Till I Collapse - By eminem

'Cause sometimes you feel tired,

feel weak, and when you feel weak, you feel like you wanna just give up.

But you gotta search within you, you gotta find that inner strength

and just pull that shit out of you and get that motivation to not give up

and not be a quitter, no matter how bad you wanna just fall flat on your face and collapse

Till the roof comes off, till the lights go out

Till my legs give out, can’t shut my mouth.

Till the smoke clears out and my high burn out

I'ma rip this shit till my bone collapse

Until the roof

The roof comes off

Until my legs

give out from underneath me

I will not fall,

I will stand tall,

Feels like no one could beat me.

~: JUGNI :~

a Sufic track, lyrics have been derived from folk stories and songs. The track’s central philosophy is the promotion of peace and love for mankind. Main Singers Arif Lohar and Meesha Shafi compliment each others’ styles effortlessly...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EA-0NRTvrWY

"Alif allah chambay di booti, tey meray murshid mann vich lai hoo"

My master has planted the fragrant seed of love in my heart

"Ho nafi uss baat da paani dey kay"

Which flourished with modesty, piety and acceptance of his existence

"Har ragaay harjai hoo"

My God is present in every throbbing pulse

"Ho joog joog jeevay mera murshid sohna"

My spiritual guide is ever-present

"Hatay jiss ay booti lai ho"

The one who blew life into me

"Pir meraya jugni ji"

I have the spirit of my guide

"Ae way allah waliyan di jugni ji"

The spirit of all the messengers who brought His message to this Earth

"Ae way nabbi pak di jugni ji"

The spirit of Holy Prophet

"Ae way maula ali wali jugni ji"

The spirit of Ali and his followers

"Ae way meray pir di jugni ji"

The spirit of my saint

"Ae way saaray sabaz di jugni ji"

The spirit of all his words

"Dum gutkoon, dum gutkoon, dum gutkoon, dum gootkun… karay Saeein"

Everytime I think of you God, my heart flutters

"Parhay tay kalma nabi da Parhay saeein pir merya"

So I recite the kalma whenever I think of God

"Jugni taar khaeein vich thaal"

O my creation, share whatever you have

"Chad duniya dey janjaal"

Remove yourself from worldly concerns

"Kuch ni nibna bandiya naal"

There is nothing that you can get from other human beings that you can take to the after-life

"Rakhi saabat sidh amaal"

Just keep you actions and intentions pure

"Jugni dig payee vich roi"

So absorbed was the creation that she stumbled into a ditch

"Othay ro ro kamli hoi"

There she wailed relentlessly

"Oddi vaath naye lainda koi"

But there was no one who enquired about her

"Tey kalmay binna nai mildi toi"

Remember, there is no salvation for anyone without remembering your creator

"Ho wanga charha lo kuriyon"

Put on your bangles, girls

"Meray daata dey darbaar dian"

Those that you get at your Master’s shrines

"Ho naa kar teeya khair piyari"

Daughter, don’t be proud of your youth

"Maan daindiya galaryaan"

Your mother scoffs and scolds you

"Din din talhi juwani jaandi"

That with each passing day, your youth slips by

"Joon sohna puthia lariyaan"

Even gold when put in the furnance moulds itself, there is absolutely no permanence

"Aurat marad, shehzaday sohney"

Women, men are like so beautiful

"O moti, O laa lariyaan"

Like pearls, like the gems

"Sir da sarfa kar naa jairey"

Those who are not self-centered

"Peen prem pya lariyan"

They are the ones who truly love the humanity

"O daatay day darbaan chaa akho"

Whenever you visit the darbar of any saint

"Pawan khair sawa lariyan"

God fulfils all your wishes and showers you with his blessings

"O wanga charha lo kuriyon meray daata tey darbar diyan"

Put on your bangles, girls … Those that you get at your Master’s shrines

"O wangha charha lo kuriyon meray daata tey darbar diyan"

Put on your bangles, girls … Those that you get at your Master’s shrines

"Dum gutkoon, dum gutkoon, dum gootkoon, gootkoon gootkon"

"Jugni ji

Jugni ji

Jugni ji…"

~ Things which touched my SOUL today ~

As on 26th Aug 2011:

- While on the skytrain I saw someone watering the grass in a cemetery :-) This cemetery had a lot of space left.

- I met this small town punjabi girl 'Dolly' at the parlor today who was really sweet but she told me how she misses India though she has been in Vancouver since last 3.5 years

- I wrote this long due email and was so so so Proud of myself as expressed myself fully and it made me feel so light..as if I just dropped a huge weight which I was carrying for the last 4 days :-)

And my soul thanks me for that decision !!

- The song 'Way back into Love' by Drew Barrymore & Hugh Grant from the movie 'Music & Lyrics'... made my day !!

- Music played by the DJ at the club !! It took me somewhere else !!

- Being there for your GirlFriends ... Always !! :-) even while they have fun

- Hanging out with random 22-year old Americans & talking to kill time ... lol

<< Chandni Prashar >>

Alien Like You - By Sebastian Pigott

I know what you're feeling

Is hard to believe in

That home must be millions and millions of light-years away

So let the stars align

And let the water make wine 'cause

Broken souls will become whole tonight, whoa tonight

We know it's right so

Lift your eyes and let me in

'Cause baby I'm an alien like you

Will you ever wake at night and realize the

Reason why you knew me then

Is maybe I'm an alien too

Will you ever let me be an alien with you !!

Aren't you tired of running

From what you're becoming

The truth is it's useless there's nowhere to go, it's not going to find you,

So let the heavens flare

And let's not be scared, 'cause

We know love's a world above this one

It's like the sun so

Lift your eyes and let me in

'Cause baby I'm an alien like you

Will you ever wake at night and realize the

Reason why you knew me then

Is maybe I'm an alien too

Will you ever let me be an alien with you

Well the days of solitude are gone

Because we've both spent a way too long

Hearing voices on the radio

And we can't let anybody know

Lift your eyes and let me in

'Cause baby I'm an alien like you

Will you ever wake at night and realize the

Reason why you knew me then

Is maybe I'm an alien too

Will you ever let me be an alien

With you

Map your own life - By Elizabeth Gilbert

http://www.oprah.com/omagazine/Elizabeth-Gilbert-Talk-from-O-Magazines-10th-Anniversary-Video

Nearly all the women I know are stressing themselves sick over the pathological fear that they simply aren't doing enough with their lives. Which is crazy—absolutely flat-out bananas—because the women I know do a lot, and they do it well. My cousin Sarah, for instance, is earning her master's degree in international relations, while simultaneously working for a nonprofit that builds playgrounds at woefully underfunded public schools. Kate is staying home and raising the two most enchanting children I've ever met—while also working on a cookbook. Donna is producing Hollywood blockbusters; Stacy is running a London bank; Polly just launched an artisanal bakery...

By all rights, every one of these clever, inventive women should be radiant with self-satisfaction. Instead, they twitch with near-constant doubt, somehow worrying that they are failing at life. Sarah worries that she should be traveling around the world instead of committing to a master's degree. Kate worries that she's wasting her education by staying home with her kids. Donna worries that she's endangering her marriage by working such long hours. Stacy worries that the capitalistic world of banking is murdering her creativity. Polly worries that her artisanal bakery might not be quite capitalistic enough. All of them worry that they need to lose 10 pounds.

It's terribly frustrating for me to witness this endless second-guessing. The problem is, I do it, too. Despite having written five books, I worry that I have not written the right kinds of books, or that perhaps I have dedicated too much of my life to writing, and have therefore neglected other aspects of my being. (Like, I could really stand to lose 10 pounds.)

So here's what I want to know: Can we lighten up a little?

As we head into this next decade, can we draft a joint resolution to drop the crazy-making expectation that we must all be perfect friends and perfect mothers and perfect workers and perfect lovers with perfect bodies who dedicate ourselves to charity and grow our own organic vegetables, at the same time that we run corporations and stand on our heads while playing the guitar with our feet?

When I look at my life and the lives of my female friends these days—with our dizzying number of opportunities and talents—I sometimes feel as though we are all mice in a giant experimental maze, scurrying around frantically, trying to find our way through. But maybe there's a good historical reason for all this overwhelming confusion. We don't have centuries of educated, autonomous female role models to imitate here (there were no women quite like us until very recently), so nobody has given us a map. As a result, we each race forth blindly into this new maze of limitless options. And the risks are steep. We make mistakes. We take sharp turns, hoping to stumble on an open path, only to bump into dead-end walls and have to back up and start all over again. We push mysterious levers, hoping to earn a reward, only to learn—whoops, that was a suffering button!

To make matters even more stressful, we constantly measure ourselves against each other's progress, which is a truly dreadful habit. My sister, Catherine, told me recently about a conversation she'd had with a sweet neighbor who—after watching Catherine spend an afternoon organizing a scavenger hunt for all the local kids—said sadly, "You're such a better mother than I will ever be." At which point, my sister grabbed her friend's hands and said, "Please. Let's not do this to each other, okay?"

No, seriously—please. Let's not.

Because it breaks my heart to know that so many amazing women are waking up at 3 o'clock in the morning and abusing themselves for not having gone to art school, or for not having learned to speak French, or for not having organized the neighborhood scavenger hunt. I fear that—if we continue this mad quest for perfection—we will all end up as stressed-out and jumpy as those stray cats who live in Dumpsters behind Chinese restaurants, forever scavenging for scraps of survival while pulling out their own hair in hypervigilant anxiety.

So let's drop it, maybe?

Let's just anticipate that we (all of us) will disappoint ourselves somehow in the decade to come. Go ahead and let it happen. Let somebody else be a better mother than you for one afternoon. Let somebody else go to art school. Let somebody else have a happy marriage, while you foolishly pick the wrong guy. (Hell, I've done it; it's survivable.) While you're at it, take the wrong job. Move to the wrong city. Lose your temper in front of the boss, quit training for that marathon, wolf down a truckload of cupcakes the day after you start your diet. Blow it all catastrophically, in fact, and then start over with good cheer. This is what we all must learn to do, for this is how maps get charted—by taking wrong turns that lead to surprising passageways that open into spectacularly unexpected new worlds. So just march on. Future generations will thank you—trust me—for showing the way, for beating brave new footpaths out of wonky old mistakes.

Fall flat on your face if you must, but please, for the sake of us all, do not stop.

Map your own life.

- By Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love

The Art of TRAVEL

Mastering the art of travel is not accomplished with practice or talent.

No school will give you a bachelors degree in not getting shot while backpacking through eastern Africa. Or in avoiding Montezuma's revenge on your trek through Mexico.

It's a way of life. Unknown to the majority, it's almost impossible to convey to your friends back home over the course of a single conversation. It's more of a feeling, it's the excitement I experience the night before a trip.

The high that comes with booking a one-way train ticket to a place I've never heard of. It's the little things that so often go unnoticed.

"After A While" ©1971 Veronica A. Shoffstall

After a while you learn

the subtle difference between

holding a hand and chaining a soul

and you learn

that love doesn't mean leaning

and company doesn't always mean security.

And you begin to learn

that kisses aren't contracts

and presents aren't promises

and you begin to accept your defeats

with your head up and your eyes ahead

with the grace of woman,

not the grief of a child

and you learn

to build all your roads on today

because tomorrow's ground is

too uncertain for plans

and futures have a way of falling down

in mid-flight.

After a while you learn

that even sunshine burns

if you get too much

so you plant your own garden

and decorate your own soul

instead of waiting for someone

to bring you flowers.

And you learn that you really can endure

you really are strong

you really do have worth

and you learn

and you learn

with every goodbye, you learn...

: I'm doing GOD, How are you doing?

Whereas doing GOOD is usually a part-time thing, doing GOD is full-time.

Doing GOD is the highest form of living. Everyone is capable of doing GOD - it is what we were created to do.

I used to think you had to be a priest to do GOD full-time, but I realize now that you just have to faithfully walking in alignment with your GOD-given purpose daily !!

-As shared by a Friend

You Should Date An Illiterate Girl by CHARLES WARNKE

Date a girl who doesn’t read. Find her in the weary squalor of a Midwestern bar. Find her in the smoke, drunken sweat, and varicolored light of an upscale nightclub. Wherever you find her, find her smiling. Make sure that it lingers when the people that are talking to her look away. Engage her with unsentimental trivialities. Use pick-up lines and laugh inwardly. Take her outside when the night overstays its welcome. Ignore the palpable weight of fatigue. Kiss her in the rain under the weak glow of a streetlamp because you’ve seen it in film. Remark at its lack of significance. Take her to your apartment. Dispatch with making love. Fuck her.

Let the anxious contract you’ve unwittingly written evolve slowly and uncomfortably into a relationship. Find shared interests and common ground like sushi, and folk music. Build an impenetrable bastion upon that ground. Make it sacred. Retreat into it every time the air gets stale, or the evenings get long. Talk about nothing of significance. Do little thinking. Let the months pass unnoticed. Ask her to move in. Let her decorate. Get into fights about inconsequential things like how the fucking shower curtain needs to be closed so that it doesn’t fucking collect mold. Let a year pass unnoticed. Begin to notice.

Figure that you should probably get married because you will have wasted a lot of time otherwise. Take her to dinner on the forty-fifth floor at a restaurant far beyond your means. Make sure there is a beautiful view of the city. Sheepishly ask a waiter to bring her a glass of champagne with a modest ring in it. When she notices, propose to her with all of the enthusiasm and sincerity you can muster. Do not be overly concerned if you feel your heart leap through a pane of sheet glass. For that matter, do not be overly concerned if you cannot feel it at all. If there is applause, let it stagnate. If she cries, smile as if you’ve never been happier. If she doesn’t, smile all the same.

Let the years pass unnoticed. Get a career, not a job. Buy a house. Have two striking children. Try to raise them well. Fail, frequently. Lapse into a bored indifference. Lapse into an indifferent sadness. Have a mid-life crisis. Grow old. Wonder at your lack of achievement. Feel sometimes contented, but mostly vacant and ethereal. Feel, during walks, as if you might never return, or as if you might blow away on the wind. Contract a terminal illness. Die, but only after you observe that the girl who didn’t read never made your heart oscillate with any significant passion, that no one will write the story of your lives, and that she will die, too, with only a mild and tempered regret that nothing ever came of her capacity to love.

Do those things, god damnit, because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent as a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary, god damnit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick.

Do it, because a girl who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses—the hesitation of breath—endemic to a lie. A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a period and run on and run on. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived.

Date a girl who doesn’t read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.

Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are the storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so god damned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life that I told of at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being storied. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. I hate you. I really, really, really hate you.