1
" There is a desire within each of us,in the deep center of ourselves that we call our heart.We were born with it, it is never completely satisfied,and it never dies.We are often unaware of it, but it is always awake.It is the Human desire for Love.Every person in this Earth yearns to love,to be loved, to know love.Our true identity, our reason for beingis to be found in this desire.Love is the " why" of life,why we are functioning at all.I am convincedit is the fundamental energy of the human spirit.the fuel on which we run,the wellspring of our vitality.And grace, which is the flowing,creative activity, of love itself,is what makes all goodness possible.Love should come first,it should be the beginning of,and the reason for everything. "
3
" Were you there?”
She shook her head. “No. I was here in Nain having a
child.”
“Then why do you weep as though you had part in his
crucifixion? You had no part in it.”
“I’d like nothing better than to think I would have
remained faithful. But if those closest to him—his
disciples, his own brothers—turned away, who am I to
think I’m better than they and would have done
differently? No, Marcus. We all wanted what we
wanted, and when the Lord fulfilled his purpose rather
than ours, we struck out against him. Like you. In anger.
Like you. In disappointment. Yet, it is God’s will that
prevails.”
He looked away. “I don’t understand any of this.”
“I know you don’t. I see it in your face, Marcus. You
don’t want to see. You’ve hardened your heart against
him.” She started to walk again.
“As should all who value their lives,” he said, thinking of
Hadassah’s death.
“It is God who has driven you here.”
He gave a derisive laugh. “I came here of my own
accord and for my own purposes.”
“Did you?” Marcus’ face became stony.
Deborah pressed on. “We were all created incomplete
and will find no rest until we satisfy the deepest hunger
and thirst within us. You’ve tried to satisfy it in your own
way. I see that in your eyes, too, as I’ve seen it in so
many others. And yet, though you deny it with your last
breath, your soul yearns for God, Marcus Lucianus
Valerian.”
Her words angered him. “Gods aside, Rome shows
the world that life is what man makes of it.”
“If that’s so, what are you making of yours?”
“I own a fleet of ships, as well as emporiums and
houses. I have wealth.” Yet, even as he told her, he
knew it all meant nothing. His father had come to that
realization just before he died. Vanity. It was all vanity.
Meaningless. Empty.
Old Deborah paused on the pathway. “Rome points the
way to wealth and pleasure, power and knowledge. But
Rome remains hungry. Just as you are hungry now.
Search all you will for retribution or meaning to your life,
but until you find God, you live in vain. "
― Francine Rivers , An Echo in the Darkness (Mark of the Lion, #2)
19
" You remain so silent,as carried away,
through mist of your thoughts,so dark and so deep,
and even awake same as when asleep,
waiting for enlightenment of a newborn day.
I'm bound to your silence,to the core i'm bound,
to delicate stillness,so cruel and so tender,
that despite of danger,soul yearns to surrender,
to that mesmerizing absence of the sound.
I resign everything i once knew so clear,
throwing in the wind fragments of my past,
they are worth so little,they're nothing but dust,
nothing to remember,and nothing to fear... "
― Aleksandra Ninković
20
" To the bankrupt poet, to the jilted lover, to anyone who yearns to elude the doubt within and the din without, the tidal strait between Manhattan Island and her favorite suburb offers the specious illusion of easy death. Melville prepared for the plunge from the breakwater on the South Street promenade, Whitman at the railing of the outbound ferry, both men redeemed by some Darwinian impulse, maybe some epic vision, which enabled them to change leaden water into lyric wine. Hart Crane rejected the limpid estuary for the brackish swirl of the Caribbean Sea. In each generation, from Washington Irving’s to Truman Capote’s, countless young men of promise and talent have examined the rippling foam between the nation’s literary furnace and her literary playground, questioning whether the reams of manuscript in their Brooklyn lofts will earn them garlands in Manhattan’s salons and ballrooms, wavering between the workroom and the water. And the city had done everything in its power to assist these men, to ease their affliction and to steer them toward the most judicious of decisions. It has built them a bridge. "
― Jacob M. Appel , The Biology of Luck