Best 237 quotes in «wild quotes» category

This is an ode to life. The anthem of the world. For as there are billions of different stars that make up the sky so, too, are there billions of different humans that make up the Earth. Some shine brighter but all are made of the same cosmic dust. O the joy of being in life with all these people! I speak of differences because they are there. Like the different organs that make up our bodies. Earth, itself, is one large body. Listen to how it howls when one human is in misery. When one kills another, the Earth feels the pang in its chest. When one orgasms, the Earth craves a cigarette. Look carefully, these animals are beauty spots that make the Earth’s face lovelier and more loveable. These oceans are the Earth’s limpid eyes. These trees, its hair. This is an ode to life. The anthem of the world. I will no longer speak of differences, for the similarities are larger. Look even closer. There may be distances between our limbs but there are no spaces between our hearts. We long to be one. We long to be in nature and to run wild with its wildlife. Let us celebrate life and living, for it is sacrilegious to be ungrateful. Let us play and be playful, for it is sacrilegious to be serious. Let us celebrate imperfections and make existence proud of us, for tomorrow is death, and this is an ode to life. The anthem of the world.

Through the window, I saw the beautiful world outside: the sky, the sun, the cacti, the rocks, and the dirt. How I longed to return to it! I licked at the air, trying to smell the desert's delicious dusty scent, but could not. How was I able to see it without smelling it? Did humans control scents as well as the temperature and the waters? Is that what windows were for, to keep out scents? Why did they wish to put invisible barriers between themselves and the world?

To be wild, to hear the heartbeat of nature, to feel the rush of adrenal strength, to drink from the fresh air and howl at the moon – these are things that are embedded into men.

To be the thing you see, stop thinking! To be wild waves, you must quit thinking, you must leave all the thoughts before the wild waves!

Untamed thinking turns your reality into a wild expedition.

Tonight, I decided to take a stroll down to my local liquor store. Maybe I’ll find a refreshment to wash down this full moon. I hate showing up & the clerk fucking knows my name, perhaps because I’m a regular. Anyways got my shit, left…barely covering the tax. Took the long way home; to get away from that haunting typewriter. Sat down at some park bench, as I started to open my poison; A memory rushed into me. A empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s under the Christmas tree. I thought my dad would want another drink, so started to pour my bottle into the dirt & cried.

True art comes from flying with the madness so close you burn your eyelashes.

True love is like a bird of many colours, at times, soft and comforting, at others, wild and intense. Yet, it is a fire we all desire. Don’t be afraid of its intense force. It is a spark that consumes the heart, but it quenches the thirst of the seeking soul.

Unlike the Jukel, he had not been raised among the Tigani (Gypsies who inhabited eastern Romania). Revered, protected, and educated. He had been born in the wild. The offspring of a werewolf to werewolf mating. A Ruv Bengalo (devilish wolf).

Watch carefully the magic that occurs when you give a person enough comfort to just be themselves.

Wake up wild one! Your mind is a cageless bird waiting to fly to uncharted lands. Like the phoenix, you'll rise again with renewed vigor, clarity, compassion and insight.

We are never alone We are all wolves Howling to the same moon.

We human beings regard ourselves as (or compare ourselves to) animals only when it suits us.

Weetzie could not even cry and make Kleenex roses. She remembered the day her father, Charlie, had driven away in the smashed yellow T-bird, leaving her mother Brandy-Lynn clutching her flowered robe with one hand and an empty glass in the other, and leaving Weetzie holding her arms crossed over her chest that was taking its time to develope into anything

We hold on too long to peoples words. The thing is, people talk a lot of shit. They haven't the slicest clue on who they are, they'll speak in sentences to fill the void, but will have no real understanding about the depth of chapters.

We don’t, not any of us, get to this point clean. No. We’re all dirty and ragged. Rough edges and sharp corners. Fault lines and demolition zones. We’ve got tear gas riot squads aiming straight for the protest lines of our weary souls. Landmines in our chests that we trip over every time we try to hide from the terrifying tremble of our own war torn hearts....But it is your history that delivered you this roadmap of scars. Those healed wounds and their jagged edges are proof of your infinite ability to survive, to knit broken back to wholeness, to refuse that the end is every really the end... Make friends with your teardown. Do not run from your bar brawl for forgiveness. Sit with the times you’ve fucked up and the times you lost all and the days your redemption was delivered by the hand of the last person you ever expected to give anything but darkness. And through it all know that your walled up and torn down, graffiti-covered heart is still the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

We humans are so tortured by not properly guessing what will make us happy.

What others see in you now is just a MILD chapter of you; the WILD version of your brand is yet to be visible. Just dare and will show up!

We were strange in love her and I too wild to last too rare to die.

What a fucking gorgeous night!

What if one's tendency to go wandering off is truly a gift? What if the driving force beneath the curiosity that leads a person to wander off the beaten path is not immaturity, but the wild, untamable Spirit of God, drawing them into the foliage to be refined, to discover fresh insights, and pioneer a new way forward for a new group of people?

When we’re thrown into this world we all start out as prey. If you’re lucky someone protects you, if you’re not then your parents or family become your first experience with predators. If you survive all this, as you grow you become stronger. Some stay prey their whole lives, scared of every leering face, every raised voice, every clenched fist. Some fight back, find they can hurt as well as get hurt. They discover they like it. They become predators. They think they are the strong ones. But they aren’t. The real strong ones are a different breed than the other two altogether. They also fight back, but they get no thrill from the victory. From an early age, they feel a pull to escape not only the predator prey cycle, but the entire society that spawned it, they would rather forge through the wilderness and hack out a place of their own without wasting one moment regretting their rejection of a dying, cannibalistic culture. These wild ones, they’re the ones to watch. If they ever find each other, they could change everything. Not through politics, which is the illusion of change while making sure nothing does, and not through revolution. They could change things by creating something so much better, so much more appealing that people will abandon the old world cycle of abuser and abused in droves till there is nothing left but a handful of elites screaming, “Come back, come back, we have tv, we have cool cars and fidget spinners, don’t miss out on your fidget spinners.” So, if you’re one of those wild ones and you cut yourself out a little piece in the wilderness, burn a big, bright fire at night so the rest of us can find you.

When it comes to love we are primates breaking sticks while pointing to our hearts.

When the tidal waves wildly behaving My bare feet on the shore busy saving The calm warmth leaking out of the sand To let my heart feel peacefully tanned!

Why kill a wild thing when you can take it home and tie it down?

White Fang received the nursing. Judge Scott's suggestion of a trained nurse was indignantly clamoured down by the girls, who themselves undertook the task. And White Fang won out on the one chance in ten thousand denied him by the surgeon. The latter was not to be censured for his misjudgement. All his life he had tended and operated on the soft humans of civilization, who live sheltered lives and had descended out of many sheltered generations. Compared with White Fang, they were frail and flabby, and clutched life without any strength in their grip. White Fang had come straight from the Wild, where the weak perish early and shelter is vouchsafed to none. In neither his father nor his mother was there any weakness, nor in the generations before them. A constitution of iron and vitality of the Wild were White Fang's inheritance, and he clung to life, the whole of him and every part of him, in spirit and in flesh, with the tenacity that of old belonged to all creatures.

Wild animals are less wild and more human than many humans of this world

Wild horses wouldn't draw it from you?

Wild rejoice in jungles not in cages.

Wild waves rise and fall when they arrive And that’s what makes the calm sea alive

Wilds whisper, yet I long for their roar.

Words will scratch more hearts than swords.

Without the pain there would not be art, the patterns are the pieces of me i've lost and gained along the way.

Wolf Speaks: I wander mountains high and river pathways I seek cover in deep forests from hunters’ cruel knives Yet my cousins warm your hearts with love and loyalty Love me also even though you do not command my freedom path

You are likely to lose the heat of your passion irrespective of how hot it was when you surrender yourself to a leader with lukewarm attitude.

Write like no one is reading.

You and I will be lost and found a thousand times along this cobbled road of us.

You know a wild spirit just by looking at them, they carry a vibe that doesn't appear often but when it does my god you won't forget them. They are always passing through lives, never staying put, but always remembered long after they have left. These souls are kindred spirits, they connect deeply or not at all.

You can never stay angry too long in the bush though. At least, that's what I think. It's not that it's soothing or restful, because it's not. What it does for me is get inside my body, inside my blood, and take me over. I don't know that I can describe it any better than that. It takes me over and I become part of it and it becomes part of me and I'm not very important, or at least no more important than a tree or a rock or a spider abseiling down a long thread of cobweb. As I wandered around, on that hot afternoon, I didn't notice anything too amazing or beautiful or mindbogglingly spectacular. I can't actually remember noticing anything out of the ordinary: just the grey-green rocks and the olive-green leaves and the reddish soil with its teeming ants. The tattered ribbons of paperbark, the crackly dry cicada shell, the smooth furrow left in the dust by a passing snake. That's all there ever is really, most of the time. No rainforest with tropical butterflies, no palm trees or Californian redwoods, no leopards or iguanas or panda bears. Just the bush.

You could be David's friend too". She glanced at Tamani when he said nothing. He was frowning. "The two of you really have a lot in common, and we're all in this together". He shook his head. "It wouldn't work". "Why not? He's a nice guy. And it would do you good to have some human friends", she said hinting at what she suspected was the root of the problem. "It's not that", Tamani said, gesturing vaguely with one hand. "Then why?" Laurel asked, exasperated. "I just don't want to cosy up to the guy whose girl I have every intention of stealing

You stop revisiting memories when you outgrow the people you made them with.

You're under no obligation to be who people think you are. Change, grow, rearrange yourself. Free and beautiful things always bloom and spark with no holding back.

You make my heart shake bend and break

You’re not upset about that fate? “I can’t change it, right?” He paused. Pragmatic. Unexpectedly so. I didn’t expect logic from a wild witch like you.

You were not born to just go to school and work, Discover the world and enjoy your life while you're still young

A few drinks and the world was hers— she wore her whiskey like a loaded gun.

A bus drives past and I’m nauseated by a whiff of exhaust. Then rotting fish. The rancid stench of sewage. Is it garbage day? I’m trapped in the pungent fog, in the dreary suburban-style shops, the rat race of city life. The city, even on the west coast, has the power to beat us down, to suck us of passion, to crush our dreams.

And it was in that moment of distress and confusion that the whip of terror laid its most nicely calculated lash about his heart. It dropped with deadly effect upon the sorest spot of all, completely unnerving him. He had been secretly dreading all the time that it would come - and come it did. Far overhead, muted by great height and distance, strangely thinned and wailing, he heard the crying voice of Defago, the guide. The sound dropped upon him out of that still, wintry sky with an effect of dismay and terror unsurpassed. The rifle fell to his feet. He stood motionless an instant, listening as it were with his whole body, then staggered back against the nearest tree for support, disorganized hopelessly in mind and spirit. To him, in that moment, it seemed the most shattering and dislocating experience he had ever known, so that his heart emptied itself of all feeling whatsoever as by a sudden draught. 'Oh! oh! This fiery height! Oh, my feet of fire! My burning feet of fire...' ran in far, beseeching accents of indescribable appeal this voice of anguish down the sky. Once it called - then silence through all the listening wilderness of trees. And Simpson, scarcely knowing what he did, presently found himself running wildly to and fro, searching, calling, tripping over roots and boulders, and flinging himself in a frenzy of undirected pursuit after the Caller. Behind the screen of memory and emotion with which experience veils events, he plunged, distracted and half-deranged, picking up false lights like a ship at sea, terror in his eyes and heart and soul. For the Panic of the Wilderness had called to him in that far voice - the Power of untamed Distance - the Enticement of the Desolation that destroys. He knew in that moment all the pains of someone hopelessly and irretrievably lost, suffering the lust and travail of a soul in the final Loneliness. A vision of Defago, eternally hunted, driven and pursued across the skyey vastness of those ancient forests fled like a flame across the dark ruin of his thoughts... It seemed ages before he could find anything in the chaos of his disorganized sensations to which he could anchor himself steady for a moment, and think... The cry was not repeated; his own hoarse calling brought no response; the inscrutable forces of the Wild had summoned their victim beyond recall - and held him fast. ("The Wendigo")

And damn it, I should be thinking this through. Normal people can’t leave their job to return a notebook. But this job sucks, and I haven’t taken any vacation time, like, ever. I should seriously be consulting with a lot of different people before jumping in, but that’s never been a strong suit of mine. Because there’s a need in Julienne’s voice that I haven’t heard before, and I have nothing waiting for me here that won’t be there when we get back.

And my wildly troubled love for you, which labored gently in the garden all through June, then tore the flowers up with its fists in July.