meaning

Dignity has no price, when someone starts making small concessions, in the end, life loses all meaning.

Life is mysterious as well as vulgar.

If one wanted to crush and destroy a man entirely, to mete out to him the most terrible punishment ... all one would have to do would be to make him do work that was completely and utterly devoid of usefulness and meaning.

At its best, this is my calling. At its worst, it is a mad compulsion that I just can__ shake.

Frankl asserts that "the potentialities of life are not indifferent possibilities, but must be seen in the light of meaning and values." Such meaning and values cannot be imposed; each individual must seek out for himself or herself the meaning of each situation and the implications the present moment may have for the future.

If sacrifice is not the theme of my life, there__ no sense telling the story.

The reason my life has wandered to nowhere is likely due to the fact that the focus of the moment has dictated the destination of my life, when the destination of my life should have been dictating the focus of the moment.

To my own demise, I rarely ask why I__ hungry because I__ focusing all of my energies on getting fed. And if I persist in such a diminishing cycle, in all probability I will eventually starve to death because I have chosen to gorge myself on the very things that will keep me empty.

We strive toward the middle, and we run from ourselves.

Human nature has nevertheless been changed by the ever new appearance of these teachers of the purpose of existence: It now has one additional need__he need for the ever new appearance of such teachers and teachings of a __urpose._ Gradually, man has become a fantastic animal that has to fulfill one more condition of existence than any other animal: man has to believe, to know, from time to time why he exists; his race cannot flourish without a periodic trust in life__ithout faith in reason in life.

It is, of course, we who house poems as much as their words, and we ourselves must be the locus of poetry's depth of newness. Still, the permeability seems to travel both ways: a changed self will find new meanings in a good poem, but a good poem also changes the shape of the self.

It is in community where we find our very selves.

But if time exists only in my head, and I'm the last human being, it will end with my death. The thought cheers me. I may be in a position to murder time. The big net will tear and fall, with its sad contents, into oblivion. I'm owed some gratitude, but no one after my death will know I murdered time. Really these thoughts are quite meaningless. Things happen, and, like millions of people before me, I look for meaning in them, because my vanity will not allow me to admit that the whole meaning of an event lies in the event itself.

Khuda tujhe kisi toofaan se aashna karde,Ke tere behr ki maujon men iztiraab naheenMay God grant you a storm! The voyage of your life is on too placid an ocean_

Was everyone else really as alive as she was?... If the answer was yes, then the world, the social world, was unbearably complicated, with two billion voices, and everyone__ thoughts striving in equal importance and everyone__ claim on life as intense, and everyone thinking they were unique, when no one was. One could drown in irrelevance.

Maybe there is no such thing as success__ final destination where you arrive once and for all. Maybe existence is a never-ending journey of peaks and valleys and forever chasing dreams.

The most meaningful endeavors are the ones that come without an end.

Perspective seasons meaning with sprinkles of time.