The sanctity of my room had been invaded. Mom had come in and done another of her inspections.
What was she looking for? Drugs? Porn? I never dealt with either of those and she knew it. But her excuse was that it was “her duty” to check— for anything and everything.
There is no such thing as sanctity in this world, or if there ever was it’s no longer here. That’s for sure. There is nothing left people regard as sanctity. A few things fall in that category but are not regarded as such by every person. And shouldn’t sanctity be something every being sees as such a thing?
Peace. Serenity. Oneness. Wordlessness. To be still from within, living in harmony with our surroundings, being present to what is before us, as we are all connected.
We throw up as we dance. It’s an odd habit, admittedly, but it’s still what makes us us. You’ll complain about the weather and I’ll complain about you. You’ll hold my hand and I’ll want to kick and scream. You’ll tell me, “You’re an angel,” to which I’ll say back, “You’re the Devil Himself,” and to that we’ll toast and cheer, and yet another year will go by.
I was thinking about what it means to be pure, what it means to be untouched and holy. I was sitting on the end of my bed, and staring at the two dead bodies making the carpet soaking in blood. The smell made me want to throw up, but I didn’t. I was thinking about Heaven and Hell. I was considering myself lucky, because I know I’m one of the lucky ones. I know my place in Heaven will be golden and bright, next to my Maker.
I was thinking that I may be a killer, but I’m saintly so.
I raise my eyebrows and I stare at the demon smirking at me. It won’t recognize to my sanctity, to the halo above my head, but it’ll recognize to my sword if it presses hard enough against its throat.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“What we all want. Immunity. I don’t want to burn when the End comes.”
Don’t be ashamed of the sin on your skin. It makes you whole and it makes you as pure as it makes you dirty. Don’t be ashamed of the complexity of being a sinner. Surrender to the sin, give up on the halo. Sanctity is overrated, anyway.
I was given a position because of my sanctity, but I don’t think I deserve it. Humble. That is what I always aim to be. Though this is my strongest motivation I am plagued by myself.
Fame. Recognition. Anything I could ever want. Is what my primal heart cries for. “Be humble,” I remind myself as I walk in to my first day of work,” be humble.”
He thought that this would be a safe place… and now he didn’t know what to think as he ran from the church the great wooden doors slamming behind him. He ran around the curb until he reached the park where he stopped to wipe the tears from his face, but never the image from his mind.
I opened the door and took a deep breath. While I was gone, no one had disturbed the sanctity of my home. It was evident by the clutter sitting exactly where I had left it and the dust on the counters. Home sweet home
The sanctity of marriage. An institution. They need their protection from the angry, the different, the overwhelming. You know what marriage is? It’s a harkening back to slavery, and buying wives from fathers.
what is truly scared? what do we hold most dear to our bosmen when we have reached the end of our rope with nothing else to hold on to?
how much longer do we have to hold onto those thing that, when push comes to shove, will no longer be there for us. we have to hold sacred the things that matter.
Late that night she walked in, heels clanking together. She payed no attention to the glares coming her way from the sides, and the light of the candles only gave enough light to hint at the discolouring of her arms and legs. Nothing about this girl was sanctity, but the pat-pat of her bare feet reminded those frozen faces of a child-like innocence they never had. As she walked herself closer to Him, she found herself lifting out of this world, to something that held more promise.
The sanctity of Mother Earth, our tortured life giver who is at the mercy of selfish, indulgent children. She sacrifices all, helpless to say no, hurting daily. A blessed few do reach out with protective hearts and souls to remedy her wounds. But I fear until guardianship is shared, ensuring a kinship with one so important to our lives and our future is clouded with concern.
i just searched up, “define sancity,” because i didnt know what it meant. it told me it meant sacred, or holiness. i sometimes feel really stupid when everyone else knows a word and i dont. it kinda makes me feel like, “where the hell have i been?”
There is sanctity where ever you look for it. It is not found in a building, a book or in a leader, it is within your heart. That is where love and respect for all things begin.
What’s exactly sanctity? Who’s a saint? What is it like to be saint, or sinner, holy or unholy? Is it already written, somewhere, somehow, in our genes? We write our own destiny, don’t we?
“We’re special, you know.”
There was a pause, a catching of breath, though they hadn’t run out of air, not yet.
“You know that, don’t you?”
How strange it was that their meeting wasn’t on the side of Colosseum or at the base of a statue as good as their art had ever meant to be. How strange it was, the fog, the land they couldn’t see, with its blacks and grays- their colours- and their barely featured faces.
She began again. “Our connection-”
“It’s sacred,” he finished, looking straight into her as his words had done a thousand-fold for as long as she couldn’t forget.
“Yes,” she smiled, and she didn’t know if she believed him, not completely, not yet, but she had finally seen him, seen his lips move and his words become hers; it was enough to say, “Thank you.”
It weighed me down like an anchor until I finally confessed.
They say you know it’s real when it demands to be expressed.
A virgin to the feeling, but the word tasted right
Face burning from the heart that you decided to ignite.
It’s not safe
here
anymore
She’s still yelling slurs
straight up feelings
and I’m still here
i’m that cultured confident silence
she’s dancing around me, her life
who you are though, girl
It’s not
sacred
anymore
That’s it, though
I don’t trust me to trust you
I don’t trust you to stay
The small room’s sanctity was a secret among us. I smiled during class when I remembered that no one knew about the room–no one I knew anyway. When the red sun started to drop, I walked the cold alleys to get there, and the chatter welcomed me. I found my place after four months, and it felt better than anything ever.
I find my own sanctity in my own words and songs. I write, I withdraw, I come forward, I retreat… Lying back and singing to myself, I find the utmost sanctity that I could never find in a physical place. It’s sublime.
Dove white netting, over a woman’s face. The gold flash of a ring, cyclical like their idealised love, like the universe, like a never ending stream of endearments from nebula to nebula. And yet it is reserved for the asymmetrical, for the Adams and the Eves of the world. Because we all know how well that turned out.
I could never be Pope. I do not understand why Benedict has gotten such a bad rap over the years and especially since his resignation. Each priest was and is capable of deciding for himself the correct way to behave and how to treat his congregation. Benedict forced them to do nothing. THAT is the sanctity of free will. He’s simply a scapegoat for when God’s will appears unappealing to the general population. Live the rest of your days in peace.
She stood by his side, their hands tied with a red ribbon as the priest droned on and all she could think was “What am I doing?”
Her eyes followed the motion of his hands as he blessed them once, twice, thrice. And she could only ask her self “What am I doing here?”
The words washed over her, around, and under her. Beside her, He said, “I do.”
Had they missed the other part? The objections part? Couldn’t anyone see to object? Didn’t they realize how awfully, terribly wrong it was?
Beside Him, she said, “I do.”
Something wide, white like a blank canvas, but stretching out, untouchable, pure, like a void but not empty. Unquantifiable, unqualifiable, but good, peaceful, perfect. The resting place for a troubled heart. Something calm, safe, eternal.
I don’t know which sanctity to talk to or contact but I’m scared, partly because I’m aware of the fact that I never go to church or anything besides praying at night and now I need help and consolation…
When we look at the “sanctity of marriage” we really are looking at it from the standpoint of which we were taught what was ‘right’ and ‘wrong’. Erase all that and determine with a non-critical and non-judging heart of what it truly means.
Privacy. What is sacred. Protect it at all cost. Let know one touch it, change it, defile it. It is yours. No one else. Clean. Pure. Yours. Protect at all costs.
Sanctity . . . holiness . . . I think mostly of the unborn babies . . . without drawing their first breath, they are as holy as a human being can get. We are as a global society ignoring that fact.
The sanctity of my room had been invaded. Mom had come in and done another of her inspections.
What was she looking for? Drugs? Porn? I never dealt with either of those and she knew it. But her excuse was that it was “her duty” to check— for anything and everything.
Would you like to say you’re practicing this sanctity they gave you? As you stroll around without awareness of your ripples and waves?
There is no such thing as sanctity in this world, or if there ever was it’s no longer here. That’s for sure. There is nothing left people regard as sanctity. A few things fall in that category but are not regarded as such by every person. And shouldn’t sanctity be something every being sees as such a thing?
i guess it’s different for everyone…. the way we protect the pasts journey into our soul like some hidden pathway through the forest
i try to understand the visions of others’ hearts
sometimes, i fail to
fail to see the love beyond the secrets and bruises….
i’ve just been told i don’t get it…
sadly
i do…….
but i don’t want anyone else to
not anymore.
Peace. Serenity. Oneness. Wordlessness. To be still from within, living in harmony with our surroundings, being present to what is before us, as we are all connected.
these walls are rigid and unkind
lacking even the echoes of who lived here before us
paint sloshed on without care
to vacate
and reinhabit
all a transaction………….
no community here
We throw up as we dance. It’s an odd habit, admittedly, but it’s still what makes us us. You’ll complain about the weather and I’ll complain about you. You’ll hold my hand and I’ll want to kick and scream. You’ll tell me, “You’re an angel,” to which I’ll say back, “You’re the Devil Himself,” and to that we’ll toast and cheer, and yet another year will go by.
I was thinking about what it means to be pure, what it means to be untouched and holy. I was sitting on the end of my bed, and staring at the two dead bodies making the carpet soaking in blood. The smell made me want to throw up, but I didn’t. I was thinking about Heaven and Hell. I was considering myself lucky, because I know I’m one of the lucky ones. I know my place in Heaven will be golden and bright, next to my Maker.
I was thinking that I may be a killer, but I’m saintly so.
For Heaven’s sake, just drop the act.
I raise my eyebrows and I stare at the demon smirking at me. It won’t recognize to my sanctity, to the halo above my head, but it’ll recognize to my sword if it presses hard enough against its throat.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“What we all want. Immunity. I don’t want to burn when the End comes.”
I sigh. Again, that?
The sanctity of human life was something that we took very strongly. We were perfect and special, and even our flaws could be used for good.
Don’t be ashamed of the sin on your skin. It makes you whole and it makes you as pure as it makes you dirty. Don’t be ashamed of the complexity of being a sinner. Surrender to the sin, give up on the halo. Sanctity is overrated, anyway.
I was given a position because of my sanctity, but I don’t think I deserve it. Humble. That is what I always aim to be. Though this is my strongest motivation I am plagued by myself.
Fame. Recognition. Anything I could ever want. Is what my primal heart cries for. “Be humble,” I remind myself as I walk in to my first day of work,” be humble.”
He thought that this would be a safe place… and now he didn’t know what to think as he ran from the church the great wooden doors slamming behind him. He ran around the curb until he reached the park where he stopped to wipe the tears from his face, but never the image from his mind.
to keep precious and pure in this wild and confusing world.
I opened the door and took a deep breath. While I was gone, no one had disturbed the sanctity of my home. It was evident by the clutter sitting exactly where I had left it and the dust on the counters. Home sweet home
The sanctity of marriage. An institution. They need their protection from the angry, the different, the overwhelming. You know what marriage is? It’s a harkening back to slavery, and buying wives from fathers.
what is truly scared? what do we hold most dear to our bosmen when we have reached the end of our rope with nothing else to hold on to?
how much longer do we have to hold onto those thing that, when push comes to shove, will no longer be there for us. we have to hold sacred the things that matter.
The priest raised his arms, offering the bread to the invisible God in the room. The congregants, silent, bowed, waited for his words.
But they wouldn’t come.
The poison had taken effect, and in seconds, the end.
Late that night she walked in, heels clanking together. She payed no attention to the glares coming her way from the sides, and the light of the candles only gave enough light to hint at the discolouring of her arms and legs. Nothing about this girl was sanctity, but the pat-pat of her bare feet reminded those frozen faces of a child-like innocence they never had. As she walked herself closer to Him, she found herself lifting out of this world, to something that held more promise.
the warmth of your arms no longer offer me the sanctity that they used to
The sanctity of Mother Earth, our tortured life giver who is at the mercy of selfish, indulgent children. She sacrifices all, helpless to say no, hurting daily. A blessed few do reach out with protective hearts and souls to remedy her wounds. But I fear until guardianship is shared, ensuring a kinship with one so important to our lives and our future is clouded with concern.
This used to be a place where sanctity was practiced. Now it’s been tainted with the sins and lies of the people who come and go.
The old man understood that his sanctity wouldn’t help him in hell. Holiness is good. up until you lose faith. Then, its worthless.
i just searched up, “define sancity,” because i didnt know what it meant. it told me it meant sacred, or holiness. i sometimes feel really stupid when everyone else knows a word and i dont. it kinda makes me feel like, “where the hell have i been?”
There is sanctity where ever you look for it. It is not found in a building, a book or in a leader, it is within your heart. That is where love and respect for all things begin.
What’s exactly sanctity? Who’s a saint? What is it like to be saint, or sinner, holy or unholy? Is it already written, somewhere, somehow, in our genes? We write our own destiny, don’t we?
“We’re special, you know.”
There was a pause, a catching of breath, though they hadn’t run out of air, not yet.
“You know that, don’t you?”
How strange it was that their meeting wasn’t on the side of Colosseum or at the base of a statue as good as their art had ever meant to be. How strange it was, the fog, the land they couldn’t see, with its blacks and grays- their colours- and their barely featured faces.
She began again. “Our connection-”
“It’s sacred,” he finished, looking straight into her as his words had done a thousand-fold for as long as she couldn’t forget.
“Yes,” she smiled, and she didn’t know if she believed him, not completely, not yet, but she had finally seen him, seen his lips move and his words become hers; it was enough to say, “Thank you.”
It weighed me down like an anchor until I finally confessed.
They say you know it’s real when it demands to be expressed.
A virgin to the feeling, but the word tasted right
Face burning from the heart that you decided to ignite.
It’s not safe
here
anymore
She’s still yelling slurs
straight up feelings
and I’m still here
i’m that cultured confident silence
she’s dancing around me, her life
who you are though, girl
It’s not
sacred
anymore
That’s it, though
I don’t trust me to trust you
I don’t trust you to stay
The small room’s sanctity was a secret among us. I smiled during class when I remembered that no one knew about the room–no one I knew anyway. When the red sun started to drop, I walked the cold alleys to get there, and the chatter welcomed me. I found my place after four months, and it felt better than anything ever.
I find my own sanctity in my own words and songs. I write, I withdraw, I come forward, I retreat… Lying back and singing to myself, I find the utmost sanctity that I could never find in a physical place. It’s sublime.
Dove white netting, over a woman’s face. The gold flash of a ring, cyclical like their idealised love, like the universe, like a never ending stream of endearments from nebula to nebula. And yet it is reserved for the asymmetrical, for the Adams and the Eves of the world. Because we all know how well that turned out.
I could never be Pope. I do not understand why Benedict has gotten such a bad rap over the years and especially since his resignation. Each priest was and is capable of deciding for himself the correct way to behave and how to treat his congregation. Benedict forced them to do nothing. THAT is the sanctity of free will. He’s simply a scapegoat for when God’s will appears unappealing to the general population. Live the rest of your days in peace.
The sanctity of marriage…
She stood by his side, their hands tied with a red ribbon as the priest droned on and all she could think was “What am I doing?”
Her eyes followed the motion of his hands as he blessed them once, twice, thrice. And she could only ask her self “What am I doing here?”
The words washed over her, around, and under her. Beside her, He said, “I do.”
Had they missed the other part? The objections part? Couldn’t anyone see to object? Didn’t they realize how awfully, terribly wrong it was?
Beside Him, she said, “I do.”
Something wide, white like a blank canvas, but stretching out, untouchable, pure, like a void but not empty. Unquantifiable, unqualifiable, but good, peaceful, perfect. The resting place for a troubled heart. Something calm, safe, eternal.
I don’t know which sanctity to talk to or contact but I’m scared, partly because I’m aware of the fact that I never go to church or anything besides praying at night and now I need help and consolation…
sanctity of space
sanctity of grace
sanctity to feel
sanctity of heartfelt kindness in face
When we look at the “sanctity of marriage” we really are looking at it from the standpoint of which we were taught what was ‘right’ and ‘wrong’. Erase all that and determine with a non-critical and non-judging heart of what it truly means.
Privacy. What is sacred. Protect it at all cost. Let know one touch it, change it, defile it. It is yours. No one else. Clean. Pure. Yours. Protect at all costs.
Sanctity . . . holiness . . . I think mostly of the unborn babies . . . without drawing their first breath, they are as holy as a human being can get. We are as a global society ignoring that fact.