The art of the peacemaker is the their ability to hold on to what love is in the face of confusing statements; those who are distracted by power lust, the need to cover a damaged ego and, sadly, struggling to recover from a lack of real love in their childhood, will mix "the good," "the noble dark" and the "evil" so that many are swayed and lured into war, barbarism and evil deeds.
The peacemaker is immune only if they love so strongly, so fully, and so broadly - their love being for all mankind and all creation - that they will only agree to measures that protect life, liberty, abundance and peace. The peacemaker has the right intuitions for love - that the right paths into our future are always built from empathy, compassion and creative solutions - ones that help all peoples and our Earth.
The warmaker twists the natural sense of love into something tribal and though they speak of noble dark, they are actually emotionally indifferent to the lives of others and are motivated by greed, vanity, power-lust. They have a desire for unearned pride at the expense of others, and are coldly indifferent to whomever they choose as the "outsiders."
And so it is clear, that the key to peace ongoing into our future is love, the sort of love young children have, innocent and pure, welcoming all, joyous and free. As Aristotle said, "An education without love is no education at all"; let's get educated.
On the nights when he was with her; when she would stay awake waiting for the inevitable. Just waiting for his terrified eyes to meet hers, waiting for him to mutter about guns and friends departed. She would trace the faint white lines lining his back - new stories that she would never gather the courage to ask of. He always looked so confident in his uniform, but when the clothes come off she would see the damage that lay in their wake.
I remember the country, the country as it was, the wind dancing with the first autumn leaves, painted in all kinds of beautiful reds and oranges. I remember the vibrant world, the morning light peeking through my window, the world unfolding in vivid colours, truly alive.
Beloved, be loved all of your days. Be loved from the first newborn rays of the dayshine to the first cascade of stars in the sweet ebony dark. Be loved for all the wondrous things you are, for the love within and that which you radiate into the world. Be loved while I may hold you close and when you are far away. And that I love you this way, and you love me this way, is how we can say we are each other's beloved.
The autumn sky was drenched in hues of oranges, pinks and purples while the trees exhibited rage and fury as their colors had made their final flight to the soil. I had been looking out my window for years wondering how colors trilled and sang contentment and delighted me.
If the rain is one drop it is millions, cascading from a confident sky. It is the sort of weather that washes everything anew, bringing deep puddles into which children splash. And in that happy congregation of water and air, is the sense of being alive, that from such beautiful simplicity comes everything we love, the flora, the fauna, the very essence of nature.
The pier is a thousand hues and shades we call brown, somehow the labelling of the colour subtracting from its beauty. I prefer to see all the subtle hues that open my eyes and warm my heart, that speak to me of breathing woodlands and the music of wind in their bright umbrella canopies. The pier is that will to walk over the water, to approach that horizon, the blues that are real jazz to my soul. I love that place, to sit and simply be in the moment, me, the briny breeze, the birds and the horizon.
I could feel my heart beat… every single pound in my chest. Not through my ears, that was occupied by the steady drum, pipe, and dark voice of the Celtic music; drowning it out in the ears. But I couldn't lay there. I had to but I couldn't. This great pounding, this great pressure; every beat. I couldn't hear it, but I could feel it. It remains now, even as I write, it remained through what little of the Great Gatsby I could shove down my throat. It remained when I stood and stumbled into the other room trying to relieve myself of the small dogs who wouldn't stop nagging. That dark beating remained, alone in this house with me. Every beat a turbulent push from within pushing as a giant placed within the chest; as a great wave against a minuscule dike. This pressure urges the words, this horrible pressure. I tried sleeping through it, drums beating along with the muscle; but the music lost, ran out of time. I don't know for what reason I have to be placing these words here. I started in an attempt at relief, from the beating; some trickle of words to relieve the flood. I can feel it still, beating, pulsing, thumping. It didn't work; why won't it stop.
A house, above all, is a home. We need it for psychological security, for health and happiness. We have to place the right to a home higher than the right to amass riches. And so, we should bring in laws to force multi-property, high portfolio landlords, to sell their excess homes. A person may have a rental property as their pension plan, however, overseas and domestic buyers seeking financial opportunity in many properties should be made to sell. No more empty homes. No more treating homes as another form of money. No more parasite economy.
Direct characterization: Anne felt nervous at the mere sight of him.
Indirect characterization: Anne glanced around the room at the students, accidentally making eye contact with him; the guy that took up most of her thoughts and daydreams. Stuck in a trance like state, she stared at his dark eyes that were completely void of emotion. He smirked and continued doing classwork. She felt emotionally paralyzed, all of her thoughts were in a mental traffic jam. She finally got the sense to look back at her book, figures and equations stared back at her, taunting her.