Best 86 quotes in «running away quotes» category

Questions from earlier circle like buzzards. Am I running away or moving forward?

Ran away? Or ran toward? It's subjective.

Running away is futile. Even if you run very far away from home to a remote mountain monastery, as long as you carry the same attitude you've always had, you'll never truly get away. You'll just end up transferring all the stuff from home onto the other people at the monastery... Lots of people run away from responsibilities to "find themselves." But not so many of them have a real commitment to the truth. It would be better to find the truth in the life you're living, with the responsibilities you've already accepted. Responsibilities have a way of finding you, even if you run away from them.

Ricewind had always relied on running away. But somerimes, perhaps, you had to stand and fight, if only because there was nowhere left to run.

Running away from someone you love is a race you will never win.

Running is the easiest solution to every problem. The capability of choosing this option on the basis of problem defines your personality.

Running away has been futile. Wherever I went life would be the same. Resisting my chains only seem to tighten them. Yet all around me women found ways to slip those bonds, to discreetly flout the rules and then return to their so-called captivity before anyone noticed.

Running, you should know, is a kind of stillness.

Sadness at that age had the pleasing texture of imprisonment: you reared and sulked against the bonds of parents and school and age, things that kept you from the certain happiness that awaited. When I was a sophomore in college, I had a boyfriend who spoke breathlessly of running away to Mexico - it didn't occur to me that we could no longer run away from home.

Running away was not like it was in stories. People did not try and stop you. They did not give chase. The thing people didn't understand was that you had to decide what you were running away from. Most of the time it wasn't mothers or fathers or monsters or villains; most of the time you were running away from that little voice inside your head, the one telling you to stay where you are, that everything will turn out all right.

Should I run so far that I reach the sea, I should not have run far enough, for the thing I run from rides on my back and in my blood and will not be shaken.

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 are you going to tell me what happened last night?" "You were there. You saw what happened." "No. Last night...that wasn't you." "The last time you saw me I was jumping off the wall, Megan." Megan's gaze burns into me. She isn't backing down. "You were always a daredevil, but you never had a death wish. The girl I knew was always running towards something. Last night...you were running away.

Sometimes I wish I was in the movies...Not to be famous or nothing. I just wish I was made of light. Then nobody’d know me except for what they saw up on that screen. I’d just be light up on the silver screen, and not at all a man.

Sometimes I feel as if I'm racing with my own shadow, Korogi says. But that's one thing I'll never be able to outrun. Nobody can shake off their own shadow.

Sometimes its hard to tell how fast the current's moving until you're headed over a waterfall

specific fund, you see. It’s a sort of general fund. Because at some point everyone wants to run away from their life. It’s about the only thing human beings have in common.

The end is soon...I feel it. If you're close, run away, far, hide, do whatever you can. Who knows if we'll be safe.

The only thing that keeps me going, is the desire to get away as far as possible.

The little island seemed to float on the dark lake-waters. Trees grew on it, and a little hill rose in the middle of it. It was a mysterious island, lonely and beautiful. All the children stood and gazed at it, loving it and longing to go to it. It looked so secret - almost magic. “Well,” said Jack at last. “What do you think? Shall we run away, and live on the secret island?” “Yes!” whispered all the children. “Let’s!

There aren't any rules to running away from your problems. No checklist of things to cross off. No instructions. Eeny, meeny, pick a path and go. That's how my dad does it anyway because apparently there's no age limit to running away, either. He wakes up one day, packs the car with everything we own, and we hit the road. Watch all the pretty colors go by until he finds a town harmless enough to hide in. But his problems always find us. Sometimes quicker than others. Sometimes one month and sometimes six. There's no rule when it comes to that, either. Not about how long it takes for the problems to catch up with us. Just that they will—that much is a given. And then it's time to run again to a new town, a new home, and a new school for me. But if there aren't any rules, I wonder why it feels the same every time. Feels like I leave behind a little bit of who I was in each house we've left empty. Scattering pieces of me in towns all over the place. A trail of crumbs dotting the map from everywhere we've left to everywhere we go. And they don't make any pictures when I connect dots. They are random like the stars littering the sky at night.

There was something you failed to understand about me. I never run!

The sheep stampeded away because sheep are smart enough not to trust anyone for anything, especially not people who sleep in and crawl out of sheds, and I couldn't disagree with those sheep because I would run away from me, too, if I was a sheep and not me and even if I was me, I'd still like, some mornings, to be the thing running far from me instead of sewn inside myself forever.

The smell of cigarette smoke in the air in a tavern that changes names often, a bar cursed because of a girl who died of a drug overdose in the basement, we put a few coins in the jukebox; chose “Angel Band” by Johnny Cash and sat down at the bar, ordered a soda, you wanted a whiskey on the rocks. We saw the coal miner who moved here from West Virginia knocking back liquor like I drink sweet tea. No one asked why he was so solemn today. It was warm. It was relatively quiet. To anyone else, this place could feel sinister. But to us, it was freedom. It was a hiding place. No one was ever here long enough to know us. And we liked it that way.

To stay alive, you have to keep moving. Running, relocating, driving, doing everything in your power to stay in motion and make it to safety.

To want to run away is an essence of being human, it transforms any staying through the transfigurations of choice. To think about fleeing from circumstances, from a marriage, a relationship or from a work is part of the conversation itself and helps us understand the true distilled nature of our own reluctance. Strangely, we are perhaps most fully incarnated as humans, when part of us does not want to be here, or doesn’t know how to be here. Presence is only fully understood and realized through fully understanding our reluctance to show up. To understand the part of us that wants nothing to do with the full necessities of work, of relationship, of loss, of doing what is necessary, is to learn humility, to cultivate self-compassion and to sharpen that sense of humor essential to a merciful perspective of both a self and another.

Turning our backs & running away isn’t a good idea unless there is a certainty of an escape door; running scared drains us mentally & physically, making it easy for the problems to overpower us without any struggle; March forward, fight the problem head-on with the intensity that will make the problems runaway.

When I left, I took everything with me...I reached under my bed where there were two leather-bound journals that had gold lettering on the front covers and that fastened with a flimsy lock. I read the lettering out loud to myself and gingerly placed the books into my backpack. Diary.

We all flee in hope of finding some ground of security

When you don't belong anywhere it doesn't matter where you are or where you go, if you stay or move on. You become a leaf floating with the will of the wind.

You scared the crap out of me,” I shove his bare chest with a growl. “Was that you at the front door?” “Ya think?” He fires back with a raise of his eyebrows, taking hold of my arm again, as he practically drags me back toward the front entry. “Did it occur to you to say something?” I shoot back with a scowl. “I thought you were some kind of psychopath.” My frown deepens, as I consider whether he might in fact be a psychopath.

-Wherever you go, there you are! You can’t run away from yourself, or the underlying situation, no matter where you go. You won’t find happiness anywhere, unless it’s already there in your heart, and therefore you have carried it with you.

Why did you run away last time?” William asks quietly, so quietly that at first, I think I’m imagining it... “Because you are dangerous for me,” I say in the same tone so that he is the only one who can hear me... “Because,” I say, but then I stop, my throat suddenly too dry. 7…6… My tongue darts out to wet my lips before continuing in a hurry. “Because…” 5… “You could be everything I ever wanted.” 4…3… “Everything and so much more.

Without hesitation, Dove chose the nowhere road. For that was the only place, in his heart of hearts, that he really wanted to go.

You've learned a new rule and it's simple: don't put yourself in situations you'd like to run away from. But when you run, run back to yourself, like that bunny in Runaway Bunny runs to its mother, but you are the mother, and you'll see that laer and be very, very proud.

I wish I could meet a Christian who would proselytize to me, but they keep running away from me. I wanna talk to you all.

That done, a second list began to sketch itself from memory. Food, water, containers, blankets... I set three piles aside, starting with the blankets, then took what pillowcases I could find. They always made useful bags for carrying things when backpacks weren't available. One small pot for boiling, one small pan for cooking or additional self-defense. Knives, always good. One fork and a spoon for each of us. More than that, and they'd clatter inside our bags, keeping us from moving silently. No batteries. One flashlight that seemed to be working for now, even if the beam wasn't strong. The real coup would have been canned food or toilet paper, but those were truly one-in-a-million finds. "Did you forget to tell us that you're taking us camping?" I'm all four roughing it as long as that entails air-conditioning and a nice view." ... "Sorry," I muttered, forcing myself onto my feet. "Old habits.

We are to learn about fear, not how to escape from it.

And I left him there, this saver of lives. I left him on his knees peering into the eyes of a stranger he’d rescued from oblivion.

And then I laugh, because it's so ridiculous and so gorgeous and it's all I can do to not melt into a fit of giggles. [...] If they're willing to accept me and my guilty conscience, why the hell shouldn't I run away with the circus?

Anyway, what can one do here? I am seriously thinking of running away and joining the Foreign Legion or the North-West Mounted Police—whichever work the shorter hours.

Are we running away from home?” I asked, giving voice to the question that had been on my mind for two days, ever since the lady at the Wok On restaurant asked where we were from and my mother lied. My mother had laughed. I couldn’t see her face, but her laugh I could always conjure—rich, ringing, like bells calling you to a wedding. “No, silly goose. You can’t run away from home. It’s not home if you want to run away from it.” She paused to brush a strand of hair from my face. “You can only run away from a house. Home is something you run toward.

As one of the little streams starts snaking my way, inching closer to the toe of my shoe, I hop over the spreading puddle and out of its reach. I don’t look back to see if it’s going to follow me. I’m already three blocks away and still gaining speed

Don’t pretend, Bianca,” he said. “You’re smarter than that, and so am I. I finally figured out what you meant when you left. You said you were like Hester. I get it now. The first time you came to my house, when we wrote that paper, you said Hester was trying to escape. But everything caught up with Hester in the end, didn’t it? Well, something finally caught up with you, but you’re just running away again. Only, he”-Wesley pointed to my bedroom door-“is your escape this time.” He took a step toward me, forcing me to crane my neck even more to see his face. “Admit it, Duffy.” “Admit what?” “That you’re running away from me,” he said. “You realized you’re in love with me and you bailed because it scared the shit out of you.

Every day, when you're on the run, is the whole of your life. Every free minute is a short story with a happy ending.

Every time the song looped, all I heard was the part about the lies - and how they weigh you down. Tonight, as I drive toward Detroit in my Jeep, I know what those words really mean. It's not just the lies they're referring to. It's life. You can't run to another town, another place, another state. Whatever it is you're running from - it goes with you. It stays with you until you find out how to confront it.

Fluttershyes are like regular shyes, only shinier, and, apparently - also shyer. Whenever petted - they don't flutter, but run away instead.

Going away won't change anything if you're running from yourself.

He’s close enough now that I can hear his footfall on the pavement, and I know my chances of outrunning him are slim. I’m practically in a full sprint, and my pounding heart is begging me to take it down a notch. I try to will my feet to keep pace with its beat; but I think it’s humanly impossible to run that fast. And then it dawns on me that my footsteps are the only ones I hear. Somewhere along the way, Tristan’s must have come to a stop. And I can’t quite explain why I’m running this fast in the first place. I slow to a jog, intending to just pick up with my original pace; but I can’t seem to suck in breaths fast enough to propel my feet any further. My molten shoes stutter to a stop, as my hands come to rest on my knees. I’m still wheezily sucking in breath after breath of thick, humid air, when I warily turn to look over my shoulder. Tristan’s standing about fifty feet back, hands on his hips and a completely flummoxed twist in his forehead, his chest rising and falling with equally winded gasps. Evidently I was running faster than I gave myself credit for. As he silently watches me, regaining his breath as I do mine, the confusion on his face turns to undeniable hurt (and not the physical kind). I’ve wounded him, and I can’t even explain why. Man, I really am an ass. I start the slow walk of shame back to where he stands, one hand upon my hip as I pull in a few more calming deep breaths. I’m debating whether to concoct some excuse for my behavior…Maybe I left my contacts out today, and didn’t recognize his face? Who would blame me for running for my life, if a stranger seemed to be following me? But as I amble closer—his wrinkled forehead already fading in the wake of a welcoming smile—I decide not to dig myself a deeper hole. I’m already a straight-up jerk. I’d rather not add lying to my repertoire.

Hey, Mom, I'm a married woman now. I want to have ten babies and live here forever and ever." How weird is that? It's almost ROMANTIC. And then I realized that my sister was trying to LIVE a romance novel. Man, that takes courage and imagination. Well, it also took some degree of mental illness, too, but I was suddenly happy for her. And a little scared.