Best 48 quotes of Thomas Lloyd Qualls on MyQuotes

A dream is not to be taken lightly. A dream is a powerful ally, coming to your aid. A magic tale, written in invisible ink. A golden thread, tying together the worlds.

All mastery is about doing that which the senses tell us cannot be done.

All of life is constantly in motion. Desire keeps us moving. Desire inspires us to be brave, to dream, to create. Desire is our divine connection with the creative force of the universe.

At one time or another we are all called to leave the safety of our homes, the certainty of what we know, the illusions of who we are. Not everyone will heed this call, of course. And those who do will risk losing themselves completely. But if we choose to ignore the invitation, we risk never knowing who we might have become. We risk dying without knowing what it is to live.

Awareness is more essential than a hundred skills. To be aware is to be open. And to be open is to know the path of every master who has roamed the earth.

Believing you are good is like believing in the half moon.

But I don’t think fighting monsters is all that courageous. I think the ultimate act of courage is standing still in the face of a monster. Courage is looking closely enough into its jaws to see it for what it is: an illusion. The monster isn’t real. It’s your fear of the monster that is real. And just about anything in life can look like a monster if the light is just right.

Every answer can be followed by another question.

Fire is the voice of god, speaking in tongues. Fire is the liberator of water, slipping the earthly bonds. Fire is the memory of stone, being released to the heavens. Fire is the mother of the Earth, born of desire. Fire is the seducer of wind, dancing in abandon for its beloved. Fire is the illuminator, the protector, the destroyer, and the giver of all life.

From my low perch, I watch the world as it passes by on these dirty side streets. There are no westerners in this corner of the city. Just locals going about their business. Weighing out brightly colored spices, walking back from the fish market, stopping at the paan shop, socializing over tea. Old men in lungis and flip-flops walking hand in hand and dirty-faced children who are all bright smiles and wild eyes. I am comfortable here. Sitting on this board, in this tiny chai stall, hidden away from the recognizable world. For the moment, I have disappeared.

His mission is not to wait until the world ends, but to find a way to the other side before it does. To prop open the door before it can be locked. To tie a suture before the fatal wound is made. To let in the moonlight before the sun is allowed to rise.

Holding onto misery only brings more misery into focus. All possibilities exist. But the mind has only room for one thing at a time.

i am the lion and you are the lamb and as prophesied, we will lie down together.

I believe we should demand the things our souls need. And not compromise. Not push these desires to the slagheap because we’ve been told they serve no useful purpose in our adult lives. Not tell our souls to go to their rooms because we are having this party for adults called life, and they will just be in the way because we’ll be talking about things the soul wouldn’t understand anyway. Not say it’s okay if we aren’t granted these things we need, because other people’s lives suck too.

If this is a dream, I hope I remember it.

In the end there is only light and dark. And the two are not so far apart.

It’s hard to say where a story begins and ends. You have to draw an arbitrary line somewhere. Somewhere between perception and reality. Between what is spoken and what is heard. Between what is written and what is edited out. I know this, you can’t have an ending without a beginning. Even if they are really just random pieces of the middle that tend to stand out. Staccato notes on the page. Points on a circle.

It's true we all build imaginary prisons for ourselves. Believe that we are trapped behind the invisible bars of the lives we have somehow carelessly constructed for ourselves, despite our youthful promises to ourselves. We see adults who are stagnant and miserable as we grow up. They graffiti the walls behind them with their mistakes and we swear secret oaths that we will heed those warnings. We’re much too clever, we know all the shortcuts and the back alleys.

Life is random. Life is complicated. Life is often unforgiving. And we must each live it anyway. And I don’t mean live it as if it’s a chore, something to be endured, survived. I mean, dig in, get muddy, howl at the moon, take pictures of sunsets, play in the rain, make love, savor your food, smile as much as you can. And cry when you’re sad. Live it despite the fact it pisses you off. Live it and pay as much attention as you can muster

love has no master. love knows no yesterday. love seeks no tomorrow. love needs nothing. and nothing can be taken from love. love is terrifyingly complete.

Prometheus stole fire from the gods. We are each the heirs of that divine spark. Used wisely, the spark fuels one's journey and lights the way. Treated carelessly, the spark consumes its owner and everything in its path.

Sometimes a journey is not about the traveler. It is not about a destination. It is about the bringing together of worlds. It is about lighting a path.

Sometimes I have trouble telling my dreams from reality. The farther I travel from some experience, the more unsure I am that it actually happened. Just like a dream, the closer I am to it, the more sure I am that it's real.

The ears are the eyes of the dark, as the stars are the eyes of the night sky.

The echo is a gift, passed on to us by our ancestors many ages ago, to remind us of ourselves. To confirm our existence. To remedy our loneliness. Though we must be still in order to hear it.

The monk wakes from a dream into a world of mists and thunderclouds. The clouds play children's games with him. They show him dissolving images of yaks and sheep, serpents and hawks, angels and dragons. He closes his eyes and the clouds count to ten. He opens his eyes and they look for him.

The moon speaks in slivers and halves.

The painter folded back the heavy curtain, standing in the stream of light breaking through the damp thickness of the room. He paused, still holding the drape in his hand as he considered with suspicion that a world could exist outside the window.

the painter had no need for grammar. words fell from his brushes already knowing where to stand, sit, lie down.

The painter knew that color was not something you controlled but something you set free. He believed that color knew its way home.

The painter knew the mirror lied. And the canvas told the truth.

The planet you inhabit is a single plane of infinite dimensions, stretched like a guitar string, and standing before you like a concubine waiting for your command.

The rain reminds him that one travels to sacred places in order to awaken that which lies sleeping within. He journeys on this path not to escape the world, but to enter it more deeply. Sometimes that is the only way we can open the doors to our own hearts, to realize that the whole of the earth lives inside the human heart.

The reflection on the surface of the water is often mistaken for the mysteries that lie beneath. Likewise, the reflection of the moon is mistaken for its own light. In the quest for wisdom, each person must emerge from the illusions of the world and begin the journey towards the sacred mountain.

The universe is abundant and supports each of us. In order to see this, though, we must open all of our senses.

The world is as big as our ideas of it.

Things are often not what they seem. And then, sometimes they are. The trick is to learn what is real.

To be human is to be whole, but to fail to see this wholeness.

To paint one must forget everything else. Where you live, who you know, what you eat, when to sleep. The landscape of the canvas becomes your only reality. The planet you inhabit is a single plane of infinite dimensions, stretched like a guitar string, and standing before you like a concubine waiting for your command.

To work in the dark, you must be able to hold your own light, and still be intimate with the darkness.

We think our world into being.

Whatever some people might say, it seems to me that a world in which I can fly, bend space and time, and meet with people who have been dead for years, deserves more consideration than it gets. If I weigh the waking world on one side of the scale and the dream world on the other, which one is more substantial? Doesn’t a world of endless possibilities seem more likely to contain the whole of our lives than the fraction of the world that we call real?

Without bridges, there are no connections. Without bridges, there are only chasms. Without bridges, there are only longings. We cannot wait for the land to flatten and the stream to narrow before we seek to cross.

words are a border collie’s worst nightmare.

You are tired of always needing answers. Always answering questions. Always asking questions that demand answers. Pretending all the questions have to be answered. Pretending there are actually answers. And even getting paid to convince others they’re true. That there is such a thing as right answers.

You dream of a new world to come, a new world to be birthed, a new dream to be dreamt. In the dream, a flower grows, a lotus from which the creator and the creation will unfold. From which light will begin to shine upon this vast dark sea, unveiling all the magic sleeping within. From this flower, infinite worlds and universes will be born. Each will contain a seed of light. And these seeds will light the heavens for all to guide their journeys by.

You might think of a thought as an invisible, innocuous little thing. Something that barely exists. But a thought is something hard to conceal. Hold a thought and it melts all over your hands. Touch something else and now you’ve left traces of it. Hide it under your shirt and it bleeds through.

You move into the darkness, wrapping it around you like a heavy cloak. You dive into it naked like a midnight swim, slip beneath its covers and invite it to envelope you, as a dream. You lose yourself in the richness of its mysteries. You start to become the darkness. It starts to become you.