Best 37 quotes in «lost and found quotes» category

If we were to just accept we're not so different from each other, we wouldn't feel so alone.

In many ways my life has been rather like a record of the lost and found. Perhaps all lives are like that.

In searching for myself, I have created myself.

It was then I thought of Corsica, the place we had discovered together. I craved the wind, the sun and salt, the simplicity of the island.

I looked at him like a stranger, someone I’d never seen before, and he looked at me like I’d been lost to him for a thousand years and finally found.

it’s a constant struggle between what i want and what i should do in the name of izzat and haya.

I’ve lost my wild heart once. Twice. Too many times to count. I’ve lost her most often when I’ve forgotten myself, when I’ve denied my own truths, when I’ve pushed down the need to create for so long that my heart...she finds better things to do. The funny thing is, that the losing and the finding are interwoven. We must lose our wild hearts from time to time, I believe. We must so that we know why we need them. We must so that we remember that in order to be found we must go into the wilderness. Sometimes, it is only in the getting lost that we can find our way back home.

Lost things never like to be found until they've been forgotten.

Music for him was a way to show his love and desire for me. It was beautiful and raw. But it was his escape route as well. It took him inward, away from restraints and walls. He could feel the music wash over him, the lyrics taking his thoughts wherever they needed to be in those moments. He lived for dreams and fantasies. He was full of humor and charm, yet if it weren't for his love of music his life was overwhelmingly dull.

Smartass Disciple: Master, I don’t need a fairytale.I need you to tell me the truth. Master of Stupidity: It is not funny if you just found it. No drama if no lost at first.

pleas for forgiveness dropping like sweat or red rain or tears from the monster’s mouth and the devil laughs scathingly “i did not control you” and misbahas become nooses throwing the world into fire and fog smears the streets

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Sometimes,” she whispered, her lips brushing his cheek, “you need to be lost in order to be found.

The debris of her married life was enough to sever the tie between reality and dreams, the fine line between desire and temptation. Where did she draw the line? When did she admit defeat and surrender?

Svi smo mi malo izgubljeni u ovom svetu.

Rushing my lips, touching me boldly. Taking, taking as though he was the wind. He took my breath away.

The Bright Young People. The press love and hate them - they celebrate them, they vilify them, and they know full well that they would not shift nearly so many papers without them.

Their love was like two matches in a wind storm. They did everything they could to protect their flame. Even if that meant they got burned along the way.

this is a world where our pain is what god eats religion is nothing but deceit god is a cheat (if he even exists)

Two reasons why I keep helping people who do not even care about their own life: First, they do not have any idea about better way of life; Second, I was one of them.

We all remember that moment in time. After that nothing was ever the same. We've been clinging one or the other yet all it causes is pain.

When all is lost, ask the I.R.S. - they'll find something.

Your name is stifled in my throat rising and falling with every breath. I keep you in silence no longer saying a word. Holding you there cautiously for the sake of your peace, speaking only from the beat in my chest.

Your purpose naturally is as unclear as your divine nature. To discover your purpose, you must reintroduce yourself to your divine nature. When you do, you'll begin to hear silent whispers directing you to your purpose.

This man I know, an object of wonder. Broken most days. Smiles with matching clouds despite his laughter like thunder. s.b.

You’ll get lost and then you’ll find it.

Don’t give me those blue eyes please, I’ve already given up on our dreams. Nothing can bring back the times where only memories reside.

A man can love her woman, or he can be her husband.

A man can love her wife, or he can be her husband.

Dreams can be lost in the Milieu, but they can always be found again. - The Malwatch

Had I known that you would be my first glimpse of spring, I would've kissed every fallen petal of my hope along the way.

i am a girl with the devil in my eyes and hades as my lover, dancing our way to an underworld, where he pins me against the wall and fingers out of me a silent confession

her dream was dipped in honey; of a girl with hair like fire and eyes like the night sky

I am thankful to the Lord for my redemption. I was once lost, now I am saved by grace.

I am of course lost in this journey I'm on, but I do remain confident, though I am lost it will be a great adventure, this adventure will surpass my wildest imagination. so call me a fool, but I'm happy to be lost.

I believe each of us is a pilgrim in our own way; we are all lost souls, trying to find our way home.

Have you ever wondered What happens to all the poems people write? The poems they never let anyone else read? Perhaps they are Too private and personal Perhaps they are just not good enough. Perhaps the prospect of such a heartfelt expression being seen as clumsy shallow silly pretentious saccharine unoriginal sentimental trite boring overwrought obscure stupid pointless or simply embarrassing is enough to give any aspiring poet good reason to hide their work from public view. forever. Naturally many poems are IMMEDIATELY DESTROYED. Burnt shredded flushed away Occasionally they are folded Into little squares And wedged under the corner of An unstable piece of furniture (So actually quite useful) Others are hidden behind a loose brick or drainpipe or sealed into the back of an old alarm clock or put between the pages of AN OBSCURE BOOK that is unlikely to ever be opened. someone might find them one day, BUT PROBABLY NOT The truth is that unread poetry Will almost always be just that. DOOMED to join a vast invisible river of waste that flows out of suburbia. well Almost always. On rare occasions, Some especially insistent pieces of writing will escape into a backyard or a laneway be blown along a roadside embankment and finally come to rest in a shopping center parking lot as so many things do It is here that something quite Remarkable takes place two or more pieces of poetry drift toward each other through a strange force of attraction unknown to science and ever so slowly cling together to form a tiny, shapeless ball. Left undisturbed, this ball gradually becomes larger and rounder as other free verses confessions secrets stray musings wishes and unsent love letters attach themselves one by one. Such a ball creeps through the streets Like a tumbleweed for months even years If it comes out only at night it has a good Chance of surviving traffic and children and through a slow rolling motion AVOIDS SNAILS (its number one predator) At a certain size, it instinctively shelters from bad weather, unnoticed but otherwise roams the streets searching for scraps of forgotten thought and feeling. Given time and luck the poetry ball becomes large HUGE ENORMOUS: A vast accumulation of papery bits That ultimately takes to the air, levitating by The sheer force of so much unspoken emotion. It floats gently above suburban rooftops when everybody is asleep inspiring lonely dogs to bark in the middle of the night. Sadly a big ball of paper no matter how large and buoyant, is still a fragile thing. Sooner or LATER it will be surprised by a sudden gust of wind Beaten by driving rain and REDUCED in a matter of minutes to a billion soggy shreds. One morning everyone will wake up to find a pulpy mess covering front lawns clogging up gutters and plastering car windscreens. Traffic will be delayed children delighted adults baffled unable to figure out where it all came from Stranger still Will be the Discovery that Every lump of Wet paper Contains various faded words pressed into accidental verse. Barely visible but undeniably present To each reader they will whisper something different something joyful something sad truthful absurd hilarious profound and perfect No one will be able to explain the Strange feeling of weightlessness or the private smile that remains Long after the street sweepers have come and gone.