Writing, music, sculpting, painting, and prayer! These are the three things that are most closely related! Writers, musicians, sculptors, painters, and the faithful are the ones who make things out of nothing. Everybody else, they make things out of something, they have materials! But a written work can be done with nothing, it can begin in the soul! A musical piece begins with a harmony in the soul, a sculpture begins with a formless, useless piece of rock chiseled and formed and molded into the thing that was first conceived in the sculptor's heart! A painting can be carried inside the mind for a lifetime, before ever being put onto paper or canvass! And a prayer! A prayer is a thought, a remembrance, a whisper, a communion, that is from the soul going to what cannot be seen, yet it can move mountains! And so I believe that these five things are interrelated, these five kinds of people are kin.
harmony writing people work mind music art soul musicians thought heart mountains writers prayer remembrance artists writers-on-writing lifetime communion things written rock painting inside useless begin paper thing whisper sculpture
Sometimes there are entire chapters written beneath someone's whisper.
writing art written metafiction whisper
The book smelled dusty and old but also carried a sweet tang, a hint of something inviting. She opened to the first page and started to read, pronouncing the words in a reverent whisper.
reading sweet book words read books whisper
Before she came ill, David's mother would often tell him that stories were alive. They weren't alive in the way that people were alive, or even dogs or cats. (..) Stories were different, though: they came alive in the telling. Without a human voice to read them aloud, or a pair of wide eyes following them by torch light beneath a blanket, they had no real existence in our world. (..) They lay dormant, hoping for the chance to emerge. Once someone started to read them, they could begin to change. They could take root in the imagination and transform the reader. Stories wanted to be read, David's mother would whisper. They needed it. It was the reason they forced themselves from their world into ours. They wanted us to give them life.
chance life imagination change people light human stories voice real existence world reason cats mother eyes dogs alive read begin reader books give whisper
It has always been a happy thought to me that the creek runs on all night, new every minute, whether I wish it or know it or care, as a closed book on a shelf continues to whisper to itself its own inexhaustible tale.
thought happy book night care books whisper
Stories were different, though: they came alive in the telling. Without a human voice to read them aloud, or a pair of wide eyes following them by flashlight beneath a blanket, they had no real existence in our world.. They could take root in the imagination and transform the reader. Stories wanted to be read, David's mother would whisper. They needed it. It was the reason they forced themselves from their world into ours. They wanted us to give them life.
reading life imagination human stories voice real existence world transformation reason mother eyes alive read reader books give whisper
When Great Trees FallWhen great trees fall, rocks on distant hills shudder, lions hunker downin tall grasses, and even elephantslumber after safety. When great trees fallin forests, small things recoil into silence, their senseseroded beyond fear. When great souls die, the air around us becomeslight, rare, sterile. We breathe, briefly. Our eyes, briefly, see witha hurtful clarity. Our memory, suddenly sharpened, examines, gnaws on kind wordsunsaid, promised walksnever taken. Great souls die andour reality, bound tothem, takes leave of us. Our souls, dependent upon theirnurture, now shrink, wizened. Our minds, formedand informed by theirradiance, fall away. We are not so much maddenedas reduced to the unutterable ignoranceof dark, coldcaves. And when great souls die, after a period peace blooms, slowly and alwaysirregularly. Spaces fillwith a kind ofsoothing electric vibration. Our senses, restored, neverto be the same, whisper to us. They existed. They existed. We can be. Be and bebetter. For they existed.
poetry silence life writing peace death soul memory reality fear kind poem writers dark poems fall trees clarity senses poet poets small eyes air leave safety things die bound minds souls great lions breathe forests whisper
Two turtle doves will show theeWhere my cold ashes lieAnd sadly murmuring tell theeHow in tears I did die
death crying tears loneliness sad birds die cold whisper
I watch my loved ones weep with sorrow, death's silent torment of no tomorrow. I feel their hearts breaking, I sense their despair, United in misery, the grief that they share. How do I show that, I am not gone.. But the essence of life's everlasting songWhy do they wee? Why do they cry?I'm alive in the wind and I am soaring high. I am sparkling light dancing on streams, a moment of warmth in the fays of sunbeams. The coolness of rain as it falls on your face, the whisper of leaves as wind rushes with haste. Eternal Song, a requiem by Avian of Celieriafrom Crown of Crystal Flame by C.L. Wilson
haste death light moment hearts sense sorrow dancing song essence wind sad despair feel tomorrow cry grief share rain eternal face weep alive misery silent warmth torment crown breaking whisper
And then we ease him out of that worn-out body with a kiss, and he's gone like a whisper, the easiest breath.
life death body old-age breath kiss dying whisper
When it is winter and we must walk in the blizzard snow do not our fingers and toes whisper death? And when winter is at last over... Can we not hear our bellies whisper death to us? In the dark don't we know? And when we are paralyzed by nightmares? We know what you are.? With our first cries we rail against you.? We see you in every drop of blood in every tear.
death dark blood winter snow walk hear nightmares whisper
.. God and your heart both whisper - incline your ear - don't just learn from your head..
life wisdom heart learn head god whisper
Listen to your inner self, it knows you best.
writing self inspirational hearing whisper
Heaven, envious of our joys, is waxen pale; And when we whisper, then the stars fall down To be partakers of our honey talk.(Dido, Queen of Carthage 4.4.52-54)
heaven stars conversation whisper
My phone is on my bed, whispering in my ear like a bottle of scotch to a recovering alcoholic, while the rain continues cackling at me through my window
regret rain phone whisper
I may not be a horse whisperer, but I certainly can and do shout at unicorns.
horses whisper
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