God's Name ... Creation and undoing!

Written by Edward B. Toupin

Continued from page 1

Indeed, few of us know God's true name because we're so busy chasing and looking for this elusive being outside of ourselves. But, looking within will show you your true God and, with that, His name is your own. Inrepparttar beginning of our lives, our own Universe, our name was spoken. However, by speaking of ourselves in reverse, "speaking our name backwards", or not following our true goals and desires withrepparttar 122302 gifts available to us all, we can undo our own creation. I don't mean that you'll disappear in a puff of smoke, but your existence here on this planet will be meaningless, thus undoingrepparttar 122303 "purpose of your own personal creation".

Consider that by looking inward you can create any Universe you desire. Look inside forrepparttar 122304 creator andrepparttar 122305 encapsulation of allrepparttar 122306 wonders of your Universe. Your life can be what you desire simply by demanding of your God, yourself, your manifestations of life. --- Aboutrepparttar 122307 Author ---

Edward B. Toupin is an author, publisher, life-strategy coach, counselor, Reiki Master, technical writer, and PhD Candidate living in Las Vegas, NV. Among other things, he authors books, articles, and screenplays on topics ranging from career success through life organization and fulfillment. Check out some of his recent print and electronic books as well as his articles covering various life-changing topics!

For more information, and to find out about his upcoming title on book publishing, e-mail Edward at etoupin@toupin.com or visit his site at http://www.toupin.com!

Copyright (c) 2004 Edward B. Toupin

An Ode to Morpheus

Written by Ambreen Ishrat

Continued from page 1

I enviously think of those who are sound asleep in their beds. I even envy those who stay up late by choice and still manage to get along with their day-to-day routine just fine. The marvellous generation of 'night people' - a different genre. What do I have in common with them? It is during such strange moments of serenity and uncanny silence thatrepparttar likes of Keats heardrepparttar 122301 voice ofrepparttar 122302 nightingale and so transported himself torepparttar 122303 realm of beyond, and Matthew Arnold contemplated uponrepparttar 122304 crisis of faith forrepparttar 122305 mortals. As for me, I stand as miserable and confused as ever, feeling stupid that I have exhausted my supply of sleeping pills. I am not up because I choose to. I don't haverepparttar 122306 luxury of getting up late. With bleary eyes and a puffy and exhausted face, I must braverepparttar 122307 world. I must get up atrepparttar 122308 crack of dawn and return late intorepparttar 122309 afternoon. Feeling panicky, I start to pace aroundrepparttar 122310 room. I ransack my medicine box feverishly like an addict, for a pill that might have escaped my groping fingers and must be hiding in some corner. But none are to be found. I sigh, as I can do nothing else.

I switch onrepparttar 122311 side lamp and seerepparttar 122312 room come alive in a soft hue of light and shadows, adding a delightfully mysterious and cozy look torepparttar 122313 walls and ceiling. So often I am struck withrepparttar 122314 feeling that at nighttime, all non-living things tend to exude a life of their own. The fridge hums and drones silently,repparttar 122315 walls whisper and breathe, asrepparttar 122316 electricity running behind them slithers, twists and runs with defying swiftness. I peer out ofrepparttar 122317 window on torepparttar 122318 street which looks deserted and dark. The carcass of a dying and spent moon is briefly revealed byrepparttar 122319 passing clouds and then its darkness again. Crickets creak, a dog lets out a churlish howl andrepparttar 122320 moths feverishly encirclerepparttar 122321 solitary lamp posts onrepparttar 122322 street, untilrepparttar 122323 night watchman whistles and everything turns still, but only for a moment and thenrepparttar 122324 rhythm resumes. A car passes by onrepparttar 122325 street, a midnight rider, whose stereo blare heinously and ruinsrepparttar 122326 perfect harmony ofrepparttar 122327 night and silence. As he passes away,repparttar 122328 dog howls loudly in protest.

The breeze at night feels so very gentle. A few dry leaves andrepparttar 122329 ubiquitous plastic bags are sucked up byrepparttar 122330 breeze and they start to dance in whirlwind motion. The breeze turns into a wind, which twirlsrepparttar 122331 leaves round and round onrepparttar 122332 deserted road, aroundrepparttar 122333 lamp posts and finally spits them out in a corner and then carries on its ballet alone. I prick my ears. A low rustle! Then a moan. It isrepparttar 122334 wind again. Andrepparttar 122335 wind does cry. I switch on to FM radio, hungry and desperate for a human voice. The radio hums and creaks as I setrepparttar 122336 bandwidth and finally sweet sounds of rhythm and blues start to emit, filling in my jarred senses with companionship and peace. So I listen on and on, silently humming and rocking myself to soothrepparttar 122337 dull pain in my body. I take up a long-neglected poetry book. Hours pass till I finally hear a slight chirp and then another one. The FM station has gone silent ages ago and static emitting fromrepparttar 122338 radio drones on.

I keep my book away. I have survived a night without my sleeping pills andrepparttar 122339 delicate sensation of yesterday sleeps on my eyelids. I blink softly, hoping not to loose any of it. The aurora is wakening;repparttar 122340 reign of darkness lies in recession. It's dawn and I am still looking through yesterday's eyes, though weary but withrepparttar 122341 hope that I am stepping into a new day and whatever it might bring. I will tackle it and I will tackle it well because I am a survivor, if not anything else.

The author is a 26 years old single female, hailing from Karachi, Pakistan. She has earned her masters degree in English Literature from the University of Karachi. Currently working as a content and creative writer at an IT firm, she dreams of pursuing a M. Phil degree in literature some day. Her hobbies include reading and writing. For feedback, comments or critique she can be reached at galatia2001@yahoo.com.

    <Back to Page 1
ImproveHomeLife.com © 2005
Terms of Use