Hope is indeed humble, ambition is arrogant.
Wanna be a genius today? Learn to travel into the future with your dreams.
If we were forced to suppose that there have been a few secret time-travelers in history, suspicion would naturally fall on people like Leonardo da Vinci, Jules Verne, maybe Marcel Duchamp.
How were these guys so far ahead of their time? Maybe they were ahead of their time, literally. Maybe they weren’t great geniuses so much as plagiarists of the future—they took good notes and then came back and tried to take credit.
My candidate for secret time-traveler is Ibn Khaldun (1332 – 1406). Several hundred years before the West reinvented anthropology and sociology, Ibn Khaldun invented, by himself, an incredibly modern “science of culture.”
Intellectual achievements normally attributed to Europeans of the modern era (i.e., after c. 1492) can be found throughout Ibn Khaldun’s Introduction to History, written in North Africa in 1377: the economic law of supply and demand; the labor theory of value in economics; the “Laffer…
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Who on planet Earth can understand a woman
You wouldn’t understand these hips,
All you see is a toy to chew on,
To tear and rip as you please,
And think I can only beg at your knees.
You don’t know me, fool.
All you know is every woman’s shape,
The batting of her eyelashes,
The pink of her lips,
But that ain’t me.
You wanna deal with a real woman?
Then follow my lead.
I don’t beg like your puppy,
I don’t drool like you when you’re sleeping,
Naw, that just ain’t me.
I work too damn hard for you to be the farmer,
And for me to be your sheep.
Sorry, my pride ain’t for sale
And my lovin’ is not that cheap.
You gotta put in work for a woman like me.
I hope you didn’t think that this was
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Hmmm…. when love is done, indeed
The night has a thousand eyes,
And the day but one;
Yet the light of the bright world dies
With the dying of the sun.
The mind has a thousand eyes,
And the heart but one;
Yet the light of a whole life dies
When love is done.
The illustration is a sunset by Adam Ziaja http://ziaja.name taken on 15 Sep 2006 and made available via Wikimedia.
Not your conventional bed time story……. but it Made me read it twice..
The little girl looked on, a greedy gleam in her eyes. The table was more laden this year than the last, but there were still not enough presents. She gave a little frown and wandered off to look for her parents. Hateful parents. How selfish they were being. Everyone knows Christmas means more presents. They needed to have “the talk”.
She found the parents in the yard. They were standing next to a large box, which was wrapped in very pretty paper. For a brief moment, she was distracted by the large parcel. Then she remembered the other presents at the table, and her anger returned. She stormed out into the yard, face scrunched up into an ugly mask. With arms flailing madly, she launched into a high pitched scream. She felt a rush of rage wash over her. Her face hurt from the forced tears. Why couldn’t they understand…
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Very reflective stuff
I should be crying, if I’m looking in the mirror and not seeing myself I should be crying.
I feel the pain, yet I’m so cemented outside I show no reaction.
I look around trying to find safety, I find darkness swallowing me.
I close my eyes, I pray for my soul to be cleaned of this guilt.
I feel those burning tears trying to breathe, but I’m holding back.
I feel weak, I know I’m weak. Yet I keep my strongest face on.
I see the danger, but like a fool I walk through it then wonder why I get bruised.
Back to being guilty again, I’m sick of this shameless game.
Seeing people walking around, holding guilt like a winning card.
Am I mad??? Or maybe its just guilt giving me illusions???
Like a coward hiding behind my words, I won’t do a thing – I can’t do anything -.
Like a coward writing…
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Reminds me of the ‘songs of Solomon’
A must read….. Truly thought provoking
nemesis, blood feud of old
in our mother’s womb we battle
prejudice, evil’s spawn blurs our sight
forces hands to do its bidding.
we are equal; our hearts all follow the creator’s drums
but fall victim to hatred, passed on through the ages
unmoved; set in crumbling stone
Doth with their death bury their parents’ strife.
a thousand deaths won’t make the frenzied eye see ~
And the continuance of their parents’ rage,
Which, but their children’s end, naught could…
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Different in a warm sort of way….. Totally works