Best 45444 quotes in «life quotes» category

Slavery of the soul is worst than the slavery of the flesh.....

Smartass Disciple: What were you thinking when the truth is revealed unto you? Master of Stupidity: I wasn't thinking. I was having sex when it came to my mind.

Sleepwalking is the perfect exorcise for lazy people

Small wonder how pitiably we love our home, cling in her skirts at night, rejoice in her wide star-seducing smile, when every star strikes us sick with the fright: do we really exist at all?

Smartass Disciple: Master, how could I know that you’ve told me the whole truth? Master of Stupidity: Someday. [Never on earth. Otherwise I’d lose you and my job]

Smartass Disciple: Master, I believe that the truth will prevail at the end. Master of Stupidity: No 'the end' for the truth. 'Prevail' is something else.

Smartass Disciple: Master, what do say about the truth itself ? Master of Stupidity: Like sex, no fun anymore if all is revealed.

Smartass Disciple: Why we shouldn’t judge others? Master of Stupidity: Don’t! Unless you are paid for it.

Slavery remains rife, the shackles are just different. Labels and desires have replaced the cuffs and chains.

Smartass Disciple: Master, I’m going to change the whole world. Master of Stupidity: It changes within you. It changes without you.

Smart people are always learning something new. Stupid people just stay stupid. Remember that.

Smiling is not a choice It’s a Lifestyle Pass it on

Smile, just to infuriate those who envy you.

Smile more. Laugh more. Love more. Shine more.

Smile. Smile until all that's left are the broken pieces of your heart, slowly mending itself.

Snails do not despair for having short legs, but rejoice for being able to travel long distances in spite of them.

Smile awhile and while you smile - another smiles, and soon there are miles and miles of smiles and life's worth while because you smile.

Snakes hide in grass, people behind their lies.

So against the grain I serve to produce events and do what’s irrational because I am commanded to. For all their indisputable intelligence, men take this farce as something serious, and that is their tragedy. They suffer, of course… but then they live, they live a real life, not a fantastic one, for suffering is life. Without suffering what would be the pleasure of it?

So because you are converting it, you are actually conserving it.

Soar like an eagle beyond skies of heavens reach; as wings of dreams dance with winds of reality.

So called ‘success’ is the marriage of your mindset, skill-set and resourcefulness in any given context. But there are few guarantees and no perfect recipes for it. It is subjective and shifts - and is dependent on the flow of life’s wider events- which is why it is so often illusive.

So does he live, seeking, finding, joying and suffering.

So do you think there's more to her than meets the eye!" he teased, and Alex cursed herself for being so easy to read. "My guess is she's running from something. "No shit Sherlock", she agreed silently. "Probably a guy. It's nearly always a guy.

...so even if spring continues to disappoint we can say at least the lettuce loved the rain.

...so I'm not going to be good at answering these binary questions, you see. Because sometimes I am so terrified of getting out of bed, because I don't know what the world will bring, or what I'll see. I am terrified because there is so much darkness out there, there is such cruelty, I am terrified when the phone rings that someone will tell me ... someone I love will have died or the world I thought I knew will be gone for ever and I dread it, I dread the day, I dread what it will bring. And sometimes I cannot wait for the sun to rise, because the world is full of people, of human beings singing their songs and telling their stories, of lie and passion, glory and wonder, and Death is not a thing to fear, but is life's mirror reminding us to live, live, live, and I am honoured, I am so honoured, to travel the world and see the world is a place of people, and to be alive with them, living with them, even at the end.

So I am not a broken heart. I am not the weight I lost or miles or ran and I am not the way I slept on my doorstep under the bare sky in smell of tears and whiskey because my apartment was empty and if I were to be this empty I wanted something solid to sleep on. Like concrete. I am not this year and I am not your fault. I am muscles building cells, a little every day, because they broke that day, but bones are stronger once they heal and I am smiling to the bus driver and replacing my groceries once a week and I am not sitting for hours in the shower anymore. I am the way a life unfolds and bloom and seasons come and go and I am the way the spring always finds a way to turn even the coldest winter into a field of green and flowers and new life. I am not your fault.

So. I’ll keep dancing in my costumes. Day and night. And I won’t sleep as much as I should. And I will drink more than I should. And maybe, as I’m twirling and glittering, playing a retarded game of hide and seek in the middle of an open field, maybe, just maybe, whatever happens next will be bigger, and I will forget that which seems so huge to me right now.

So grateful for those who truly love me... they hear everything I don't say.

So, how close are love and genius, really? We know that they are both mentioned far more than lived.

So give up negative thinking and realize your potential

So,” he began, after several minutes of silence, “how much did it kill you having to text me?” I chuckled. “A lot. I was just glad I didn’t throw away the receipt – I didn’t fancy digging through bags of rubbish.” Danny threw me another half-smile. “So you didn’t throw it out after all? I knew it!” I rolled my eyes. “Your arrogance astounds me … could you be anymore conceited?” “Could you be anymore attracted to me?” He quipped back. I scoffed at him. “In your dreams! Do you really get girls like this?” He quirked an eyebrow and flashed me that adorable crooked grin. “Many. Why – you jealous?” “Hardly,” I shot back at him, “you’re not my type so don’t flatter yourself.” He shrugged. “One hour with me turning on the charm and you’d be singing a different tune … trust me on that.” I laughed. “You know there’s a fine line between being charming and being cocky … and you my friend, fall into the latter. And it’s not something to be proud of – it’s not an attractive quality.” Danny smirked yet again. “Ouch. You really know how to insult a guy. Are you always this pleasant?” “Are you always this obnoxious?” I retorted back. “Ooh touché. You know – if I didn’t know any better – I’d almost mistake your frostiness for flirting.” He flashed me another half-smile and threw me a knowing look. I rolled my eyes again. “Well you would, wouldn’t you Mr Overly-sure-of-himself?” I watched as his confidence seemed to go into overdrive. “Say what you will, but I know you’re secretly charmed by me.” I shrugged. “Whatever … just don’t be too disappointed when I don’t fall at your feet.” He looked at me with a twinkle in his eye. “Well, try not to be too surprised when you do.” I raised an eyebrow at him. “Don’t hold your breath.

So, if the truest currency of life is time, then how do you get more time? Because if more is merrier, than having more time should make us more happier. Right? Therefore, all we have to ask ourselves is can we buy more time? . . .

So fucking fleeting yet you looked like the rest of my life. I was always creating rainbows and you we're colourblind.

Sofya now understood the difference between life and existence: her life had come to an end, but her existence could drag on indefinitely. And however wretched and miserable this existence was, the thought of violent death still filled her with horror.

so here i sit. a sum of the parts. about a third way down this wonderful path, so to speak. and i've been thinking lately about a friendship that fell apart with time, with distance, and with the misunderstanding of youth. i'm trying not to confuse sadness with regret. not the easiest thing at times. i dont regret that certain things happened. i understand that perhaps i had a choice in the matter, or perhaps i believe in fate. probably not, but so far actions as small as the quickest glance to events as monumental as death have pushed me slowly along to right here, right now. there was no other way to get here. the meandering and erratic path was actually the straightest of lines. take away a handful of angry words, things once thought of as mistakes or regrets, and i'm suddenly a different person with a different history, a different future. that, i would regret. so here i sit. thinking about a person i once called my best friends. a man who might be full of sadness and regret, who might not give a damn, or who might, just might, remember the future and realize that's where its at.

So I drink just one more glass to get me through the night; I look at my lamp, my fan, all the pictures and posted on my wall and I know I have failed again. I have left things left unsaid, undone, unseen. With only my dreams to guide me. If I knew my greatest sins were behind me, and not only something I felt, I would feel safe alone in my flawed arms, hoping to touch something purer and lovelier than me, so I think of you. I know what hopes are left to you, I know what pressure they bring and I still feel them because if anything hopes are wasteless. They are the infinite until we become the finite. I know I should not be scared of them, I know that they could be false, but dreams themselves are only false when the individual is false. I am false. I am hope. I am all the things I wish I could be but never see. So I see you, beautiful, long black hair, I say: God let this all be for something. And you sit there with your brown questioning eyes, you smile and I think again: God let this all be for something.

Solitude is a time when you go into a determined period of making the best of your time.

So I start now to move on, not forgetting, but taking the memories with me in my heart and in ink. The leaf has fallen and it's time for a new one to grow before I let my lie live me to death.

So it became, the law of universe, to have the, profoundest, of the words, cloaked in the, darkest of the masks.

So it was always at night, like a werewolf, that I would take the thing out for an honest run down the coast. I would start in Golden Gate Park, thinking only to run a few long curves to clear my head. . . but in a matter of minutes I'd be out at the beach with the sound of the engine in my ears, the surf booming up on the sea wall and a fine empty road stretching all the way down to Santa Cruz. . . not even a gas station in the whole seventy miles; the only public light along the way is an all-​night diner down around Rockaway Beach. There was no helmet on those nights, no speed limit, and no cooling it down on the curves. The momentary freedom of the park was like the one unlucky drink that shoves a wavering alcoholic off the wagon. I would come out of the park near the soccer field and pause for a moment at the stop sign, wondering if I knew anyone parked out there on the midnight humping strip. Then into first gear, forgetting the cars and letting the beast wind out. . . thirty-​five, forty-​five. . . then into second and wailing through the light at Lincoln Way, not worried about green or red signals, but only some other werewolf loony who might be pulling out, too slowly, to start his own run. Not many of these. . . and with three lanes on a wide curve, a bike coming hard has plenty of room to get around almost anything. . . then into third, the boomer gear, pushing seventy-​five and the beginning of a windscream in the ears, a pressure on the eyeballs like diving into water off a high board. Bent forward, far back on the seat, and a rigid grip on the handlebars as the bike starts jumping and wavering in the wind. Taillights far up ahead coming closer, faster, and suddenly -- zaaapppp -- going past and leaning down for a curve near the zoo, where the road swings out to sea. The dunes are flatter here, and on windy days sand blows across the highway, piling up in thick drifts as deadly as any oil-​slick. . . instant loss of control, a crashing, cartwheeling slide and maybe one of those two-​inch notices in the paper the next day: “An unidentified motorcyclist was killed last night when he failed to negotiate a turn on Highway I.” Indeed. . . but no sand this time, so the lever goes up into fourth, and now there's no sound except wind. Screw it all the way over, reach through the handlebars to raise the headlight beam, the needle leans down on a hundred, and wind-​burned eyeballs strain to see down the centerline, trying to provide a margin for the reflexes. But with the throttle screwed on there is only the barest margin, and no room at all for mistakes. It has to be done right. . . and that's when the strange music starts, when you stretch your luck so far that fear becomes exhilaration and vibrates along your arms. You can barely see at a hundred; the tears blow back so fast that they vaporize before they get to your ears. The only sounds are wind and a dull roar floating back from the mufflers. You watch the white line and try to lean with it. . . howling through a turn to the right, then to the left and down the long hill to Pacifica. . . letting off now, watching for cops, but only until the next dark stretch and another few seconds on the edge. . . The Edge. . . There is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over. The others -- the living -- are those who pushed their control as far as they felt they could handle it, and then pulled back, or slowed down, or did whatever they had to when it came time to choose between Now and Later. But the edge is still Out there. Or maybe it's In. The association of motorcycles with LSD is no accident of publicity. They are both a means to an end, to the place of definitions.

So I watch her work and put all her energy, all her force, all herself, all is inside her work. Does she think that this is what life means? She goes to work in the dark and comes home when it’s dark. Does she know what the world looks like when the sun is shining?

Soli fjella, glein og glatt, fjell står att og stengjer … Alt er tagna. Ned kjem natt på breie, svarte vengjer, då vaknar dulde strengjer. Og Sátan kjem med all sin her, og Himmelørn og Herrens vêr, og angest-orm, og eld og storm, og lògen stri’r som villast, og det er natt som stillast.

Solitude is a greater treasure than money.

Sleeping in the simple small cottage rather than hotels... and under the billion stars is one of the breathtaking experience... pause, breath, nothingness moment is what gives meaning to my busy existence, that life is felt in silence, in that moment when what you see before you can no longer be conveyed with words...

---Sleeps through the washes of the morning's colors and the warm brilliance of sunrise. She sleeps in a world where she remembers, perfectly, every detail about her husband, this day, that sentence, another touch. She will remember it all in the deepest sleep, and lose it again the moment her eyes open and she wonders how late it must be for the sun to already be so high and then remembers, in the next instant, what happened the day before.

Sleeping is terrifying. When you close your eyes and surrender your consciousness to the void, you lose yourself—voluntarily—and you're trustingly assuming you'll find yourself back out of the labyrinth again. Usually you do. But sometimes you don't. It's that uncertainty, more than anything, which kills me. That I might not wake up, and wouldn't know it. That I could be dead, dreaming I'm alive.

Slipping into bad attitudes and habits is like a beautiful queen growing older and uglier compared to the defined mission and personal standards. Time and again everyone who is serious about making their success more deliberate needs to stop by the mirror in their own mind and ask, “Mirror, mirror in my mind, am I still on course to succeed in life?

Smartass Disciple: Master, I want to eradicate all corruptions in this world. Master of Stupidity: Let it be a bit! Otherwise you'll make us jobless for good.

Slowly, it dawned on me that nothing was more important than stopping violence toward women—that the desecration of women indicated the failure of human beings to honor and protect life and that this failing would, if we did not correct it, be the end of us all. I do not think I am being extreme. When you rape, beat, maim, mutilate, burn, bury, and terrorize women, you destroy the essential life energy of the planet. You force what is meant to be open, trusting, nurturing, creative, and alive to be bent, infertile, and broken.