Best 12501 quotes in «home quotes» category

May the stars guide you on your journey, and your heart always lead you home.

may this poetry be the home you will someday come back to.

Mind, home and country are the interiorities of hygge.

Mom has reorganized the kitchen so that the one room that was everyone's room is foreign to me. My visits are punctuated with me whipping around, angrily demanding, "Where are the forks, WHY DID YOU MOVE THE FORKS?" and she has to calmly open the drawer on the other side of the kitchen as if she moved it just to ruin my life. I just found out where she puts the bowls and their new location feels like such a personal attack that I can barely talk about it without raising my blood pressure.

Moments later, I was climbing nervously into the back of the car. The driver wore the archetypal expression of an antagonist. No words were exchanged beyond the brief lines uttered to this nameless stranger, whose inclinations remained unclear. The car sped along empty roads and traversed dingy alleyways. Music blared from its speakers. I did not remember exhaling throughout the entire journey.

Money can buy you a house, but only love can buy you a home.

Most folks don't have but a few days to a week's worth of food in their houses at any given time. When they run out, they'll have to forage. Only the fools will forage in town. The smart ones will look on the outskirts.

아마 그곳이 Mi Casa With you I’mma feel rich

Mi cuarto esta oscuro, y Etienne envuelve sus brazos a mi alrededor. Escuchamos a la cantante de ópera en un silencio tranquilo. Estoy sorprendida por lo mucho que extrañare Francia. Atlanta fue casa por casi diesiocho años e incluso cuando solo he estado en Paris por los últimos nueve meses, me ha cambiado. Tengo una ciudad entera que conocer el año que viene pero no estoy asustada. Porqué tenía razón. Para nosotros dos, casa no es un lugar. Es una persona. Y finalmente estamos en casa.

Most people do not mind having a house that is smaller and/or a car that is cheaper than their neighbours’, as long as they each earn and have more money than their neighbours, and, equally important, their neighbours know that.

Mother seemed happiest when making and tending home, the sewing machine whistling and the Mixmaster whirling. Her deepest impulse was to nurture, to simply dwell; it had nothing to do with ambition and achievement in the world...How had I come to believe that my world of questing and writing was more valuable than her dwelling and domestic artistry?...I wanted to go out and do things--write books, speak out. I've been driven by that. I don't know how to rest in myself very well, how to be content staying put. But Mother knows how to BE at home--and really, to be in herself. It's actually very beautiful what she does...I think part of me just longs for the way Mother experiences home.

Mr. Arsenikos said if you knew the constellations you would never get lost. You could always find your way home.

My boyfriend likes to fuck my brains out on our kitchen island. Which tile would you recommend for that?

My cheeks are red hot, my lip still trembles, because I sent my heart to speak; every word of it delusional and awkward, an exuberance, an abrupt sound. That's how I spoke, oh, it still shows on my hot cheeks I'm now carrying home. I look down at the snow and walk past many houses, past many hedges, many trees, the snow adorns hedge, tree and house. I walk on, staring down at the snow, on my cheeks nothing but red-hot memory reminding me of my wild talk.

My bones are my unique home.

My darling husband, my heart is your home.

My father is using me as a message of hope. My sister is using me as a message of fear. I don't want to be used by anybody.

My father says you remember the smell of your country no matter where you are but only recognize it when you're far away.

My friends stood on the ground two feet below me, and miles away from understanding why I would want to sleep on a trailer platform... I couldn't possibly begin to explain what was only beginning to bud inside me: I wanted a home. I wanted to be at home, in the world and in my body (a feeling I had been missing since I'd woken up in the hospital) and somehow, in some as yet undefined way, I knew that windows in the great room and a skylight over my bed were going to help with that.

My friend Bailey is looking at me with tears in her eyes and a smile of pure joy. She sees me, the real me, not the broken little bird that my mother sees, or the Ambassador of Hope that my father sees, or the girl who was stupid enough to walk off with a stranger and ruin everyone's lives that my sister sees. Bailey sees me as I want to be: a normal, non-newsworthy, non-broken, non-victimized sixteen-year-old girl.

Men? One never knows where to find them. The wind blows them away. They have no roots, and that makes their life very difficult.

My head cleared the water, and a strong arm wrapped around my middle as my lungs automatically sucked in air. I started coughing immediately, water sputtering out of my mouth. I blinked against my blurred vision as commotion erupted around me. “Help me, man,” a voice said. It was desperate and raw. Romeo. “I got her,” said another familiar voice, Braeden. He slid his arms beneath my arms and towed me up out of the water. My legs buckled, and instead of letting me fall, he scooped me up and held me against him. I dropped my head against his shoulder and wrinkled my nose. He didn’t feel right. The sound of splashing water drifted over, and I flinched against the sound. “I got her,” Romeo said, and I was shifted against a chest I knew very well. I was home. I whimpered because he felt so good, and his arms tightened around me. “Don’t let anyone in the house,” Romeo said, and I heard Braeden agree.

My grandfather used to say ‘It is my house I am paying the bills’, my dad used to say ‘this is my house I pay the mortgage’, my generation is saying this is my house I pay the rent.

My home is my castle. Knowing it will be safe when I walk out of my door is key....

My home is not a place; it's people.

My home will never be a place, but a state of mind, which I find through my music.

My heart is my home.

My Keeper's house. Right there. Brown shingles, dark red shutters, yellow-and-black police tape wrapped around the massive tree trunks. The attic window looks out over the yard and the world narrows until that attic window is the only thing I can see.

My love for you is infinitely greater than mere words can describe which is why I haven fallen silent.

My other boy thing is that I sort of have a teeny tiny superpower. It’s not a jump-over-buildings, see-through-people’s-clothes, or lift-a-train-over-my-head one, which is good, because when you can do those kinds of things you probably have to live in a secret hideout instead of at home with your mom and dad. And I really like my room….

My sister has never not told me something before. We used to share every secret, every thought. While I was in the attic, it felt like we were forever far away. Now I'm with her again. We're so close that we're touching, but there's still a distance between us.

Neither to heaven nor to hell, my journey is towards my home.

Never buy a home from a mad scientist.

Never let a police officer into your home, as they are known to steal.

Never underestimate the significance of the little things done out of a large heart of love.

New becomes stale and old becomes fresh. The impractical, ageing estate long ago left behind to Singapore's pioneers and their homemade tofu stalls takes on a certain irreverence and originality; an anarchic streak even. It goes against the architectural grain. It stands out in a crowd, a rebel with curves. The reclusive behaviour only adds to the appeal. So the old place becomes "hip".

My home is gone and my job is gone. I have nowhere left to turn, so I’m in this for the long haul.

My heart is my heavenly home.

My Home Is My Shrine Mausoleum Of My Thoughts Dying

My house feels like home when you're there.

My heart is my happy home.

My home is my heart. I am wandering through the way of love.

My Keeper took everything from me: my home, my family, my voice. He made me powerless. But I'm home now. It may be split in two, but I have it back. My family may be broken, but I have it back. I have my voice back. I am not powerless anymore.

My love is like a lonely light wandering through the darkness searching for a home.

My outstretched arms found hers, and I was home.

My past is both a home and a storm; a home that's worth going back to and a storm that I should run away from.

My poems are the ever yearning necklace trees Pouring out day and night my ever constant love for this land

My soul has always been here, waiting silently for that fleeting touch, knowing home resides within our timeless desire...

My wife Ruth once said, “If our children have the background of a godly, happy home and this unshakeable faith that the Bible is indeed the Word of God, they will have a foundation that the forces of hell cannot shake.

My wife is alone in our full bed too. Her husband, the father of her children, never came back from Iraq. When I deployed the first time she asked her grandmother for advice. Her grandfather served in Africa and Europe in World War II. Her grandmother would know what to do. “How do I live with him being gone? How do I help him when he comes home?” my wife asked. “He won’t come home,” her grandmother answered. “The war will kill him one way or the other. I hope for you that he dies while he is there. Otherwise the war will kill him at home. With you.” My wife’s grandfather died of a heart attack on the living-room floor, long before she was born. It took a decade or two for World War II to kill him. When would my war kill me?