5
" Lord, I intend to be aware today of the presence of your divine being in every other living being that I encounter.I intend to center my spirit in alignment with the spirit of Love before I commence my day.I intend to ground my being in your source, Universal Intentional Love Energy, recognizing my role as a cell in the body of the universe.I intend to be loving and compassionate with every person I encounter today, observing their activities in the context of their growth, and not judging their decisions as good or bad. I intend not to attempt to blame or shame other people, but rather to encourage and support.I intend to be creative today, emulating the divine creative essence in my life.I intend to be joyful today, aware of what good things I have, picking up the scent of wonder, and breathing in the good things with thanks and appreciation.I intend to reject any opinion of other people offered which negatively affects my ability to achieve the above goals.I am blessed and will be grateful for the presence of love in my life.I will grow today, learning more and applying love to the best of my ability. "
9
" Of the not very many ways known of shedding one's body, falling, falling, falling is the supreme method, but you have to select your sill or ledge very carefully so as not to hurt yourself or others. Jumping from a high bridge is not recommended even if you cannot swim, for wind and water abound in weird contingencies, and tragedy ought not to culminate in a record dive or a policeman's promotion. If you rent a cell in the luminous waffle, room 1915 or 1959, in a tall business centre hotel browing the star dust, and pull up the window, and gently - not fall, not jump - but roll out as you should for air comfort, there is always the chance of knocking clean through into your own hell a pacific noctambulator walking his dog; in this respect a back room might be safer, especially if giving on the roof of an old tenacious normal house far below where a cat may be trusted to flash out of the way. Another popular take-off is a mountaintop with a sheer drop of say 500 meters but you must find it, because you will be surprised how easy it is to miscalculate your deflection offset, and have some hidden projection, some fool of a crag, rush forth to catch you, causing you to bounce off it into the brush, thwarted, mangled and unnecessarily alive. The ideal drop is from an aircraft, your muscles relaxed, your pilot puzzled, your packed parachute shuffled off, cast off, shrugged off - farewell, shootka (little chute)! Down you go, but all the while you feel suspended and buoyed as you somersault in slow motion like a somnolent tumbler pigeon, and sprawl supine on the eiderdown of the air, or lazily turn to embrace your pillow, enjoying every last instant of soft, deep, death-padded life, with the earth's green seesaw now above, now below, and the voluptuous crucifixion, as you stretch yourself in the growing rush, in the nearing swish, and then your loved body's obliteration in the Lap of the Lord. "
― Vladimir Nabokov , Pale Fire
15
" He was walking around in circles, the smell of the old furniture suddenly very distinct. There was a newspaper in his hand and he started reading it, paying particular attention to the headlines which seemed to be floating towards him so that now a band of black print encircled his forehead. He was curled upon the bed, hugging his knees, when the next horror came upon him: those who heard him last night would now have to report his theft, and his employer would call the police. He saw how the policeman took the telephone call at the station; how his name and address were spoken out loud; how he looked down at the floor as they led him away; how he was in the dock, forced to answer questions about himself, and now he was in a cell and had lost control of his own body. He was staring out of the window at the passing clouds when it occurred to him that he should write to his employer, explaining his drunkenness and confessing that he invented the story of theft; but who would believe him? It was always said that in drink there was truth, and perhaps it was true that he was a convicted thief. He began to sing,
One fine day in the middle of the night,
Two dead men got up to fight
and then he knew what was meant by madness. "
― Peter Ackroyd , Hawksmoor
16
" A book is open in front of me and this is what it has to
say about the symptoms of morphine withdrawal:
'... morbid anxiety, a nervous depressed condition,
irritability, weakening of the memory, occasional
hallucinations and a mild impairment of consciousness
...'
I have not experienced any hallucinations, but I can
only say that the rest of this description is dull, pedestrian
and totally inadequate.
'Depressed condition' indeed!
Having suffered from this appalling malady, I hereby enjoin
all doctors to be more compassionate toward their
patients. What overtakes the addict deprived of morphine
for a mere hour or two is not a 'depressed condition': it is
slow death. Air is insubstantial, gulping it down is useless
... there is not a cell in one's body that does not crave
... but crave what? This is something which defies analysis
and explanation. In short, the individual ceases to exist:
he is eliminated. The body which moves, agonises and
suffers is a corpse. It wants nothing, can think of nothing
but morphine. To die of thirst is a heavenly, blissful death
compared with the craving for morphine. The feeling must
be something like that of a man buried alive, clawing at the
skin on his chest in the effort to catch the last tiny bubbles
of air in his coffin, or of a heretic at the stake, groaning and
writhing as the first tongues of flame lick at his feet.
Death. A dry, slow death. That is what lurks behind
that clinical, academic phrase 'a depressed condition'. "
― Mikhail Bulgakov , Morphine