فرق كبير بين الرجولة والذكورة ..قد تكون ذكر فى خانة النوع فى البطاقة الشخصية الرجولة ليست بنوعك أو شهوتك الحيوانية الرجولة فى عواطفك ومشاعرك و رقى أخلاقك لذلك كثيرون هم الذكور ..قليلون هم الرجال

Trong một góc lặng của ICU, tôi bắt đầu nghiêm túc suy ngẫm về những điều đau khổ mà tôi đã cố lờ đi trong suốt ngày hôm nay. Sẽ như thế nào nếu tôi ở lại? Sẽ như thế nào nếu tỉnh dậy và mồ côi? Sẽ không bao giờ ngửi thấy mùi tẩu thuốc của bố? Không bao giờ đứng bên mẹ thủ thỉ tâm sự mỗi khi rửa bát? Không bao giờ đọc cho Teddy một chương mới của Harry Potter? Sống mà không có họ? Tôi không chắc đây còn là thế giới mà tôi thuộc về nữa hay không. Tôi không chắc mình có muốn tỉnh lại hay không.

Trong một góc lặng của ICU, tôi bắt đầu nghiêm túc suy ngẫm về những điều đau khổ mà tôi đã cố lờ đi trong suốt ngày hôm nay. Sẽ như thế nào nếu tôi ở lại? Sẽ như thế nào nếu tỉnh dậy và mồ côi? Sẽ không bao giờ ngửi thấy mùi tẩu thuốc của bố? Không bao giờ đứng bên mẹ thủ thỉ tâm sự mỗi khi rửa bát? Không bao giờ đọc cho Teddy một chương mới của Harry Potter? Sống mà không có họ? Tôi không chắc đây còn là thế giới mà tôi thuộc về nữa hay không. Tôi không chắc mình có muốn tỉnh lại hay không.

The truth is that I know nothing, so don't ask me if I am breathing still. though day is nice, night kills. I have this a very small chip in my brain programmed in to force me to pass the days in hope to find something in the next second/minute/hour/day/month/year. I can't maintain myself no more. I've been learning yet I am too tired, and there are lots of options to choose, too bad I am not picky, wanna be but I am incapable. Yesterday I was only a 5 year old girl, a very happy human being with imaginations and dreams. Now I know nothing of me, tomorrow I may be gone. I want a clear definition of my existence not that you tell me I am supposed to be someone great- having everything and being happy/making others happy. I need no advice to what I should've done with my life, I was there to be someone else for years, deceiving myself and others of what I truly feel. I wanna be those who just follow things they've been told, things might be easier for me. now I am feeling that I am wasting my time. The time others might wish for. If that's possible one can swap his peaceful mind to the time I have left.

Strange infatuation seems to grace the evening tide. I want you to be free, but it is your sorrow that has made a slave of me... I wish to know how to keep you... You rise like a tide in my oceans, shine bright like the moon over them, and darken the sky when you mysteriously leave... Forgive me, my Amphitrite, but you are all I know. The day is breaking now, the earth is dry and torn. I know you're tired from the violent storms. I do love you, and you are all I know. The look in your eyes has made a slave of me for eternity. Without you I seem to lose the power of speech. Without you, I am nothing at all. I once again feel you slipping from my reach. You grow me like an evergreen. You've never seen the lonely me at all. Let the wind and ocean water wash away a thousand memories, like sand. Gazing at this all you look back, turn around and continue to run... Run from the love that is chasing after... Exhausted and breathless you sit down on the diamond shore at last. Glance at the ocean - who could that be? Someone is coming. Worried, yet scared found, brought back to the one in search, you are truly happily thrilled to be in the arms of the one who loves...

…Do you think there’s somewhere else, some other place to go after this one?” Mandy blurted out.“You mean when you die, where will you end up?” Alecto asked her. “…I wouldn’t know… back to whatever void there is, I suppose.”“I’ve thought about it… every living thing dies alone, it’ll be lonely after death,” Mandy sighed sadly. “That freaks me out, does it scare you?”“I don't want to be alone,” Alecto replied wearily. “We won’t be, though. We’ll be dead, so we’ll just be darkness, not much else, just memories, nostalgia and darkness.”“I don’t want to be any of that either though,” Mandy exclaimed, bursting into tears and crying, keeping her eyes to the floor, her voice shaky as she spoke to him. “When we die, we’ll still be nothing, the world will still be nothing, everything’ll just be nothing!”“You’re real though, at least that’s something,” Alecto pointed out, holding his hand out in front of her. Smiling miserably, Mandy took his hand in her own and sat there beside him quietly.

I went to a tattoo parlor and had YES written onto the palm of my left hand, and NO onto my right palm, what can I say, it hasn't made my life wonderful, its made life possible, when I rub my hands against each other in the middle of winter I am warming myself with the friction of YES and NO, when I clap my hands I am showing my appreciation through the uniting and parting of YES and NO, I signify "book" by peeling open my hands, every book, for me, is the balance of YES and NO, even this one, my last one, especially this one. Does it break my heart, of course, every moment of every day, into more pieces than my heart was made of, I never thought of myself as quiet, much less silent, I never thought about things at all, everything changed, the distance that wedged itself between me and my happiness wasn't the world, it wasn't the bombs and burning buildings, it was me, my thinking, the cancer of never letting go, is ignorance bliss, I don't know, but it's so painful to think, and tell me, what did thinking ever do for me, to what great place did thinking ever bring me? I think and think and think, I've thought myself out of happiness one million times, but never once into it.

He awoke each morning with the desire to do right, to be a good and meaningful person, to be, as simple as it sounded and as impossible as it actually was, happy. And during the course of each day his heart would descend from his chest into his stomach. By early afternoon he was overcome by the feeling that nothing was right, or nothing was right for him, and by the desire to be alone. By evening he was fulfilled: alone in the magnitude of his grief, alone in his aimless guilt, alone even in his loneliness. I am not sad, he would repeat to himself over and over, I am not sad. As if he might one day convince himself. Or fool himself. Or convince others--the only thing worse than being sad is for others to know that you are sad. I am not sad. I am not sad. Because his life had unlimited potential for happiness, insofar as it was an empty white room. He would fall asleep with his heart at the foot of his bed, like some domesticated animal that was no part of him at all. And each morning he would wake with it again in the cupboard of his rib cage, having become a little heavier, a little weaker, but still pumping. And by the midafternoon he was again overcome with the desire to be somewhere else, someone else, someone else somewhere else. I am not sad.

Бодол санаа тун хачирхалтай байлаа. Юухныг ч юм тойрон эргэлдэж манантах нь өөрөө өөртөө төөрөлдөх тийм бүрэнхийг үүсгэж байлаа. Сэтгэл харин тэр манан дунд торж чадалгүй дорогш хүндрэн буух намрын бороо мэт уйтай...

روعة الحياة في العشقو لعنة العشق الإدمانفإن غاب أحد الحبيبينتوقف قلب الأخر عن الخفقانفمهما تراسلوا أو تحدثوافالقرب وحده لهما الأمانقلوباً في الشتات تتألمو أشجان تصيب بالهذيانحزن مستمر بلا مسكناتلا منه هروب أو نسيان

The Art of Living is to be yourself. It is to be true to yourself. The Art of Living is learning to live with love, awareness and truth. Meditation is the way to learn The Art of Living. Being is you. To discover your being is the beginning of life.You can live in two ways:1. Ego - effort and desire and 2.Being - no-effort, being in a let go with existence. Religion is The Art of Living.Five keys to The Art of Living: 1. Be life-affirmative. Life is synonymous with God.Live with reverence, great respect and gratitude for life. Feel thankful and prayerful. 2. Make life an heartful, aesthetic experience.Become more sensitive, sensuous and creative - and you will become more spiritual.3.Experience life in all possible ways.Experience all dualities and polarities of life: good/bad, bitter/sweet, summer/winter, happiness/sadness and life/death.Do not be afraid of experience, because the more experiences you have, the more spiritually mature you become. 4. Live in the present.Forget the past and the future - this moment is the only reality.This moment has to become your whole love, life and death.5.Live courageously.Do not become too result-oriented, because result-oriented people miss life. Do not think of goals, because goals are in the future - and life is in the moment, in the here and now.

Who am I? They often tell me I would step from my cell's confinement calmly, cheerfully, firmly, like a squire from his country-house.Who am I? They often tell me I would talk to my warden freely and friendly and clearly, as though it were mine to command.Who am I? They also tell me I would bear the days of misfortune equably, smilingly, proudly, like one accustomed to win.Am I then really all that which other men tell of, or am I only what I know of myself, restless and longing and sick, like a bird in a cage, struggling for breath, as though hands were compressing my throat, yearning for colors, for flowers, for the voices of birds, thirsting for words of kindness, for neighborliness, trembling with anger at despotisms and petty humiliation, tossing in expectation of great events, powerlessly trembling for friends at an infinite distance, weary and empty at praying, at thinking, at making, faint and ready to say farewell to it all.Who am I? This or the other? Am I one person today, and tomorrow another? Am I both at once? A hypocrite before others, and before myself a contemptibly woebegone weakling? Or is something within me still like a beaten army, fleeing in disorder from victory already achieved?Who am I? They mock me, these lonely questions of mine.Whoever I am, Thou knowest, O God, I am thine!

The state of mind above which my distraction floats like fog is suddenly perfectly clear, though the right word for it is less immediately available. Grief is too sharp and immediate; maybe it’s the high pitch of the vowel sound, or the monosyllabic impact of the word, as quick a jab as knife or cut. Sadness is too ephemeral, somehow; it sounds like something that comes and goes, a response to an immediate cause which will pass in a little while as another cause arises to generate a different feeling. Mourning isn’t bad, but there’s something a little archaic about it. I think of widows keening, striking themselves- dark-swathed years, a closeting of self away from the world, turned inward toward an interior dark. Sorrow feels right , for now. Sorrow seems large and inhabitable, an interior season whose vaulted sky’s a suitable match for the gray and white tumult arched over these headlands. A sorrow is not to be gotten over or moved through in quite the way that sadness is, yet sorrow is also not as frozen and monochromatic as mourning. Sadness exists inside my sorrow, but it’s not as large as sorrow’s realm. This sorrow is capacious; there’s room inside it for the everyday, for going about the workaday stuff of life. And for loveliness, for whatever we’re to be given by the daily walk.

The Day is DoneThe day is done, and the darknessFalls from the wings of Night,As a feather is wafted downwardFrom an eagle in his flight.I see the lights of the villageGleam through the rain and the mist,And a feeling of sadness comes o'er meThat my soul cannot resist:A feeling of sadness and longing,That is not akin to pain,And resembles sorrow onlyAs the mist resembles the rain.Come, read to me some poem,Some simple and heartfelt lay,That shall soothe this restless feeling,And banish the thoughts of day.Not from the grand old masters,Not from the bards sublime,Whose distant footsteps echoThrough the corridors of Time.For, like strains of martial music,Their mighty thoughts suggestLife's endless toil and endeavor;And to-night I long for rest.Read from some humbler poet,Whose songs gushed from his heart,As showers from the clouds of summer,Or tears from the eyelids start;Who, through long days of labor,And nights devoid of ease,Still heard in his soul the musicOf wonderful melodies.Such songs have power to quietThe restless pulse of care,And come like the benedictionThat follows after prayer.Then read from the treasured volumeThe poem of thy choice,And lend to the rhyme of the poetThe beauty of thy voice.And the night shall be filled with music,And the cares, that infest the day,Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,And as silently steal away.

She put him out like the burning end of a midnight cigarett. She broke his heart. He spent his whole life trying to forget. We watched him drink his pain away a little at a time. But he never could get drunk enough to get her off his mind until the night.He put that bottle to his head and pulled the trigger.And finally drank away her memory.Life is short but this time it was bigger,Than the strength he had to get up off his knees.We found him with his face down in the pillow.With a note that said: I love her til' I die.And when we buried him beneath the willow,The angels sang a whiskey lullaby.La la la la la la la. La la la la la la la.La la la la la la la. La la la la la la la.The rumors flew,But nobody knew how much she blamed herself for years and years.She tried to hide the whiskey on her breath.She finally drank her pain away a little at a time,But she never could get drunk enough to get him off her mind until the night.She put that bottle to her head and pulled the trigger.And finally drank away his memory.Life is short but this time it was bigger,Than the strength she had to get up off her knees.We found her with her face down in the pillow.Clinging to his picture for dear life.We laid her next to him beneath the willow,While the angels sang a whiskey lullaby.La la la la la la la. La la la la la la la.La la la la la la la. La la la la la la la.