Best 10477 quotes in «truth quotes» category

Shepherd further argues while conjuring the spirit of Alice Walker, “We need to reexamine the things we have been taught, the things we’ve been told are biblical, the terminologies we’ve had defined for us as sexual beings. We need to ‘peel the old white man from our eyeballs before we can see clearly, see ourselves and G ~ d.

She may not be the prettiest, or the smartest, or the wealthiest at the Academy, but she could be kind. Anyone could be kind.

She must not be tempted by truthfulness, she must play the game out to the end.

She placed her hand on her chest and thought, 'So this is what the poets write about'.

She said that you--" "I don't care what she said." I stand up. "Everyone lies." "Hey," he says softly. "It's just a code." "No. Everyone lies." I stub the cigarette out. "It's just another language you have to learn." Then he delicately adds, "I think you need some coffee, dude." Pause. "Why are you so angry?

She’s a manner of speaking. Even the flowers don’t come back, or the green leaves. There are new flowers, new green leaves. There are other beautiful days. Nothing comes back, nothing repeats itself, because everything is real.

She really just thought people were better off staying away from her.

She remembered something she overheard at a dinner party -- Everyone loses their mind at least once in this lifetime. Everyone.

She's a sailboat and I'm an anchor, pulling us both down.

Sherman Reilly Duffy of the pre-World War I CHICAGO DAILY JOURNAL once told a cub reporter, 'Socially, a journalist fits in somewhere between a whore and a bartender. But spiritually he stands beside Galileo. He knows the world is round.' Well, socially I fit in just fine between the whore and the bartender. Both are close friends. And I knew the world was round. Yet, as time went by I found myself confronted with the ugly suspicion that the world was, after all, flat and that there were things dark and terrible waiting just over the edge to reach out and snatch life from the unlucky, unwary wanderer.

She's an array of undiscovered words, of feeling beyond my threshold. I'm just a man, trying to hold himself together in her wake.

She shook her head and whispered, "No. No! That can't be true. Impossible!" "You think things have to be possible? Things have to be true!

She speaks in heartbeats and the rises of her chest, words forever seared in thoughts that will never rest.

She's joking, of course, but as with all the best jokes, it contains more than a grain of truth

She told me she loved me. She told me a lot of things. Some of those things were true, and some of those may or may not have been true. It’s kind of hard to tell, because to be honest, I wasn’t listening.

She was a woman who lived however she wished without care for another, without putting the needs of those around her before her own selfish opinions. We are breeding a nation of such thinkers and individuals--intent on personal expression at all costs--and that will lead to war. I might be more a successful writer if I did not seek to address human truth, but rather spewed out my own limited opinions without care for reader or critic or any kind of propriety.

She was an echo masquerading as a shadow and she followed me just the same. The night and its moon were her favor while the sunrise and sunlight the daggers that sliced her to ribbons. She looked through half closed eyes at a blind world filled with wide eyes staring at walls. She felt pity with no care while around here steamed a burden too dense to bear. In the hours before dawn her tears slide to her jaw as a soft song escapes from between her cracked lips. A barbed song of glory and woe that hugs her tight and steals her breath, each line a quiver, every word a bind. A cage in her image meant to be broken. Destroy and recreate, scar after scar shallow and deep, her dreams were her life and the nightmares her sleep. Dark circles under eyes that truly see, time while awake moves more slowly. It trickles past her, eroding her being and pulling on her delicate seams. She unravels a little each day, tucking the threads back in every which way. In the night she is flawless and clear, the moonlight dancing in swirls, throwing half formed monograms against her wall. She traces these curves and whispers her story, an imprint in an ocean of churning shadows. Her imagination plays a scene of a teary-eyed embrace on the shores of a former dream, where droplets of her soul fell wildly below, where they and her became a part of a much larger whole. A smile rips her taunt and clenched face, the memory of the feeling of an unreal embrace. She holds herself tightly in a corner with no light and shudders with every pinprick of the downpour of night. Though muffled by the glass of her self imposed flask, she hears the birds singing their song, the natural alarm of impending light. She waits patiently for the sun, counting the half seconds and making time slow, her grey eyes less than aimless and staring at the clouds. With half closed eyes now shining a golden haloed blue, she watches the sky change colors from soft to brilliant hue. The flood of life and color takes her by surprise every day and which way. The rip cuts a little more, her restless thoughts take note and pause. She just wants to scream. To swallow the vibrant light and flood her veins with all the color ever seen, a strange desire to fix what is broken and yet wanting to break. She loses count of the seconds in the wrinkles of her palms, mere dust to wind, ashes to gale. She recites the deadly seven and stops at lust, how different from love while still the same in a twisted way. Her knees press against the worn, wooden floor with no intent to pray, she just wants the numbness and the pain. There are some things right and a few that are wrong, feeling the breath of freedom tapered against the need to belong, The sun now vomits its light across the cragged horizon, illuminating manmade lines and verdurous fuzz, her rip widens in distaste and her mind frowns in disgust. Her heart hangs limp as a shattered mirror reflecting its own cracks, each inaudible beat a glimmer of a glimpse of something more than her created deceit. This is hope. In a fragile and faceted way, the reflects are abyss and ascension portrayed intertwined with no ties holding them together. She is the half second of the transition of the beat, the moment her heart begins to flex and show more than bones and maneuverable meat. She wonders about the subtle difference between spirit and soul and whether she needs only one or both to be whole. Shaking her head as if to dislodge her thoughts, they steer from the tracks and tumble and crash, destruction and turmoil birthing creation and a new path. She thinks about the way she thinks and comes full triangle, it feels right to be so jagged rather than unburdened as a circle. With a sigh and a breath, she stands against the weight of her shoulders and the unbalance of her feet. Her half closed eyes slowly fade to grey as the light and color in the sky changes and decays. She is the moments before the sun rises and sets-1-2-3

She was a mimicry of a facade fashioned from the half-truths of her life. She was a beautiful abomination, patched together from the most pristine and terrible parts she could find. She was a black crystal of many cuts and facets whose dark glow suffocated and entranced those it washed over. There was a pointlessness in her eyes and apathy in her stature, and further in, past the symphonies of nightmarish screams was a blinding light. All the capability she could ever ask for kept in a place she would never reach. She chose the ice rather than the fire, shivering and hard with heat sparse, for while a flicker can exist in freeze's cold, it's heat will not radiate, no matter how bold. She took my face in hands that would make ice seem warm and whispered a blizzard into my ear, a cascading song of fear after fear. The lies she spilled, mixed with regrets and appeal, were cloaked in the inferno of her rage, the anger, the only thing that really made her real. This was her one semblance of life, a bottomless and endless void of proportions vast with a calamity of fusion and fission streaking through, a mindless hue, an emotion with a face, a darling of her race. The cracks spew darkness from within her ever so pale skin. They congregated on her curves and flesh in black and churning rivers and streams. They flooded every dip with blackness. They filled every hollow with unstable curiosity, this is her release, this is when she is free. The faces of deceit always laugh, they never wallow for their lies are a pleasure tool, her insides are contorted in laughter the same way, just as slick, just as cruel. A crude combination of fascination, of animation, of the darkest demons of them all. She was poetry written in pen, scratched and scribbled again and again. Ink splattered across the page, and within those scrawled words, those small, sharp incisions, an image can be seen, and you're left to wonder what, in the end, this all could mean...

She was beauty and intelligence stitched together with no seams She lived in a world with no difference between reality and dreams Excellence as habit, she was much more than simple flesh and bone She walked in the way that forced her presence to be known If I viewed the world in melody, she is the only one I would see She could conquer that world in a day and still have time for tea Soft lips curved in confidence spilling sweetness with every breath Ideas remaining and growing even after the revolving dance of death Fingers curled with the power of creation and the ease with which it came She sat upon a throne as a queen playing the world like a simple game She was fire, and laughter, and the warmth both of them brought She made the idea of perfection appear as a simple afterthought Her body danced with the tidal currents of marvelous desire She could reach the sky in a day and then push on even higher She was the best getting better, the absolute antonym of threshold The words she wrote were gilded, laid heavy with amber glow gold She was one of very many, and yet, she was the only one of them all Her taste made my mouth water, her effect hit me harder than alcohol She was quality, and substance, an actual angel in every way real Her word was solid, it was a better guarantee than a devil with a deal She was better than just human, more like power that has taken shape and form And I the lucky one who holds her close, feels her heartbeat quicken like a storm

She was carmine shadows reflecting from my crimson words. Every pulse sent a velvet ripple through the shade. Every breath, a scarlet pause.

She was coming to look on men and women as fellow survivors; well-dissemblers of their woes, who, with few signals of grief, had contained, assimilated, or just put to use their own destruction. Of those who had endured the worst, not all behaved nobly or consistently. But all, involuntarily, became part of a deeper assertion to life. Though the dissolution of love created no heroes, the process itself required some heroism. There was the risk that endurance might appear enough of an achievement. That risk had come up before.

She was exactly right and wrong in the perfect sort of way. This kiss would be the first of many, she was the type of girl I would desperately fight for to stay.

She wasn’t sure if she even needed him anymore and the thought made her sad. In consolation, she offered him a kind smile and reached for his dependable hand.

She was here. For the first time he was unsure of what to say. General Carter had led men in battle, planned strategies effecting tens of thousands of men, yet one woman left him speechless. Grace Willows General's Dawn Coming soon to Amazo

She was never going to seek gainful employment again, that was for certain. She'd remain outside the public sector. She'd be an anarchist, she'd travel with jaguars. She was going to train herself to be totally irrational. She'd fall in love with a totally inappropriate person. She'd really work on it, but abandon would be involved as well. She'd have different names, a.k.a. Snake, a.k.a. Snow - no that was juvenile. She wanted to be extraordinary, to possess a savage glitter.

She wasn't my kind of woman and that's why, that night she was. This wine is the Blood of Christ. Brings the truth out of a woman sooner than any confession box does. Makes you trust a stranger with your life, your car keys, your best-guarded secret.

She was poetry written in pen, scribbled and scrawled again and again.

She was starmetal bones with kaleidoscope eyes. A cracked framework of unique beauty, a patchwork portrait filled with swirling brush strokes, an amalgamation of delicate light and detailed shatter. I could write a novel about the way she breathes.

She was poetry written in pen, scribbled and scrawled again and again. Ink splattered across the page. And within those scratched words, those small, sharp incisions, an image can be seen and you're left to wonder what, in the end, this all could mean.

She was the sort of girl who flooded my five senses. Her voice was melody to my ears, her taste gave birth to an eternal thirst, her scent sprouted goosebumps along the length of my body, her touch riveted with electricity that would've been static with any other... all these things considered, it was impossible for me not to stare. I began to see her everywhere, in everything.

She was small. Her shadow moved in the dance of chaos before her as the inferno blazed behind her and licked the sky with its many tongues. She clutched an indistinguishable toy with both arms tightly. Her face was serene. Her eyes shone with courage more immense than the surrounding flames. She was small, but at that moment, I've never seen a bigger person.

She was the half-whispers born from half-thoughts, the half-breaths of dying half-hearts.

She was truthful, or I was the greatest dupe who ever existed. I can only believe in our ecstasy. I don't want to know, I only want to love her.

She who leads with her heart is never forgotten.

She wore her battle scars like wings, looking at her you would never know that once upon a time she forgot how to fly

Show a man too many camels' bones,or show them to him too often,and he will not be able to recognize a camel when he comes across a live one.

Shine your light, be true to yourself, be the best you can be. Show your true colours, be real, be honest, be genuine. Share your kindness, your love, your insights. Stand strong in who you are, Simply be yourself. Sincerely YOU Steadfast

Should you wish to pursue the infinity of truth, you must make yourself humble as ashes and vigorous as the wind.

Should’ve, could’ve, would’ve, but you didn’t. So you move on.

Shraddha, loving trust, is a spiritual discipline in itself between the spiritual teacher and student.

Shraddha, loving trust, is the climate between a spiritual teacher and a student.

Silent lies are more venomous than cruel truths

Sijawahi ona silaha kali na nzuri kama ukweli. Ukiwa mkweli utaipenda tu. Watu wanaogopa ukweli kwa sababu ya makali yake ndiyo maana waongo.

Silence doesn't mean he or she doesn't know the answer. Just in time, you will know what his or her response.

Silence is only awkward if one cannot feel a connection with the other.

Silence might be a shout for the truth. It might be the speech that someday, in its truest, most uncontaminated, unadulterated state, all will be revealed.

Silence is very dangerous, especially when your words can be the only source of healing at a moment.

Silence leads to acceptance, which leads to liberation. All of our conditioning is then suspended; so, too, are morals, manners, even simple courtesy. Dogmas, rules, commandments, churches, political parties, opinions, doctrines, ideologies, and gurus fall away. All that remains is reality. All that remains is truth. How free we suddenly feel!

Similarly with regard to truth, won't we say that a soul is maimed if it hates a voluntary falsehood, cannot endure to have one in itself, and is greatly angered when it exists in others, but is nonetheless content to accept an involuntary falsehood, isn't angry when it is caught being ignorant, and bears its lack of learning easily, wallowing in it like a pig?

Simply awareness will make you see, what has been, what will be and what could be.