My resolution so far is to purpose to live period.

You were put on this earth to achieve your greatest self, to live out your purpose, and to do it courageously. – Steve Maraboli #quoteoftheday #mindset #hustle #positivity

"Why I am a Liberal" "Why?" Because all I haply can and do, All that I am now, all I hope to be,-- Whence comes it save from fortune setting free Body and soul the purpose to pursue, God traced for both? If fetters, not a few, Of prejudice, convention, fall from me, These shall I bid men--each in his degree Also God-guided--bear, and gayly too? But little do or can the best of us: That little is achieved thro' Liberty. Who then dares hold, emancipated thus, His fellow shall continue bound? not I, Who live, love, labour freely, nor discuss A brother's right to freedom. That is "Why." — Robert Browning #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho

When Nobody Claps, Keep Going. Sometimes life calls you to do big things — stuff that’s deep, impactful, and honestly draining — and yet… no one notices. No one claps. No one says “Good job.” And that’s when you learn one of the hardest truths: not all great work gets applause. Sometimes your reward isn’t fame, money, or likes — it’s the quiet satisfaction of knowing you did something that matters. Think about our mums. They cook every single day, raise entire human beings, hold families together — yet no one’s out here giving them awards. You won’t see them trending for “Best Meal 2025.” 😅 In fact, sometimes people complain: “Why is the food cold?” “We’ve eaten this twice this week.” Meanwhile, she’s just done a full day of work, kept the house running, solved everyone’s problems, and somehow still has energy to check if you’ve eaten. But does she stop? No. Because real purpose doesn’t need a crowd. That’s the thing about meaningful work — it’s often quiet, consistent, and thankless. No hashtags. No interviews. No clout. Yet it’s the kind of work that builds families, shapes futures, and changes communities. Our mothers, fathers, teachers, farmers — they’ve been planting seeds for years, and we’re the harvest. 🌱 So if you feel unseen right now, if you’re grinding in silence and no one’s cheering for you, please — don’t stop. Not every season is for applause. Some seasons are for planting. Your work matters, even if it doesn’t trend. Your effort counts, even if nobody’s posting you. Some of the seeds you’re sowing now are meant to bloom long after you’re gone — maybe for your children, or their children. That’s how legacy is built. That’s how our ancestors did it. They built slowly, sacrificed deeply, and believed in futures they’d never live to see. So don’t lose heart. Keep building. Keep showing up. Keep doing good work — even when nobody claps. Because one day, the world will look back and realize… you were part of the foundation all along. That’s it from this side. If no one told you this week, we see you, we’re proud of you, and your work does matter. ✍🏽 – Adogo

"Letter to Maria Gisborne" The spider spreads her webs, whether she be In poet's tower, cellar, or barn, or tree; The silk-worm in the dark green mulberry leaves His winding sheet and cradle ever weaves; So I, a thing whom moralists call worm, Sit spinning still round this decaying form, From the fine threads of rare and subtle thought-- No net of words in garish colours wrought To catch the idle buzzers of the day-- But a soft cell, where when that fades away, Memory may clothe in wings my living name And feed it with the asphodels of fame, Which in those hearts which must remember me Grow, making love an immortality. Whoever should behold me now, I wist, Would think I were a mighty mechanist, Bent with sublime Archimedean art To breathe a soul into the iron heart Of some machine portentous, or strange gin, Which by the force of figured spells might win Its way over the sea, and sport therein; For round the walls are hung dread engines, such As Vulcan never wrought for Jove to clutch Ixion or the Titan:--or the quick Wit of that man of God, St. Dominic, To convince Atheist, Turk, or Heretic, Or those in philanthropic council met, Who thought to pay some interest for the debt They owed to Jesus Christ for their salvation, By giving a faint foretaste of damnation To Shakespeare, Sidney, Spenser, and the rest Who made our land an island of the blest, When lamp-like Spain, who now relumes her fire On Freedom's hearth, grew dim with Empire:-- With thumbscrews, wheels, with tooth and spike and jag, Which fishers found under the utmost crag Of Cornwall and the storm-encompassed isles, Where to the sky the rude sea rarely smiles Unless in treacherous wrath, as on the morn When the exulting elements in scorn, Satiated with destroyed destruction, lay Sleeping in beauty on their mangled prey, As panthers sleep;--and other strange and dread Magical forms the brick floor overspread,-- Proteus transformed to metal did not make More figures, or more strange; nor did he take Such shapes of unintelligible brass, Or heap himself in such a horrid mass Of tin and iron not to be understood; And forms of unimaginable wood, To puzzle Tubal Cain and all his brood: Great screws, and cones, and wheels, and grooved blocks, The elements of what will stand the shocks Of wave and wind and time.--Upon the table More knacks and quips there be than I am able To catalogize in this verse of mine:-- A pretty bowl of wood--not full of wine, But quicksilver; that dew which the gnomes drink When at their subterranean toil they swink, Pledging the demons of the earthquake, who Reply to them in lava--cry halloo! And call out to the cities o'er their head,-- Roofs, towers, and shrines, the dying and the dead, Crash through the chinks of earth--and then all quaff Another rouse, and hold their sides and laugh. This quicksilver no gnome has drunk--within The walnut bowl it lies, veined and thin, In colour like the wake of light that stains The Tuscan deep, when from the moist moon rains The inmost shower of its white fire--the breeze Is still--blue Heaven smiles over the pale seas. And in this bowl of quicksilver--for I Yield to the impulse of an infancy Outlasting manhood--I have made to float A rude idealism of a paper boat:-- A hollow screw with cogs--Henry will know The thing I mean and laugh at me,--if so He fears not I should do more mischief.--Next Lie bills and calculations much perplexed, With steam-boats, frigates, and machinery quaint Traced over them in blue and yellow paint. Then comes a range of mathematical Instruments, for plans nautical and statical, A heap of rosin, a queer broken glass With ink in it;--a china cup that was What it will never be again, I think,-- A thing from which sweet lips were wont to drink The liquor doctors rail at--and which I Will quaff in spite of them--and when we die We'll toss up who died first of drinking tea, And cry out,--'Heads or tails?' where'er we be. Near that a dusty paint-box, some odd hooks, A half-burnt match, an ivory block, three books, Where conic sections, spherics, logarithms, To great Laplace, from Saunderson and Sims, Lie heaped in their harmonious disarray Of figures,--disentangle them who may. Baron de Tott's Memoirs beside them lie, And some odd volumes of old chemistry. Near those a most inexplicable thing, With lead in the middle--I'm conjecturing How to make Henry understand; but no-- I'll leave, as Spenser says, with many mo, This secret in the pregnant womb of time, Too vast a matter for so weak a rhyme. And here like some weird Archimage sit I, Plotting dark spells, and devilish enginery, The self-impelling steam-wheels of the mind Which pump up oaths from clergymen, and grind The gentle spirit of our meek reviews Into a powdery foam of salt abuse, Ruffling the ocean of their self-content;-- I sit--and smile or sigh as is my bent, But not for them--Libeccio rushes round With an inconstant and an idle sound, I heed him more than them--the thunder-smoke Is gathering on the mountains, like a cloak Folded athwart their shoulders broad and bare; The ripe corn under the undulating air Undulates like an ocean;--and the vines Are trembling wide in all their trellised lines-- The murmur of the awakening sea doth fill The empty pauses of the blast;--the hill Looks hoary through the white electric rain, And from the glens beyond, in sullen strain, The interrupted thunder howls; above One chasm of Heaven smiles, like the eye of Love On the unquiet world;--while such things are, How could one worth your friendship heed the war Of worms? the shriek of the world's carrion jays, Their censure, or their wonder, or their praise? You are not here! the quaint witch Memory sees, In vacant chairs, your absent images, And points where once you sat, and now should be But are not.--I demand if ever we Shall meet as then we met;--and she replies. Veiling in awe her second-sighted eyes; 'I know the past alone--but summon home My sister Hope,--she speaks of all to come.' But I, an old diviner, who knew well Every false verse of that sweet oracle, Turned to the sad enchantress once again, And sought a respite from my gentle pain, In citing every passage o'er and o'er Of our communion--how on the sea-shore We watched the ocean and the sky together, Under the roof of blue Italian weather; How I ran home through last year's thunder-storm, And felt the transverse lightning linger warm Upon my cheek--and how we often made Feasts for each other, where good will outweighed The frugal luxury of our country cheer, As well it might, were it less firm and clear Than ours must ever be;--and how we spun A shroud of talk to hide us from the sun Of this familiar life, which seems to be But is not:--or is but quaint mockery Of all we would believe, and sadly blame The jarring and inexplicable frame Of this wrong world:--and then anatomize The purposes and thoughts of men whose eyes Were closed in distant years;--or widely guess The issue of the earth's great business, When we shall be as we no longer are-- Like babbling gossips safe, who hear the war Of winds, and sigh, but tremble not;--or how You listened to some interrupted flow Of visionary rhyme,--in joy and pain Struck from the inmost fountains of my brain, With little skill perhaps;--or how we sought Those deepest wells of passion or of thought Wrought by wise poets in the waste of years, Staining their sacred waters with our tears; Quenching a thirst ever to be renewed! Or how I, wisest lady! then endued The language of a land which now is free, And, winged with thoughts of truth and majesty, Flits round the tyrant's sceptre like a cloud, And bursts the peopled prisons, and cries aloud, 'My name is Legion!'--that majestic tongue Which Calderon over the desert flung Of ages and of nations; and which found An echo in our hearts, and with the sound Startled oblivion;--thou wert then to me As is a nurse--when inarticulately A child would talk as its grown parents do. If living winds the rapid clouds pursue, If hawks chase doves through the aethereal way, Huntsmen the innocent deer, and beasts their prey, Why should not we rouse with the spirit's blast Out of the forest of the pathless past These recollected pleasures? You are now In London, that great sea, whose ebb and flow At once is deaf and loud, and on the shore Vomits its wrecks, and still howls on for more. Yet in its depth what treasures! You will see That which was Godwin,--greater none than he Though fallen--and fallen on evil times--to stand Among the spirits of our age and land, Before the dread tribunal of "to come" The foremost,--while Rebuke cowers pale and dumb. You will see Coleridge--he who sits obscure In the exceeding lustre and the pure Intense irradiation of a mind, Which, with its own internal lightning blind, Flags wearily through darkness and despair-- A cloud-encircled meteor of the air, A hooded eagle among blinking owls.-- You will see Hunt--one of those happy souls Which are the salt of the earth, and without whom This world would smell like what it is--a tomb; Who is, what others seem; his room no doubt Is still adorned with many a cast from Shout, With graceful flowers tastefully placed about; And coronals of bay from ribbons hung, And brighter wreaths in neat disorder flung; The gifts of the most learned among some dozens Of female friends, sisters-in-law, and cousins. And there is he with his eternal puns, Which beat the dullest brain for smiles, like duns Thundering for money at a poet's door; Alas! it is no use to say, 'I'm poor!' Or oft in graver mood, when he will look Things wiser than were ever read in book, Except in Shakespeare's wisest tenderness.-- You will see Hogg,--and I cannot express His virtues,--though I know that they are great, Because he locks, then barricades the gate Within which they inhabit;--of his wit And wisdom, you'll cry out when you are bit. He is a pearl within an oyster shell. One of the richest of the deep;--and there Is English Peacock, with his mountain Fair, Turned into a Flamingo;--that shy bird That gleams i' the Indian air--have you not heard When a man marries, dies, or turns Hindoo, His best friends hear no more of him?--but you Will see him, and will like him too, I hope, With the milk-white Snowdonian Antelope Matched with this cameleopard--his fine wit Makes such a wound, the knife is lost in it; A strain too learned for a shallow age, Too wise for selfish bigots; let his page, Which charms the chosen spirits of the time, Fold itself up for the serener clime Of years to come, and find its recompense In that just expectation.--Wit and sense, Virtue and human knowledge; all that might Make this dull world a business of delight, Are all combined in Horace Smith.--And these. With some exceptions, which I need not tease Your patience by descanting on,--are all You and I know in London. I recall My thoughts, and bid you look upon the night. As water does a sponge, so the moonlight Fills the void, hollow, universal air-- What see you?--unpavilioned Heaven is fair, Whether the moon, into her chamber gone, Leaves midnight to the golden stars, or wan Climbs with diminished beams the azure steep; Or whether clouds sail o'er the inverse deep, Piloted by the many-wandering blast, And the rare stars rush through them dim and fast:-- All this is beautiful in every land.-- But what see you beside?--a shabby stand Of Hackney coaches--a brick house or wall Fencing some lonely court, white with the scrawl Of our unhappy politics;--or worse-- A wretched woman reeling by, whose curse Mixed with the watchman's, partner of her trade, You must accept in place of serenade-- Or yellow-haired Pollonia murmuring To Henry, some unutterable thing. I see a chaos of green leaves and fruit Built round dark caverns, even to the root Of the living stems that feed them--in whose bowers There sleep in their dark dew the folded flowers; Beyond, the surface of the unsickled corn Trembles not in the slumbering air, and borne In circles quaint, and ever-changing dance, Like winged stars the fire-flies flash and glance, Pale in the open moonshine, but each one Under the dark trees seems a little sun, A meteor tamed; a fixed star gone astray From the silver regions of the milky way;-- Afar the Contadino's song is heard, Rude, but made sweet by distance--and a bird Which cannot be the Nightingale, and yet I know none else that sings so sweet as it At this late hour;--and then all is still-- Now--Italy or London, which you will! Next winter you must pass with me; I'll have My house by that time turned into a grave Of dead despondence and low-thoughted care, And all the dreams which our tormentors are; Oh! that Hunt, Hogg, Peacock, and Smith were there, With everything belonging to them fair!-- We will have books, Spanish, Italian, Greek; And ask one week to make another week As like his father, as I'm unlike mine, Which is not his fault, as you may divine. Though we eat little flesh and drink no wine, Yet let's be merry: we'll have tea and toast; Custards for supper, and an endless host Of syllabubs and jellies and mince-pies, And other such lady-like luxuries,-- Feasting on which we will philosophize! And we'll have fires out of the Grand Duke's wood, To thaw the six weeks' winter in our blood. And then we'll talk;--what shall we talk about? Oh! there are themes enough for many a bout Of thought-entangled descant;--as to nerves-- With cones and parallelograms and curves I've sworn to strangle them if once they dare To bother me--when you are with me there. And they shall never more sip laudanum, From Helicon or Himeros (1);--well, come, And in despite of God and of the devil, We'll make our friendly philosophic revel Outlast the leafless time; till buds and flowers Warn the obscure inevitable hours, Sweet meeting by sad parting to renew;-- 'To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.' — Percy Bysshe Shelley #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho

"The Night Journey" Hands and lit faces eddy to a line; The dazed last minutes click; the clamour dies. Beyond the great-swung arc o' the roof, divine, Night, smoky-scarv'd, with thousand coloured eyes Glares the imperious mystery of the way. Thirsty for dark, you feel the long-limbed train Throb, stretch, thrill motion, slide, pull out and sway, Strain for the far, pause, draw to strength again. . . . As a man, caught by some great hour, will rise, Slow-limbed, to meet the light or find his love; And, breathing long, with staring sightless eyes, Hands out, head back, agape and silent, move Sure as a flood, smooth as a vast wind blowing; And, gathering power and purpose as he goes, Unstumbling, unreluctant, strong, unknowing, Borne by a will not his, that lifts, that grows, Sweep out to darkness, triumphing in his goal, Out of the fire, out of the little room. . . . -- There is an end appointed, O my soul! Crimson and green the signals burn; the gloom Is hung with steam's far-blowing livid streamers. Lost into God, as lights in light, we fly, Grown one with will, end-drunken huddled dreamers. The white lights roar. The sounds of the world die. And lips and laughter are forgotten things. Speed sharpens; grows. Into the night, and on, The strength and splendour of our purpose swings. The lamps fade; and the stars. We are alone. — Rupert Brooke #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho

"Sonnet 129: The expense of spirit in a waste of shame" The expense of spirit in a waste of shame Is lust in action: and till action, lust Is perjur'd, murderous, bloody, full of blame, Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust; Enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight; Past reason hunted; and no sooner had, Past reason hated, as a swallow'd bait, On purpose laid to make the taker mad: Mad in pursuit and in possession so; Had, having, and in quest, to have extreme; A bliss in proof,-- and prov'd, a very woe; Before, a joy propos'd; behind a dream. All this the world well knows; yet none knows well To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell. — William Shakespeare #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho

No experience is a cause of success or failure. We do not suffer from the shock of our experiences, so-called trauma - but we make out of them just what suits our purposes. – Alfred Adler #motivationalquote #positivethinking #dailyboost

Daily Words of God: Knowing God | Excerpt 1 Everyone should examine anew his life of believing in God to see whether, in the pursuit of God, he has truly understood, truly comprehended, and truly come to know God, whether he truly knows what attitude God bears to the various types of human beings, and whether he truly understands what God is working upon him and how God defines his every act. This God, who is by your side, guiding the direction of your progress, ordaining your destiny, and supplying your needs—how much do you, in the final analysis, understand and how much do you really know about Him? Do you know what He works on you every single day? Do you know the principles and purposes on which He bases His every action? Do you know how He guides you? Do you know the means by which He supplies you? Do you know the methods with which He leads you? Do you know what He wishes to obtain from you and what He wishes to achieve in you? Do you know the attitude He takes to the multifarious ways in which you behave? Do you know whether you are a person beloved of Him? Do you know the origin of His joy, anger, sorrow, and delight, the thoughts and ideas behind them, and His essence? Do you know, ultimately, what kind of God is this God that you believe in? Are these and other questions of the sort something that you have never understood or thought about? In pursuing your belief in God, have you, through real appreciation and experience of God’s words, cleared up your misunderstandings about Him? Have you, after receiving God’s discipline and chastening, arrived at genuine submission and caring? Have you, in the midst of God’s chastisement and judgment, come to recognize the rebelliousness and satanic nature of man and gained a modicum of understanding about God’s holiness? Have you, under the guidance and enlightenment of God’s words, begun to have a new outlook of life? Have you, in the midst of the trial sent by God, felt His intolerance for man’s offenses as well as what He requires of you and how He is saving you? If you do not know what it is to misunderstand God, or how to clear up this misunderstanding, then one can say that you have never entered into true communion with God and have never understood God, or at least one can say you have never wished to understand Him. If you do not know what is God’s discipline and chastening, then you surely do not know what are submission and caring, or at least you have never truly submitted to or cared for God. If you have never experienced God’s chastisement and judgment, then you will surely not know what is His holiness, and you will be even less clear as to what man’s rebellion is. If you have never truly had a correct outlook on life, or a correct aim in life, but are still in a state of perplexity and indecision over your future path in life, even to the point of being hesitant to go forward, then it is certain that you have never truly received God’s enlightenment and guidance, and one can also say that you have never truly been supplied or replenished by God’s words. If you have not yet undergone God’s trial, then it goes without saying that you will certainly not know what is God’s intolerance for man’s offenses, nor would you understand what God ultimately requires of you, and even less what, ultimately, is His work of managing and saving man. No matter how many years a person has believed in God, if he has never experienced or perceived anything in God’s words, then assuredly he is not walking the path toward salvation, his faith in God is assuredly without actual content, his knowledge of God too is assuredly zero, and it goes without saying that he has no idea at all what it is to revere God. —The Word, Vol. 2. On Knowing God. Preface https://www.holyspiritspeaks.org/recital-knowing-God-001/ https://youtu.be/opmQW9lRRSY

"Sonnet 112: Your love and pity doth the impression fill" Your love and pity doth the impression fill, Which vulgar scandal stamp'd upon my brow; For what care I who calls me well or ill, So you o'er-green my bad, my good allow? You are my all-the-world, and I must strive To know my shames and praises from your tongue; None else to me, nor I to none alive, That my steel'd sense or changes right or wrong. In so profound abysm I throw all care Of others' voices, that my adder's sense To critic and to flatterer stopped are. Mark how with my neglect I do dispense: You are so strongly in my purpose bred, That all the world besides methinks are dead. — William Shakespeare #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho

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"From The Ladies Defence" Melissa: I've still rever'd your Order [she is responding to a Parson] as Divine; And when I see unblemish'd Virtue shine, When solid Learning, and substantial Sense, Are joyn'd with unaffected Eloquence; When Lives and Doctrices of a Piece are made, And holy Truths with humble Zeal convey'd; When free from Passion, Bigottry, and Pride, Not sway'd by Int'rest, nor to Parties ty'd, Contemning Riches, and abhorring strife, And shunning all the noisy Pomps of Life, You live the aweful Wonders of your time, Without the least Suspicion of a Crime: I shall with Joy the highest Deference pay, and heedfully attend to all you say. From such, Reproofs shall always welcome prove, As being th' Effects of Piety and Love. But those from me can challenge no Respect, Who on us all without just Cause reflect: Who without Mercy all the Sex decry, And into open Defamations fly: Who think us Creatures for Derision made, And the Creator with his Works upbraid: What he call'd good, they proudly think not so, And with their Malice, their Prophaneness show. 'Tis hard we shou'd be by the Men despis'd, Yet kept from knowing what wou'd make us priz'd: Debarr'd from Knowledge, banish'd from the Schools, And with the utmost Industry bred Fools. Laugh'd out of Reason, jested out of Sense, And nothing left but Native Innocence: Then told we are incapable of Wit, And only for the meanest Drudgeries fit: Made Slaves to serve their Luxury and Pride, And with innumerable Hardships try'd, 'Till Pitying Heav'n release us from our Pain, Kind Heav'n to whom alone we dare complain. Th' ill-natur'd World will no Compassion show; Such as are wretched, it wou'd still have so: It gratifies its Envy and its Spight; The most in others Miseries take Delight. While we are present they some Pity spare, And feast us on a thin Repast of Air: Look Grave and Sigh, when we our Wrongs relate, An in a Compliment accuse our Fate: Blame those to whom we our Misfortunes owe, And all the Signs of real Friendship show. But when we're absent, we their Sport are made, They fan the Flame, and our Oppressors aid; Joyn with the Stronger, the Victorious Side, And all our Suff'ring, all our griefs deride. Those gen'rous few, whom kinder Thoughts inspire, And who the Happiness of all desire; Who wish we were from barb'rous Usage free, Exempt from Toils, and shameful Slavery, Yet let us, unreprov'd, mis. spend our Hours, And to mean Purposes employ our nobler Pow'rs. They think, if we our Thoughts can but express, And know but how to Work, to Dance and Dress, It is enough, as much as we shou'd mind, As if we were for nothing else design'd, But made, like Puppets, to divert Mankind. O that my Sex wou'd all such Toys despise; And only study to be Good, and Wise; Inspect themselves, and every Blemish find, Search all the close Recesses of the Mind, And leave no vice, no ruling Passion there, Nothing to raise a Blush, or cause a Fear: Their Memories with solid Notions fill, And let their Reason dictate to their Will, Instead of Novels, Histories peruse, And for their Guides the wiser Ancients chuse, Thro' all the Labyrinths of Learning go, And grow more humble, as they more do know. By doing this, they will Respect procure, Silence the Men, and lasting Fame secure; And to themselves the best Companions prove, And neither fear their Malice, nor desire their Love. — Lady Mary Chudleigh #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho