Paltalk

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing. It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive. It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain! I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it, or fix it. I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human. It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul; if you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy. I want to know if you can see beauty even when it's not pretty, every day, and if you can source your own life from its presence. I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, "Yes!" It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children. It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away. I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and

Life is not always easy, and sometimes it's difficult to smile when the dark clouds move in to block the sun. But you must have faith that things will get better. Reach inside and draw on your strength and hope. It's still there, waiting to see you through this difficult time. The night may seem long, but think of all the possibilities that the dawn might hold. And in the end, you'll be a stronger person from this, and you'll be so proud that you made it.

The Indian With One Testicle There once was an Indian who had only one testicle and whose given name was 'Onestone'. He hated that name and asked everyone not to call him Onestone. After years and years of torment, Onestone finally cracked and said,' If anyone calls me Onestone again I will kill them!' The word got around and nobody called him that any more. Then one day a young woman named Blue Bird forgot and said, 'Good morning, Onestone.' He jumped up, g rabbed her and took her deep into the forest where he made love to her all day and all night. He made love to her all the next day, until Blue Bird died from exhaustion. The word got around that Onestone meant what he promised he would do. Years went by and no one dared call him by his given name until A woman named Yellow Bird returned to the village after being away. Yellow Bird , who was Blue Bird's cousin, was overjoyed when she saw Onestone. She hugged him and said, 'Good to see you, Onestone.' Onestone grabbed her, took her deep into the forest, then he made love to her all day, made love to her all night, made love to her all the next day, made love to her all the next night, butYellow Bird wouldn't die! Why ??? OH, come on... take a guess !!! Think about it !!! You're going to love this !!! Everyone knows... You can't killTwo Birds withOneStone!!!

Well, how do you do, Private William McBride, Do you mind if I sit down here by your graveside? And rest for awhile in the warm summer sun, I've been walking all day, and I'm nearly done. And I see by your gravestone you were only 19 When you joined the glorious fallen in 1916, Well, I hope you died quick and I hope you died clean Or, Willie McBride, was it slow and obscene? Did they Beat the drum slowly, did the play the pipes lowly? Did the rifles fir o'er you as they lowered you down? Did the bugles sound The Last Post in chorus? Did the pipes play the Flowers of the Forest? And did you leave a wife or a sweetheart behind In some loyal heart is your memory enshrined? And, though you died back in 1916, To that loyal heart are you forever 19? Or are you a stranger without even a name, Forever enshrined behind some glass pane, In an old photograph, torn and tattered and stained, And fading to yellow in a brown leather frame? The sun's shining down on these green fields of France; The warm wind blows gently, and the red poppies dance. The trenches have vanished long under the plow; No gas and no barbed wire, no guns firing now. But here in this graveyard that's still No Man's Land The countless white crosses in mute witness stand To man's blind indifference to his fellow man. And a whole generation who were butchered and damned. And I can't help but wonder, no Willie McBride, Do all those who lie here know why they died? Did you really believe them when they told you "The Cause?" Did you really believe that this war would end wars? Well the suffering, the sorrow, the glory, the shame The killing, the dying, it was all done in vain, For Willie McBride, it all happened again, And again, and again, and again, and again.