What is legacy?

Legacy isn’t only about who will remember you or what they will say after you are gone. No. Legacy is mostly what you will know you have done. It is those last scenes that leave a smile on your fading dimming life that will count. It is that truth you hold last, that is all matters as the darkness closes in and you are no more. 

What are great statues, chiseled out in your image, when your heart is weighed down with guilt? What are songs and symphonies when we know we are phoney? What are odes and poems, spoken in praise of a false hero? It is all but a stench to a lingering soul seeking repine for a fictitious existence. 
It is better to have lived one truth in sorrow then a thousand lies in pretentious happiness. All existence in a palace of false gold leaves all souls cold. What is all the wealth of this World when you are empty, no hand to hold, no beloved to behold and no hope to be told. 
May your tongue not spin webs of deceit because then you will be your own prey. May you never find your self wrapped in your own sticky words and the dagger of maliciousness draining the very last of you. Speak truth. To thine own self me true. 
Let the sword of truth linger in all your daily chores. Let the garment of kindness cover you. Walk in the light and even after you stumble and fall, in the light of truth find your way again. 
The greatest life lived is loved by the one who has lived it. In the fading of the light the darkness does not blacken such a righteous soul. Legacy is the soul speaking its truth and knowing it could never have lived or loved better. 
Live your truth. 

Some say…

I have heard this song so many times but today I decided to read the lyrics and…..OMG

 

“The Rose”

Some say love, it is a river

That drowns the tender reed.

Some say love, it is a razor

That leaves your soul to bleed.

Some say love, it is a hunger,

An endless aching need.

I say loveit is a flower,

And you its only seed.

 

It’s the heart afraid of breaking

That never learns to dance.

It’s the dream afraid of waking

That never takes the chance.

It’s the one who won’t be taken,

Who cannot seem to give,

And the soul afraid of dyin

That never learns to live.

 

When the night has been too lonely

And the road has been too long,

And you think that love is only

For the lucky and the strong,

Just remember in the winter

Far beneath the bitter snows

Lies the seed that with the sun’s love

In the spring becomes the rose.

 

He a legend

Ever seen a beast in a cage? A creature that has lost all rage. A prowl with no intent. Empty eyes searching for nothing. Craving what it has not known. Longing for what it is. Ever watched a beast staying alive with no hunger to survive? Eating what it has not hunted and robbed of its reason for being. A hunter that does not hunt. Limbs full of worthless power. Claws that have never dug into any haunted, hunted prey. Fangs that serve to entertain. A king with no Kingdom. A roar jungle rulers would abhor. A lion behind bars is by far no lion. He has lost all purpose. A protector with no pride. Slowly he drifts, he takes all with him, leaves no legacy. There is no story to tell. Bars are degrading to a wild and free thing. 

Ever seen a man bound by his own needs? Caught up in a chasing after his own making. Building an empire of dust carved out of his own lust. Consumed with a hunger for the wind. Drinking up falsehood to quench a thirst for the truth. Have you ever seen such a sight? Strength that is spent on vain fights and self-centred rights. Intellect mechanised to serve fleeting wealth. All he creates is to feed the pleasures of multitudes and starve the bellies of the needy. He is a passing trespasser and his time is fading. All his treasures soon to be nothing but dirt. Dust to dust. From whence all things come, soon they must return.
Bars have a way of waking the soul of a wonderer. But in waking him one runs the risk of executing hope. No living thing likes to be trapped or compelled. Conviction can either sober the drunk or drown the addict. If the moral faculty is revived but no hope is offered then hopelessness is the final resting place. Like a lion is robbed of the wild, so too a man is robbed of his nature when self is all he seeks to serve. He was made for more. What good is there, if a man gains everything but loses the only thing that matters.
Let the lion in the wild roar. Let the man who serves the good of his fellow man live all the more. Everything is a passing but his deeds will be a lasting. His charity a legacy. He, a legend.

Known

The world hasn’t heard about your presence but my World would wither in your absence. Your name will not be spoken by multitudes but calling it out fills my heart with gratitude. I may never read your autobiography but what does it matter when your my biography. We intertwine and cannot be unravelled from our ball of woes and wars. 

I may not walk on red carpets with you but I am glad to trudge on warn out roads and fading foot paths with your soul in mine. I may not applaud your moving speech upon receiving an award but I rejoice in hearing the words that cascade from your lips everyday. Your voice. Even your annoying noise, I encore, I underscore. 
I may never see your face shimmering on the big screen but you are imbedded in my visual mechanics, there is no seeing anything without you in it. I may not hear you crooning on the radio but your hums, bad minors and majors and crashing chords, win my charts. You are my bestseller. My chart breaker. My award winner. You are all the victory I need to know. 
We long too long for stars. We stare out into the void night sky. Whilst next to us waits a glimmering light, flickering for our eyes to see. A flame fighting cold ignorance and windy desperation, reaching for a searching heart and a fellow yearning soul. 
They may not know you. They may never know you. But you are known by me. And I am content in knowing I am known by you. 

Speak the unspoken

The best words said are those that remain unspoken? If they remain unspoken then they are not said. Just because something sounds nice doesn’t mean it is true. I have seen a dried up heart that waited for words that were never spoken. I have seen empty eyes searching for lips that would sound out long awaited manna. 

Many are the souls I have watched staring into the distance, waiting to catch echoes from the past of words that were never spoken but should have been said. Life and death is in the power of the tongue. But more deadly are the words that the tongue never carries, when it should have.  

 I have seen souls pace back and forth is deep agitation, wishing the chasm that separate the dead from the living could be bridged if only for a minute. If only, then they could say or hear those words that should have never remained unspoken. 
There is no doubt that some words should never be spoken. But pride and fear have often silenced those sentiments that should have never remained hidden. The ears of the gone remain unhearing. What apologies or oaths or declarations we make are only for our comfort. But forgive our failure we must. We cannot hold on to the past. We cannot be trapped in our silence. Unspoken words cannot be your tomb. Speak your peace to your heart and release your soul from the clutches of guilt. You should have. Your could have. You would have. But you didn’t. It is okay. Learn from your flaw. Get up off the floor. Dust off the sands of judgement. Open the door to healing. Breathe in forgiveness and let the light of deliverance shine on you. The gone are gone and carry no regrets. And we the living ought not to end our lives with burdens that do not matter. Where we fail, we must learn, correct and grow. 
Don’t let fear or pride hold your tongue. Speak truth seasoned with compassion today. 

This Is the Key to Happiness, According to Psychotherapists

herunveiling:

Humans have been telling each other stories for years. Our history is one grand story. We’ve edited it often to cater for present powers but in the end, the human mind tends to seek out the truth. In that truth, we then attempt to make it meaningful. That even though we did wrong, we were justified by the greater good.

Story is the god of this overly entertained generation. We will want to know that we are some kind of hero serving a World saving purpose. We hardly want to be supporting actors.

Originally posted on TIME:

The story you tell yourself about your life.

When your vision of your life story is inadequate, depression can result.

Psychotherapists actually help “rewrite” that story and this process is as, if not more, effective than medication.

Via The Storytelling Animal: How Stories Make Us Human:

According to the psychologist Michele Crossley, depression frequently stems from an “incoherent story,” an “inadequate narrative account of oneself,” or “a life story gone awry.” Psychotherapy helps unhappy people set their life stories straight; it literally gives them a story they can live with. And it works. According to a recent review article in American Psychologist, controlled scientific studies show that the talking cure works as well as (and perhaps much better than) newer therapies such as antidepressant drugs or cognitive-behavioral therapy. A psychotherapist can therefore be seen as a kind of script doctor who helps patients revise their life stories so that…

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This is your story…

Today I watched you crumble. You couldn’t hold all they expected of you. You looked at me and I couldn’t carry the weight for you. To take your pain would have wounded you more. You saw me and knew I believed. I believed in the potential in you. I didn’t wait for what I wanted you to be. I just waited for all you were born to be.
Watching you rise was like witnessing a resurrection. Seeing you assemble your greatness and build your kingdom was bitter sweet. Kings are often put to the test. And many empires rise and fall. But you. You must keep getting up. They don’t know you, so don’t listen to the words of the ignorant. Don’t move to the compulsion of the fading. Eternity omnipotently guides you, if you will but follow.
The critics don’t count. The spectators only doubt. The cheerleaders leave you stout. The fans are a weak clout. Only offer rivers that can never run dry by staying plugged into the source. Don’t forget from whence you came or the hands that knit you whilst you became. Even in the sorrows that will follow, there is a meaning to your story. Don’t be sorry. This is your story. To tell. To live. To love. To try. To fall. To rise. To hurt. To heal.
There is a light in your eyes, they burn with fire no rage of waters can put out. There is a power in your stand, the stand of the vigilant who can never be broken. There is a spring to your step, it is a flight of the free. Words are falling all around you but only those you accept as part of your story will prune you and mould you and inspire you. Go on. Take what words you need. Let the others roll of you.
This is your story. Tell it. Live it. Silence us with awe.