I feel — hear — a calling of Spirit. Sometimes in whispers which wash over me in gentle waves. Sometimes in shrieks which tear into whatever it is I’m doing and urge me to run for solace amid green hills, woods, vast plains.
It’s not something that most people understand, and words alone can never do justice to what I’m experiencing. I get met with blank looks, puzzled wrinkling of brows or just a dismissive wave of a hand. It’s a tug inside, it’s primal; a hunger for the sublime. Perhaps akin to the maternal urge which takes hold every now and again, a strange echo of something deeper, wilder. I feel it anywhere and everywhere, but mostly in music. Something is beckoning me to a place I know is Home — I just don’t know how to get there yet. I pray one day, my life will take me there. It has to.
Singing is my calling. A calling is something you’re meant to do, something that comes naturally to you. On the streets of NYC in a red trench coat I will find what must be the last functioning phonebooth in the country and call my love, to let him know I’m okay.
Someone was calling my name in the distance. That’s what it sounded like; but it didn’t make any sense. Who else was out here? Even if I wasn’t alone, how would anyone here know my name?
calling card, phone number never called, a scratch at the corner of the card and that’s the thing you don’t care to read. A name for a company that won’t exist. a card before the business was born. flashy and with an expensive glean, but the words are a sad dirge.
when i was three years old I was sitting alone in my room. i’m not even sure how i remember this, being three one doe not usually remember much from that time other then candy and santa and various snow men. but i remember hearing someone scream about a block away. I wan’t quite sure why, but I ran to check on it. and it was in that moment that i realized i had found my calling in life. i wanted to save people.
I was calling you the day that you died. It was a mockingly sunny day. And you were driving. I didn’t know you were driving. But all I knew was that I had to call you. This intense burning desire was all that mattered. So I called you. The phone I held said ‘Calling Maria’. But you didn’t answer. I didn’t know your mangled body was at the bottom of a ditch.
I am thinking of you, when suddenly the phone begins to ring. It’s like you read my mind. I picked up the phone, knowing it was you. Feeling your presence on the other end of the phone. I was ready to hear your voice. Thank you for calling me.
There are always people who will excel without trying? Always people on top who never see how lucky they are. People who found their calling young and succeed time and time again. I wish I could find mine. Ok so I’m smart. But not nearly as smart as I wish I could be. Ok I’m good at drawing, but my art looks like a 5 year olds compared to so many. Ok I can dance, but my moves look awkward compared to dancers. Ok I am a good cheerleader, but I’m not good enough for it to ever take me anywhere. I’m pretty, but my looks will never be enough to dazzle someone. I’m good at some things.. but I will never be great. I wish I had a calling.
I have not felt the calling to write here in a very long time _though the truth is that on one form or another I have been here longer then most of you…
Miles didn’t understand why Cameron kept calling him. Alright, so it wasn’t really phone calls so much as texts, but still. They had broken up. And it might not have been totally nasty, but it had still left him heartbroken. So there was no reason for the boy to still be calling him. Or inviting him over. And yet Miles would always answer and go anyway.
The child kept calling from the bedroom, while the dinner guests squirmed in their seats. How long would it go on before one of our hosts went to see what was wrong?
Calling you I feel sad. What happened to us? What did I do wrong? You refuse to answer me. I’m sorry. It was an accident. I was stupid and I know it. Yet, you don’t care. You leave me alone to myself, in this, my time of need. And I feel like dying. The red seeps out, and it’s beautiful. It reminds me of you. You’re beautiful to me. So beautiful.
She could hear the voice coming from faintly down the hall. She couldn’t quite make out whether it was a little boy, or a little girl. The pre-pubescent voice rang in her ears, echoing loudly. She picked up her pace, she knew that the voice was distressed based on the tone. But what could she possibly do to aid the child? They were coding, and she was an intern to terrified to move. She backed up, retreating into the supply closet.
I have no calling. Is that possible? To be passionate about these things, but not have them call to you. I don’t know what I’m doing with my life, or what is calling me forward.
My calling… is something that I do not yet know. I’d have a better time identifying what it is not. All I know right now is that my mother is driving me insane. It’s close time to call the home.
and then i hear it or see it whether it be rel or simply in my mind but it appears nonetheless and i realize all over again why i’m here why i spend my time with these things with these people and places hoping for the same things i have always hoped for
What happening to someone when you call them? They think you need them, they think their important… Are they? or are you just calling them to see what they will do? To see if their want or need to feel important?
I am calling out your name and you don’t come. I know that we will never be more than we are, but yet I am still calling, calling out to you, hoping that you want me too.
The career you were meant to have, it is a soul call, inevitable, the place you are destined to be, you can not avoid it or put it off, it is planted deep within you, resistance is futile.
Somehow, it was always her job. Not that she really minded, but nonetheless, it was the principle of the whole thing.
“Hello, this is Laura.”
They all wanted him there, didn’t they? Shouldn’t someone else be subjected to this?
“I’m a friend of Tommy’s from school.”
At least his mother sounded nice. She supposes it could be far more awkward than this.
“May I speak with him, please?”
And by the time that monotone voice finally comes through the other end, she swears she’ll get his cell phone number at school the next day.
“Tommy! What are you doing tonight?”
She never does.
my calling from you. calling out to you. calling in the night, nothing is seen, just felt on every sensory level into your bones and your stomach and head and beneath your head.
Don’t call me again. I’m tired of hearing your voice. Sometimes I hear it in my dreams, calling my name. I don’t want to hear it any more. Don’t call me again.
I need to practice networking and I guess picking up the phone would be a way to start. I notice, though, I might do better in a face 2 face for that initial contact. More feedback in less time.
I feel like I keep calling, to someone, anyone, and no one answers. Then I realize I wasn’t calling at all, just whispering to myself, because no matter how much I think I want help, I’m even more terrified of someone finding out how fucked up I really am.
My ears are filled with sounds,
someone is calling my name,
again, again and again…
What happened?
Why am I lying on the floor?
Faces are staring down at me.
What’s going on?
The computer was kept calling. I did all I could to ignore it for two days straight. At the last minute, I checked my email. As usual, the whining and begging was of epic proportions. Why do people wait til the last minute to make a plea for a better score. No amount of begging will save you now. It’s done, and I’m done, for that matter!
He knew his calling was this: to write, to love, to make due with what he had, and to turn chaos into beauty. For others would call him a dreamer and the labels would deem him a failure, but he deemed himself a writer—true to his being that was only found at the edge of a pen’s tip.
He never his calling was this: to write, to love, to make due with what he had, and to turn chaos into beauty. For others would call him a dreamer and the labels would deem him a failure, but he deemed himself a writer—true to his being that was only found at the edge of a pen’s tip.
Calling cards, calling people names, calling on the telephone. Either way it’s a weird word, sort of spirally, sort of dips and turns. The l’s drip from the tongue. Calder is calling for his homeland, for his family. He doesn’t want to know, but deep down he does. He doesn’t want to acknowledge it, but it’s true. He has to know. Maybe he is not obsessed with it daily, but he has to know.
I feel — hear — a calling of Spirit. Sometimes in whispers which wash over me in gentle waves. Sometimes in shrieks which tear into whatever it is I’m doing and urge me to run for solace amid green hills, woods, vast plains.
It’s not something that most people understand, and words alone can never do justice to what I’m experiencing. I get met with blank looks, puzzled wrinkling of brows or just a dismissive wave of a hand. It’s a tug inside, it’s primal; a hunger for the sublime. Perhaps akin to the maternal urge which takes hold every now and again, a strange echo of something deeper, wilder. I feel it anywhere and everywhere, but mostly in music. Something is beckoning me to a place I know is Home — I just don’t know how to get there yet. I pray one day, my life will take me there. It has to.
Singing is my calling. A calling is something you’re meant to do, something that comes naturally to you. On the streets of NYC in a red trench coat I will find what must be the last functioning phonebooth in the country and call my love, to let him know I’m okay.
Someone was calling my name in the distance. That’s what it sounded like; but it didn’t make any sense. Who else was out here? Even if I wasn’t alone, how would anyone here know my name?
calling card, phone number never called, a scratch at the corner of the card and that’s the thing you don’t care to read. A name for a company that won’t exist. a card before the business was born. flashy and with an expensive glean, but the words are a sad dirge.
when i was three years old I was sitting alone in my room. i’m not even sure how i remember this, being three one doe not usually remember much from that time other then candy and santa and various snow men. but i remember hearing someone scream about a block away. I wan’t quite sure why, but I ran to check on it. and it was in that moment that i realized i had found my calling in life. i wanted to save people.
I’m so sick of not knowing when to say when you call me. I wish that I had the words to tell you.
I was calling you the day that you died. It was a mockingly sunny day. And you were driving. I didn’t know you were driving. But all I knew was that I had to call you. This intense burning desire was all that mattered. So I called you. The phone I held said ‘Calling Maria’. But you didn’t answer. I didn’t know your mangled body was at the bottom of a ditch.
calling me i see three fee of she? dont be, said he, to thee, for me…
gnillac calling up down all around killing time with the rhyme fhyme shlyme
Shannon regretted giving away her cell number that desperate, lonely Night. Yes, it was Donnald Stump…it was the perfect weekend.
“It’s been two months since my phone rang. My love affair with Benjaman Franklin is over.”
She’s calling it quits.
I called my brother, he said hi, I said hi. – I can’t remember why i called, i tell him. He is silent. We say goodbye. click.
I am thinking of you, when suddenly the phone begins to ring. It’s like you read my mind. I picked up the phone, knowing it was you. Feeling your presence on the other end of the phone. I was ready to hear your voice. Thank you for calling me.
He heard the birds calling his name. They circled above him, a swirling cloud of ebony ravens, beckoning him to join the flock.
There are always people who will excel without trying? Always people on top who never see how lucky they are. People who found their calling young and succeed time and time again. I wish I could find mine. Ok so I’m smart. But not nearly as smart as I wish I could be. Ok I’m good at drawing, but my art looks like a 5 year olds compared to so many. Ok I can dance, but my moves look awkward compared to dancers. Ok I am a good cheerleader, but I’m not good enough for it to ever take me anywhere. I’m pretty, but my looks will never be enough to dazzle someone. I’m good at some things.. but I will never be great. I wish I had a calling.
I have not felt the calling to write here in a very long time _though the truth is that on one form or another I have been here longer then most of you…
Miles didn’t understand why Cameron kept calling him. Alright, so it wasn’t really phone calls so much as texts, but still. They had broken up. And it might not have been totally nasty, but it had still left him heartbroken. So there was no reason for the boy to still be calling him. Or inviting him over. And yet Miles would always answer and go anyway.
The child kept calling from the bedroom, while the dinner guests squirmed in their seats. How long would it go on before one of our hosts went to see what was wrong?
Calling you I feel sad. What happened to us? What did I do wrong? You refuse to answer me. I’m sorry. It was an accident. I was stupid and I know it. Yet, you don’t care. You leave me alone to myself, in this, my time of need. And I feel like dying. The red seeps out, and it’s beautiful. It reminds me of you. You’re beautiful to me. So beautiful.
She could hear the voice coming from faintly down the hall. She couldn’t quite make out whether it was a little boy, or a little girl. The pre-pubescent voice rang in her ears, echoing loudly. She picked up her pace, she knew that the voice was distressed based on the tone. But what could she possibly do to aid the child? They were coding, and she was an intern to terrified to move. She backed up, retreating into the supply closet.
I have no calling. Is that possible? To be passionate about these things, but not have them call to you. I don’t know what I’m doing with my life, or what is calling me forward.
Calling? Who should we call? I guess we are making too many calls nowadays…People can´t live without their cell phones…
i won’t be hearing your call, not anymore.
My calling… is something that I do not yet know. I’d have a better time identifying what it is not. All I know right now is that my mother is driving me insane. It’s close time to call the home.
Calling frome France used to be difficult. Do you remember? The phone offices for international
and then i hear it or see it whether it be rel or simply in my mind but it appears nonetheless and i realize all over again why i’m here why i spend my time with these things with these people and places hoping for the same things i have always hoped for
What happening to someone when you call them? They think you need them, they think their important… Are they? or are you just calling them to see what they will do? To see if their want or need to feel important?
The seam split finally
a calling to change the suit
a charon to the other side of the street
where a tailor licked his lips
then sucked on his needle
I am calling out your name and you don’t come. I know that we will never be more than we are, but yet I am still calling, calling out to you, hoping that you want me too.
The career you were meant to have, it is a soul call, inevitable, the place you are destined to be, you can not avoid it or put it off, it is planted deep within you, resistance is futile.
Somehow, it was always her job. Not that she really minded, but nonetheless, it was the principle of the whole thing.
“Hello, this is Laura.”
They all wanted him there, didn’t they? Shouldn’t someone else be subjected to this?
“I’m a friend of Tommy’s from school.”
At least his mother sounded nice. She supposes it could be far more awkward than this.
“May I speak with him, please?”
And by the time that monotone voice finally comes through the other end, she swears she’ll get his cell phone number at school the next day.
“Tommy! What are you doing tonight?”
She never does.
my calling from you. calling out to you. calling in the night, nothing is seen, just felt on every sensory level into your bones and your stomach and head and beneath your head.
Don’t call me again. I’m tired of hearing your voice. Sometimes I hear it in my dreams, calling my name. I don’t want to hear it any more. Don’t call me again.
chalange.compitative, couragious ,smart, creative.
I need to practice networking and I guess picking up the phone would be a way to start. I notice, though, I might do better in a face 2 face for that initial contact. More feedback in less time.
I feel like I keep calling, to someone, anyone, and no one answers. Then I realize I wasn’t calling at all, just whispering to myself, because no matter how much I think I want help, I’m even more terrified of someone finding out how fucked up I really am.
My ears are filled with sounds,
someone is calling my name,
again, again and again…
What happened?
Why am I lying on the floor?
Faces are staring down at me.
What’s going on?
The computer was kept calling. I did all I could to ignore it for two days straight. At the last minute, I checked my email. As usual, the whining and begging was of epic proportions. Why do people wait til the last minute to make a plea for a better score. No amount of begging will save you now. It’s done, and I’m done, for that matter!
He knew his calling was this: to write, to love, to make due with what he had, and to turn chaos into beauty. For others would call him a dreamer and the labels would deem him a failure, but he deemed himself a writer—true to his being that was only found at the edge of a pen’s tip.
He never his calling was this: to write, to love, to make due with what he had, and to turn chaos into beauty. For others would call him a dreamer and the labels would deem him a failure, but he deemed himself a writer—true to his being that was only found at the edge of a pen’s tip.
“Sorry, wait I…you, my…is playing… hello? hello?”
“Don’t be childish, Okay! I know you can hear me!”
“hello?… Hello?”
“Okay, that’s it. We’re over.”
“….”
“Hello?”
Calling cards, calling people names, calling on the telephone. Either way it’s a weird word, sort of spirally, sort of dips and turns. The l’s drip from the tongue. Calder is calling for his homeland, for his family. He doesn’t want to know, but deep down he does. He doesn’t want to acknowledge it, but it’s true. He has to know. Maybe he is not obsessed with it daily, but he has to know.