I love, and therefore am safe in all things.

He’d never understood how a lass could have such a hold on someone’s heart. Eoin grew up wondering why his father never remarried; he would’ve if it had been he who’d lost his wife. It was unnatural for a man to live alone so long, and how many years did it take for a heart to heal anyways? Surely not a lifetime.   But all of that was before Bri. And now, as he held her in his arms, feeling the warmth of her skin so vibrant and alive against him, he knew exactly the power a woman could wield over a man’s soul.

Charlotte’s disheveled blond head was buried in his chest. It took him too long, floating in the blissful aftermath, to realize that she was crying. Horror blasted his satisfaction to ash. He reared back and placed his hands on either side of her head, forcing her face up until he could see her eyes. “Mo leannan, mo chridhe, I’ve hurt you. I’m so sorry. I tried to be gentle, but you were like fire in my arms. I acted like a damn barbarian. Will you ever forgive me?” She regarded him with drenched eyes as a frown drew her brows together. “Ewan, what on earth are you talking about?” He dug his fingers into her thick, warm hair. “You’re crying,” he said flatly, sick with guilt. Her lips turned down in disapproval. “I suppose you expect me to tell you why.” “For God’s sake, just tell me I didn’t hurt you.” He leaned forward and traced kisses across her brow and down her temple where he felt the deep beat of her blood. “You didn’t.” Her hands encircled his wrists. “Well, a little. At first. But then…” “Thank heaven,” he breathed, kissing the salty moisture from her fluttering eyelashes. Under his wandering lips, he felt warmth flood her cheeks. “Then it was wonderful.” “Nonetheless you cried.” He drew back to stare into her face, trying to see past her beauty to what went on in her mind. “Are you lying to make me feel better?” She released a choked laugh and tried to avoid his gaze. “When have I ever tried to make you feel better?” “When have you ever cried?” “Oh, curse you, Ewan. Can’t you leave it alone?” With some difficulty, she tugged free and sat up. “Not when you’re unhappy.” He rose until he sat in front of her. She scowled. “You’re going to make me admit it, aren’t you?” By the second, guilt and worry faded. In their place came a great happiness that turned the whole world golden. “Admit what, Charlotte?” he asked, hoping like hell he hadn’t mistaken where she was going. She swallowed, her slender throat working. Her voice was low and vibrant with emotion. “I had no idea it could be like that. You made me feel things I never imagined were possible.” “Good things?” “Now you’re just looking for compliments.” “Charlotte,” he said warningly. Her lips curved. “Marvelous, wondrous, extraordinary things.” Lyle should be happy. After all, not long ago, the thought that she wouldn’t have him under any circumstances had tormented him. Hell, not much more than a day ago, she’d baulked at letting him into the house. Now she’d given him a promise of marriage and commended his lovemaking. He was a fool to want more, but for one luminous moment, he’d hoped she might declare her love. “It’s your first time,” he said in a gloomy voice. “I’m not surprised you’re feeling a wee bit floaty.” She stared hard at him. “First time or hundredth time, I believe it’s something remarkable between us that made it like that.” “Like what?” “Like the beauty tore my soul into pieces.” Her voice was husky. His heart crashed against his ribs at her confession. Surely that was enough. Why couldn’t he accept what she offered? She told him everything he wanted to hear—except the most important words of all. “That’s just pleasure.” She gave him the familiar unimpressed look. “I’m no expert, Ewan, but I’m pretty sure that pleasure alone wouldn’t make me cry.” She bit her lip, and her eyes deepened to dark honey. “Only love could make me cry.

She was a weird combination of many personality traits – obviously not fitting into any of the zodiac stereotypes. She had been a soul filled enigma, irrevocably colouring a few chapters in the otherwise monochrome book of my life in vibrant shades.

MAN IN THE WATER   Her eyes doubt and yet bear a curiosity. She wonders in her mind even when thinking of what she wonders is already known. Cautious and shy she dances around the shining water that calls for her lips to taste and her feet to feel. The man in the water tempts her lusts and still she walks by, still smiling and still staring. Only in her dreams can she imagine what the man in the water would have given. What he would’ve shared with her. Only in her dreams will she imagine the feeling when spring has sprung. Where life is filled with the gift of color and a light that changes all of them at once. A taste that satisfies the soul. That feeling of floating in space. There is only the memory of her haunting eyes that yearn but do not touch. Her angelic stride that shifts above the reflection in the water. Her soul trapped in her body as if careful to damage her skin that expires under the duress of time, holding her soul hostage in hopes that her skin, her image, will glow just as vibrant for one more day. And so the man calls for her once again, hoping that her being able to trust will free her from death. Hoping to love her. Hoping to taste the nectar of her soul. The part of her that hides behind the her that is visible. The part reflecting the depth in her eyes. The part that powers the heart. And losing myself to all of her.

Joy is the vibrant bloom that colors our days, an eternal blossom in the heart’s garden, reminding us of the beauty and grace inherent in every moment.

Four vibrant, differently-colored little creatures stared back at me with malice in their souls.

You're not too quiet, by the way. I find comfort in your silent smiles. Your energy slows me down in this chaotic world....You don't need to say much, I see you speak in other languages. Ones without linguistics. You're not too quiet, by the way. Your soul is so vibrant it could light up the entire world with a single ray.

I hesitantly reached for a variety pack of bunnies. Four vibrant, differently-colored little creatures stared back at me with malice in their souls.

And finding your soul mate is a gift, but losing one is not an excuse to stop living. Like

He needs Nephele—not just later, but now. I peer into my sister’s soul. The threads of her life glimmer golden, but a bloody infection creeps along their edges. He’s siphoning her magick. He’s going to tangle the vibrant threads of her life with his poisoned, decaying tatters, use her up until she’s nothing but a shell chained to a stone table in a tower or a disregarded husk of spirit floating in the night sky. I cannot let that happen.

Me? Keeping it real, a bit weird, and not worrying if I’m everyone’s flavor? Yes, always. Me? Being completely delusional about what I want in life until it’s my reality? Yes, always. Me? Romanticizing my life because joy is where I choose to find it? Yes, always. Me? Being ridiculously optimistic about life even when the plot twists get wild? Yes, always. Me? Doing what brings my soul joy, even if I have to do it alone? Yes, always. Me? Trusting the flow of life to guide me to where I belong? Yes, always. Me? Letting people lose me instead of begging them to choose me? Yes, always. Me? Giving myself grace as I figure things out one step at a time? Yes, always.

Lost in Tale" Cold wooden slats Breathless morning Train click clacks Motorists roaring Full harvest moon Street lamps mourning Jovial voices tune Cool breeze scorning Ghost cat trails Vibrant leaves adjourning Aged bone wail Tears storing Lost in tale Anguish boring Searching the grail Timeless loring Vacant bench Soul for lorning Heart strings pinch Memories adjourning Copyright ©️ Laura DeGrave

The seasoned soul, rich with wisdom, stands ready for its most vibrant bloom.

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As the first ray of the vibrant sun poured in the room, her decision had been made. She would not leave things and run away anymore. She had to face the facts of life. Of course, she was not so strong to come in front of him, but she would not be an escapist either.

Not the scandal, not the death threats from her own mother, not the blazing joy of facing the camera, of being pierced by it all the way to her soul, of being seen. Nothing.

And finding your soul mate is a gift, but losing one is not an excuse to stop living. Like everything in life, soul mates serve their time, and once they do, it’s time to move on. Our souls are not so limited that they can only have one mate.” Bindu had to be the world’s strangest mother-in-law.

Lifelong willingness to learn is the elixir of youth that keeps our minds forever vibrant and our souls forever curious!

In a quiet abode, where shadows weep, Lived the saddest grandmother, her sorrow ran deep. Once a home filled with laughter and cheer, Now echoes silence, a symphony of tears. Her eyes, like windows to a weathered soul, Glistened with memories that took their toll. A tale unfolded of love's sweet refrain, Now stained with loss, an enduring pain. Beside the hearth where warmth once thrived, Loneliness lingered, love deprived. A husband's absence, a void untold, Left her heart shattered, bitter and cold. Her family, once a vibrant bouquet, Now scattered petals, drifting away. The echoes of laughter, a distant sound, In the vast emptiness that sorrow found. Photographs whispered of days long past, A love that forever seemed to last. But time, a cruel and relentless stream, Carved lines of grief in a once joyous dream. Through tear-stained letters and faded attire, The saddest grandmother stoked love's dwindling fire. A matriarch cradled in solitude's embrace, Longing for the touch of her love's warm grace. Her children, grown and scattered like leaves, Each carried a piece of the pain she conceives. Yet, united by grief, a bittersweet thread, Bound by the love that time hadn't shed. In twilight's embrace, she wept in despair, A tapestry woven with threads of wear. The saddest grandmother, weathered and gray, Whispered to the wind the words she couldn't say. For in the echoes of her silent plea, Lingered the remnants of love's decree. A tale of loss, etched in the lines, Of the saddest grandmother, where sorrow resigns.

Blurred bodies moved in broad, paintbrush strokes in his peripheral vision—in and out, in and out—but in that whirlwind, she appeared vibrant, well-defined, permanently immovable, an Unmoved Mover. In her electrifying presence, God Himself became an apprentice, a secondary Being. He tried to speak, but in that rare moment, words refused to be excavated from the depths of his soul in time. So, he stood by—aloof, ignored—saying nothing at all.

When ego, unopposed, assumes its throne, The world, in fragments, reaps the seeds it’s sown. A kaleidoscope of discord and divide, Where separate streams in ceaseless turmoil bide. Through ego’s lens, reality transforms, A battleground where rampant desire storms. A sphere of strife, of victory and loss, Where fortunes shift as dice of fate are tossed. In ego’s solitary, narrow view, The world is painted in a hue so skewed. Confined by fears, by selfish dreams confined, Its canvas bears the limits of the mind. Thus, perception, in its manifold grace, Reflects the light of ego and soul’s face. In balance, may the truest sight be found, Where essence and ego in harmony abound. In the crucible where essence blends with sight, A wondrous transformation takes its flight. Where once division’s shadow coldly lay, Interconnection’s dawn breaks forth in day. What opposition’s harsh gaze once discerned, To harmonies of concord is now turned. The essence, with its ancient wisdom’s glow, Unveils the unity that lies below. Each leaf and stone, each soul that wanders free, A note within reality’s grand symphony. Essential, bound within the vast expanse, In life’s intricate, cosmic dance. This alchemical shift in vision’s sphere, Brings forth changes profound, both far and near. Challenges, once daunting, now unfold, As growth’s opportunities, bright and bold. Foes, once clad in enmity’s harsh guise, Transform to teachers, wise beneath the skies. Each joy, each pain, in life’s intricate weave, Threads of our evolution, we perceive. No longer a stage for vain rivalry’s play, But a landscape where learning’s blossoms sway. Growth and learning, in rich abundance, thrive, In this new world where our spirits come alive. Where once the ego’s voice, in solo strain, Ruled with iron will, in self’s domain, Now in harmony with the soul’s sweet song, It finds a place where it truly belongs. No longer master, but a partner kind, Guiding through life with a humble mind. It learns compassion’s tongue, intuition hears, Acts with mindfulness, as purpose nears. In perception’s alchemy, a journey grand, From fractured states to unity’s soft hand, From discord’s harsh cacophony to peace, A path that leads where true essences release. This sacred path, evolving as it weaves, Into our nature’s heart, where spirit cleaves. The veil of separation gently falls, As interconnectedness softly calls. Upon this path, with every step we tread, Our world transforms, new visions in its stead. The mundane now with sacredness imbues, The ordinary in extraordinary hues. Each day becomes a picture, rich and vast, For deepest truths, in vibrant colors cast. Through alchemy of sight, our roles transcend, Not mere observers, but creators bend. In world’s unfolding tale, we play our part, Co-architects, with collective heart. A reality, where highest potentials shine, In this, your design, our spirits intertwine.

Her hand rises and that unnatural shine takes over her skin, the inky black that is vibrant in a way that defies nature because she is Death incarnate, the true god of souls who can choose who lives and dies. She is as powerful and ruthless as the sun itself, burning away all lesser beings as though they are nothing but kindling for her flame. Mine.

Language has the power to weave inspiration into the fabric of our souls, painting vibrant pictures in our minds.

A relentless storm rages within me, a maelstrom born out of this irritating affliction called Akathisia. This isn't just restlessness; it's akin to being trapped in a never-ending marathon with invisible shackles chaining every muscle, nerve, and inch of my being. I see the world around me as vibrant, lively, and pulsating with life, yet I'm confined to this lonely island of agony, isolated and misunderstood. Every moment is a battle against an invisible enemy that holds my peace hostage. I clench my fists, grit my teeth, and ride out the waves of torment. But the relentless onslaught of Akathisia never ceases. An unseen demon has sunk its claws into my soul, forcing me to endure this relentless turmoil. I look into the mirror and see a stranger staring back, a hollow shell writhing in pain, enslaved by an unseen tormentor. The cruel irony is that the world continues to spin, oblivious to the infernal landscape that has become my existence. From sunrise to sunset, the silent scream of Akathisia echoes within me, a chilling reminder of the hell on earth I am condemned to.

Poetry is the language of the soul, a canvas where emotions paint their most vibrant hues. Each verse, a brushstroke, weaves a tapestry of feelings, thoughts, and dreams.

A wedding is a celebration of love, a union of souls, and a promise of a lifetime together. In the heart of Hyderabad, a city known for its rich cultural heritage, vibrant traditions, and opulent celebrations, wedding photography has emerged as an art form that beautifully encapsulates these moments of love and union. Hyderabad, often referred to as the "City of Pearls," has seen a burgeoning community of talented wedding photographers who skillfully document the essence of love, the grandeur of ceremonies, and the rich cultural tapestry that defines weddings in this city. Wedding photography hyderabad is more than just taking pictures; it's about storytelling. It's the art of capturing emotions, traditions, and the love that binds two individuals. In Hyderabad, where tradition and modernity coexist harmoniously, wedding photographers have honed their craft to capture the essence of cultural rituals and ceremonies. They do not merely take photographs; they create narratives that tell the story of a couple's special day.

I think about it. I don’t stop thinking about it, even after I finish painting the woman’s dress with burnt orange and crimson and topaz yellow. I paint because it’s the next step—what does it mean if there isn’t another step? Drawing feels so open and skeletal. My sketchbook is a collection of imprints from my soul. They aren’t finished—they need to be colored in, and decorated, and turned into something much prettier than what they are. If I don’t have emerald greens and magentas and lilacs, I just have Kiko. Black-and-white. Bare and smudged. I’m not confident enough to let my drawings speak for me. I need my paintings to say something else entirely. Maybe this is my problem. Maybe this is what Hiroshi has been trying to tell me. My paintings aren’t honest enough. Cringing, I close my eyes and picture what the starfish woman will look like when she is finished. She’s vibrant and beautiful and commands the attention of the painting. But this isn’t her story. And then my mind pictures the girl standing behind her, hidden behind the luminous splendor. She’s gray and plain, but she’s beautiful, too, in her own way. But the woman will never see it because she’s too busy being beautiful herself. The painting isn’t about the starfish. It’s about the girl who wants to venture out into the ocean, away from the starfish, so she can feel like she matters. Because the girl will never matter to the starfish. In the finished painting in my head, the girl will finally know this. It’s the honest story I want to tell. I will make this painting the truest painting I’ve ever done. And after that . . . I will swim into the ocean.

When you have a laser-like focus on your soul-driven purpose then you can find a way to achieve it despite the brutal experiences.