Newest quotes & creative writing ideas


The evil dark, not the noble dark, will come at you through your primitive drive. Any hunter will go for the weak spot of an animal, and that's yours, my love. First there will be a trigger to open up the primitive drive, activate it as fully as possible, then will come the impulse to cause harm, one that hurts both others and yourself. Your only protection is to love fully. Love yourself. Love others. Be present in the moment. Question your own actions - own them fully for regardless of the evil force, except in the case of true insanity, they are yours. And long after we have forgiven you, you will struggle to forgive yourself. If an action feels as if it comes from your survival drive, with a feeling of malice, hate or fear - stop. If an action feels as if it comes from your higher thinking mind and with a feeling of love, kindness and compassion - go.


To say sorry to me would be like covering a bullet hole with a band-aid... Breaking me again yet expecting everything to be fixed.

a new relationship

This relationship, Terry, should be a relation-ship, or a kinship - something that makes us family. I want it to be something that unites our friends, our relations, and not become as a boat cast adrift away from those we know and love. What is good builds up goodness, heals and includes others. What is good is a benefit to us and our community, to the world. It is how we let this love for one another spill out, make a light for others to share. So, my love, hoist the sail; we're homeward bound.


The houses are paintings, cold in their rendered realism, the road between us a never ending expanse of burning black. Then at times the desperate call, only to run, only to hide... afraid of connection bringing need and an obligation to help. And so the roads get longer and the paintings merge on a horizon rapidly shrinking. All that remains are the trees, the birds, the flowers that bloom and my two feet on the Earth. All I feel is love from a universe away, enough to tingle fingertips and ignite my core. I once thought that loneliness and solitude were different things; yet if loneliness is a utter blackness, solitude is being alone in a beautiful garden. Solitude is when the pain remains, but one learns to let the joy of nature flood in, that natural love that belongs to us all. It's when we release ourselves to love and are reborn as those who remember God's name.


What is the universe but "one verse," one song of love? For it is when love flows most strongly I feel the interconnectedness of all things. It is as if beneath, around and within our reality, it is love that is the creative force, the energy, an intricate, chaotic yet synchronized beating heart of life. That's the way the universe feels to me - a silent song of pure love shining as bright stars in the night sky, the perfect tone that gives birth to spacetime and matter, the voice of God.


When others see gloom, I see the world in silver-blues. When they see freezing rain, I see a coldness that brings me to a higher feeling of life, more aware of my internal flame. I see them cast their eyes to the ground, their mouth a full frown, when there is a moon above and stars beyond the canopy of cloud. There is a time for sunshine, and a time for wintry sombre hues. Every dance has pause, every song has silence. And so this time, so soon after the dawn, feels more akin to an old movie, one that builds from these blues to the kind of joy that spreads through mind, body and soul. And so I feel the ground beneath both boots, tilt my head skyward, both rooted in the blessed moment and ready for the spring that beckons.


There are times shadows are so welcome, a chance to dwell in diffuse rays, to rest. There are times that kiss of cold air is a salve, for it beckons me to sit, to revive what needs quiet solitude. In those sweet puddles of calmness, in the colours of a sunset lullaby, I let everything that I am connect with the surface of the Earth below. I let my eyes see how close the sun is, how, even if I only rest here, it will come to me with all strength and brilliance.


All shadows may do is mute colours, soften the volume of the daytime orchestra. Shadows are a guest, dependant upon the shining sun, a passing memento to become nothing at all under the starlit night. So though shadows come as if part of a natural clock, in truth they tell more of golden rays than darkness.


My eyes rest upon golden arcing rays, knowing the dark is far and ever lit by stars. It is the illumination that gives vivacious hues to this world of living art.


Our art is our joy, our god-given pathway for natural healing. It is not a thing to judge or measure by imaginary yard-sticks. It is the seeds of our minds that grow and help us navigate our way toward happiness and health. It is our right to be as free as the wind and the bird who plays on the wing. Pain may come out in a painting, or the toll on our being be told in a story, dancing and weaving in the metaphors of dreams. Or it may come as fluid movements that are a song of emotions. Yet this is how the mind unites and creativity becomes a bonfire to illuminate our way.


Here we must hear with warm hearts and be curious regarding how to cure. It is time to ask what sight is. It is the moment to think of what eyes are, and how often we see with a sigh, a lazy soft rejecting regret rather than the love that sees a sea of emotions within. It is time to hear fear, to feel the sadness below anger, to know that coping needs co-regulation. It is time to see that acting out is an honest request for help from one in hell. It is time to see that love is boundless, eternal, that when we give we receive - to free ourselves from basic mathematical type-thinking. Love is a seed that grows, always giving more, as natural seeds do. It's time for those deeds to rain from hearing hearts, for they will be the green spring we all seek.


Show me a window and I will show you where your heart yearns to be. Is it a view to the ocean and the playful hearts whom dwell there? Is it of a meadow adorned with rainbow earth-given wings? Is it window to the stars, one to show how they give of their brilliance, an ever-present part of the passing night? For what you see is yourself also, the beauty reflected within as joy. This is connection to our world, our universe, and our belonging too.

a fine day

It was one of those baby-blue skies, not the psychedelic candy-blue nor the washed out grey so characteristic of wintry mornings. The clouds were as puffs of radiant joy, ready to disperse into the wind, to travel our Earth. I watched them eddy, pure reflected rays dappled and swirling with sky, until all that remained was that perfect baby-blue, the same hue as before, as if inviting those born of wing to ride warm thermal air heaven-bound.


I guess I'm a born word-detective, it tickles me. I took my mission, my me-shun, my duty that shuns myself, in order to achieve something for others because it felt right. There was something about it that warmed my core, brought a surge of energy that was more pure than anything I'd felt before. It gave me a fire, a passion that went from spark to bonfire within. I love the meetings (me-tings) too, the chance to feel that "ting" of energy with others, to give some of this internal flame and see them become brighter.


He was the finest carmudgeon I ever knew, a human blackberry bush. Perhaps others only saw the thorns; I only saw the sweet berries. The thorns were there for protection, a defence for the sweet child who craved love. Perhaps that's why they never hurt me, because I was so safe. That was the way it was with me and him until his winter came and every berry disappeared. Then he was all thorns, retreated inside his own pain and fear. I hope and pray that one day he has a new summer, a new joy to bring that sweetness back. No-one should have to live as thorns in perpetual winter, for in truth, the sun is always there.


My dreams dwell not upon this earthy plain, yet soar to the clouds and are reborn in the blue above, beneath stars who always shine. So whilst they are the beauty above, an ever changing canvas of silvery swirls, as soft as the finest of cloth - they are simply a thing to fly through as I become heaven-bound.


It is when we love our enemy that they become our friends, and this is the death of war itself. When we see their children and feel the yearning to put food in their bellies and hear their laughter ring, infusing with the laugher of our own children, we make a lasting bond, a pact with love itself. This is when truth comes, and the silence is all the words we will ever need, for this is the intelligence of the heart, the language of the universe.


The gate was open on one side, yet was so wide anything could pass. So despite their tallness and the strength of the metal, it was a simple stroll to the other side. Paul let his hand touch the ambient metal, no longer hot from the day nor cold from the soothing effect of evening air. It was as if it could vanish, as if the atoms themselves could choose to be free, to be something new.


Peace came when we learnt that to give is to receive, that love will always show the way to something stable and beautiful. It came when the rich areas built the most amazing housing structures in the poorest areas, installed aquaponics with state of the art renewable energy technology to maintain them. It came when those traumatized populations had a chance to breathe and heal, to regain their culture and rebuild their families. We gave them the material things they needed, yet what we received was so much more - peace.

pear tree

The pear tree was the grandfather of the garden, his bark the brown hue of rich earth, glazed with the green of lichen. For those winter months he stood with arms raised skyward, as if he dreamed of touching the clouds and the stars above. Come springtime he fed the bees, come summertime he fed the birds. Yet always he fed that part of me that needed it the most, the heart that dwells within my eyes, the consciousness that is bound and boundless. There were days I sat in his great arms, feet dangling earthward, watching the dandelion seeds pirouette with their precious cargo.