Best 4943 quotes in «sleep quotes» category

Some experiences are so wonderful, we are like those who dreamed experiencing it. Yet some are beyond amazing when compared to our best experiences we are as though we had been sleeping all the while.

Some dream and dream but their dreams remain dreams...

Some like to sleep. Some like to read late into the night without catching a wink. In a world of dreamers, both are essential.

Some of my favorite memories are of falling asleep.

some of the happiest moments of my life have occurred just before I fall asleep or wake up, when I linger in that twilight world between consciousness and unconsciousness, in a state of somnolent repose but also savoring the vital goodness of remaining this close to the vegetative in myself

Some of us have resolved to escape into drunkenness before the sleep takes us.

Some people are married to ideas that they do not love, ideas that do not love them in return. They are married to ideas they do not sleep with, ideas that rob them of their sleep.

Some people count sheep. I self-loathe.

Some people have compassion for even strangers, but not for their own bodies.

Something is gone. My sleeping capsule, my red and blue zeppelin Drops me from a terrible altitude. Carapace smashed, I spread to the beaks of birds.

Sometimes, all you can do is lie in bed, and hope to fall asleep before you fall apart.

Sometimes a voice is there to give you warning, at other times it’s just a voice in the head, alerting you that the landslide’s under way and that your life is changing forever in that instant; the moment you touch a loved one’s face and realize they’re too deeply still for sleep, they’re gone.

Sometimes, I think, that in the mornings when you first wake up, every thing that happened in the previous day rushes through our mind so fast, we, A: Don't realize it. B: Become more tired, die a little inside, and become groggy. Since everyday, we die a little inside we age closer and closer to death. We constantly grow older, and we're constantly dying. Therefore, don't wake me up early, or I'll take it that you wanted to kill me.

Sometimes I wait at the bottom of those dark stairs, I sit at the bottom of the stairs, I wait beyond the bottom of the stairs and listen to the sounds my wife and children make as they sleep, the sounds our animals make as they step carefully through our dreams and out the other side to polished floor and cold window. Sometimes I wait so long I become unsure if I am asleep, or awake, or dead.

Sometimes I wake up and think... 'I was asleep.

Sometimes I wanted to go to sleep and not wake up. I’d lie awake in bed, wondering, wishing, hoping that I’d close my eyes and then I just … wouldn’t open them ever again.

Sometimes I wish I had not woken up from a beautiful dream, and continued dreaming within sleep upon sleep until I become a dream itself. Because sometimes waking up is more frightening than a nightmare.

Sometimes one awakes with the knowledge that unrecallable dreams have been lining your sleep, and though you feel rested, it is the rest of one who has lived for hours in an alternate world, another realm.

Sometimes sleep gets to be a serious and complete thing. You stop going to sleep in order that you may be able to get up, but get up in order that you may be able to go back to sleep.

Sometimes your vision won't make sense to people because it's too big for small minds. Keep it to yourself and make it happen.

Sonnet LXXXI And now you're mine. Rest with your dream in my dream. Love and pain and work should all sleep, now. The night turns on its invisible wheels, and you are pure beside me as a sleeping ember. No one else, Love, will sleep in my dreams. You will go, we will go together, over the waters of time. No one else will travel through the shadows with me, only you, evergreen, ever sun, ever moon. Your hands have already opened their delicate fists and let their soft drifting signs drop away; your eyes closed like two gray wings, and I move after, following the folding water you carry, that carries me away. The night, the world, the wind spin out their destiny. Without you, I am your dream, only that, and that is all.

So often we say, ‘You need to sleep when your baby sleeps’ but that’s never the case. When your baby is sleeping, you’re trying to get everything else done.

Soon, I'd be home again. Soon, God willing, I'd be asleep.

Sorrow can sometimes induce sleep.

Stop over-loading yourself with numberless tasks. Give time to yourself for rest and positive deliberations. You can’t think better and plan better when you are under stress!

Spies and parents never sleep.

SPRING SLEEP The pillow's low, the quilt is warm, the body smooth and peaceful, Sun shines on the door of the room, the curtain not yet open. Still the youthful taste of spring remains in the air, Often it will come to you even in your sleep.

Spare parts lay scattered, every turn wrought with twisted dread, all over the ground, the rooftops, and they were still. Some moving, twitching, enough to almost see. Half cracked and shattered, but still visible and eerie, smiles spread wide and thin, teeth decayed and not, paralleled by hollowed, some missing or in other places, eyes of shades green and blue and some brown with red, but no white, just color portrayed, even if it may be dampened in every way. The beauty in the frivolity, the polished shining gears and cracked glass illuminated so brightly, create a portrait of terror and wonder, significance of a different sort, that only human eyes can see and human minds can feel, but all this is something only dreams, the ethereal concepts that fuse and mince chaos and order into a more paradoxical state, can create and fathom and fashion and make. And yet, doubts upon anxious contradictions, my fingers can feel the brokenness of what can be witnessed, an abyss within a void where deeper within the still lies a glow, a half pulse of a flutter, a vein of mimicry of the reverse of all I see, with concave eyes lost in the magnitude of image whole. Massive and monumental, my feet dragged behind me, cuts in the dirt and spiraling tracks. And then I awoke, half my world disappeared. So much empty within the whole, holes of sizes big and small and all between, the loss of, what it was to be called, my dream. And then my life ended, the holes and tears and cracks complete, empty eyes can still see so clearly, the nothingness that everything has become, shadow and matte a combination of dark on black, in the nothingness that all has become, it is all complete in a way opposite of what I know, a world different in every way and stretch I see, vision upon view of different and strange, only when empty eyes, longing for purpose dreading its meaning, gaze upon their own reflection will the last piece fall into place, a round puzzle of pieces triangular and square, the completeness in the nothingness can be seen, mind flooded with wonder, envisioning the antonym of a dream, and what, in this new beginning, this all could mean. With a blink it all changes, incomplete images appear, holes are wide and seen because you are back now, between death and dream, interwoven as an integral part of this necessary in between seam, and when you touch, worry creases the brow, their faces, half real and the other untouchable, your hand passes through their skin, penetration of the most intimate sort, holding their hearts as if for sport. The warmth, the beating, the crimson piercing blood, so beautiful, the engine that we run, pumping and pumping only to cause the most dreaded flood. Now I drown, and I see you drown too. Together, we are, for split seconds few, we are torn apart and disappear in this vast blood red hue.

Step outside on the terrace if you can't sleep in the heat. Don't be surprised if you find me there. The summer stars are spectacular. Just make sure you sleep near the half wall. Stay out of the sight line of the north tower. It would be scandalous if Uncle Solomon watched you sleep. You know, Islamic propriety and all. And by the way, you sleep about as quiet as an egg beater.

Stop the bleeding! Gauze the wound!" And his voice became much softer, "Those are the words... I've yet to write." He died with that exhale. He died in a steaming carmine pool of unwritten stories that incredibly cold night. He always thought his work would take the form of ink, pen and paper, but as the last glow dimmed in his eyes, he realized his most meaningful words were sloppily spilled and patched together using blood, bullet holes and concrete.

Stress is equivalent to weapons of mass destruction armed for wrong reasons. The difference is that, it is less costly as compared to the atomic bombs! However, it destroys faster!

Stupid. Why do people want to pretend that death is sleep? It isn’t. It isn’t

Tell me about those days, when you stood on a thin line between dreams and reality, watching it get disappear slowly. All of a sudden there is no difference between both. And you get tore apart into nothingness. Where your mind always asked you to be awake, scared of being haunted by dreams and your heart asked you always to fall asleep, to escape from the hands of reality, because it haunted you too.

Tapping While Peeling, Back These Masks Stained With Stars… This Ashtrays My Heart, Colored In Filters Sucked Dry From The High, The Lipsticked & Famous, The Lovers The Haters, The Bent Or Those Who Live In The Cage… With Vision Sealed Tight Denying All Light.. .Left Only With Assumption From A Judge In Sleep State...

Sweet death as like sleep, when it calls for a journey on its elated wings of oblivion;an oft and quiet,an escape from these worlds;that convey a harmless comfort with its concord dreams aloft.

Tell me a story. Be my storyteller.

That last bit of hope always lingered as a stubborn thread. Every time I would try to cut it I would feel it... a pulse. My pulse. My blood is hope.

That gap between half sleep and half awakening has always been occupied by nostalgia.

That's what really broke me, she was better than any fantasy I could hope to imagine. I've spent my life creating, yet she was pristine the likes of which I could never fashion.

That was the beauty of imagination – to soak in the pleasure of seeing and hearing her, and ending it on his command whenever he wanted to.

That very way an infant goes to sleep, an adult awakens.

The blind sleep, and the deaf and dumb sleep, The prisoner sleeps well in the prison, the runaway son sleeps, The murderer that is to be hung next day, how does he sleep? And the murder’d person, how does he sleep?

The Best Health Care Plan Is A Self Care Plan

The 2ams have held my hopes all these years as I calm my nerves down for there would only be three more hours for the world to wake up to my screams and wails of excruciating pain. Probably the drug store would open if I wait for three more hours then. 8am and the doc would prescribe me a few medicines over whatsapp. I would make three cups of tea by then. I would quiet my mouth as it would bite on my arm. By twelve I would finally be relieved as the meds would work. But it's only midnight now... wish you another goodnight's sleep....

The best sleep imaginable is sleeping in your dreams

The brittle seeds remained inside my soul, my tears the water that begged them to grow. And though I hate to admit it, you are my sun. Your light and warmth the last variables needed to see the seedlings burst and anchor. The roots in my soul, the flower and fruit in yours.

The cashier had long since left for home. By now she was probably bustling by an unmade bed that was waiting in her small room like a boat to carry her off to the black lagoons of sleep, into the complicated world of dreams. The person sitting in the box office was only a wraith, an illusory phantom looking with tired, heavily made-up eyes at the empyiness of light, fluttering her lashes thoughtlessly to disperse the golden dust of drowsiness scattered by the elctric bulbs.

The delicious, semiconscious, edge-of-wonderland kind of sleep, where I'm awake enough to control my dreams but asleep enough to forget that I'm doing it.

THE CURE FOR EXHAUSTION Sometimes, exhausted with toil and endeavour, I wish I could sleep for ever and ever; but then this reflection my longing allays: I shall be doing it one of these days.

The deepest sleep is meant only for children and perfect fools.