Best 6456 quotes in «change quotes» category

Science discovered long ago that carbon is a source of life. The ashes of my faith have prepared the ground for the planting of seeds that have produced new forms of truth, morality and meaning on my own terms, not according to the dogma laid down by religious ruffians or a vengeful God. If, as believers claim, the word "gospel" means good news, then the good news for me is that there is no gospel, other than what I can define for myself, by observation and conscience. As a journalist and free-thinking human being, I have come not to favor and fear religion, but to face and fight it as an impediment to civilized advancement.

Scientists are those who change facts

SCORPIUS: The world changes and we change with it. I am better off in this world. But the world is not better. And I don't want that.

Security is merely an illusion. If you think your schedule, your botox, your insurance, your marriage certificate, your 401K, and the deadbolt on your door is going to keep you safe from change and the happenings of life—think again. Nothing is guaranteed. Nothing can give you solid ground but your own trust in yourself and the purpose of existing-- That is the only solid ground upon which you can stand.

See how a body will change, to give you the best chance it can.

Seeing thou hast now given me the way, I will proceed to speak before thee: for our mother, of whom thou hast told me that she is young, draw now nigh unto age.

See it (your situations) with your eyes but direct it to God

Self-change can only come after self-understanding.

Self-improvement without self-love is like building a house upon sand. You can build and build, but it will always sink.

Semoga di 2017 orang2 semakin sadar bahwa penyiar berita lebih perhatian ngucapin "selamat pagi" ketimbang gebetan yg sering diculik UFO

Semoga di 2017 jenis Php semakin bisa diidentifikasi, sehingga mblo mblo indonesia semakin waspada dan lebih berhati-hati

Self-observation is simply the observation of an internal state and an external event. It is pure awareness, which gives one the ability to choose one's actions. Only by having the choice can one perform what is right.

Separation from the community creates isolation. Isolation is the source of most physical, emotional and spiritual disease.

Sensible motivation is always effective.

Serve my would-be patriot - serve your people - your kind – serve your humans like your life depends on it - serve with all the might in your body and brain - serve with your whole being - make your existence a cynosure of service - and then only shall evolution pave the path toward a less wild and more humane world.

Sex mirrored our drinking; both defined our relationship: selfish, detached, indulgent and satisfying.

Seven Ways To Get Ahead in Business: 1. Be forward thinking 2. Be inventive, and daring 3. Do the right thing 4. Be honest and straight forward 5. Be willing to change, to learn, to grow 6. Work hard and be yourself 7. Lead by example

Shall I kill her now? Shall I not even investigate, but kill her and burn her? His throat moved. Such thoughts were a hideous testimony to the world he had accepted; a world in which murder was easier than hope.

Shame often causes me to hide my mistakes from others. But really, when I make a mistake, I should make it loud and clear, so I can see that it didn’t work as a strategy, and be able to make a course correction, either by myself or with the help of others.

She began to feel that she had not yet gone through all the changes of opinion and sentiment, which the progress of time and variation of circumstances occasion in this world of changes.

She doesn't need to see him go to know he is gone.

She did not know where her home was anymore, and this idea didn’t frighten her like it should. - Bohemian Grove

She had generated alternative versions of herself. She had insisted at brutal cost on these conversions. Layering her life, only to strip it bare. Only to be alone in the end. Her life had been paired down to its solitary components.

She felt likee doing her part to change the world, so she started by giving thanks for all the blessings of her life, rather than bemoaning all that was missing from it. Then she complimented her reflection in the mirror, instead of criticizing it as she usually did. Next she walked into her neighborhood and offered her smile to everyone she passed, whether or not they offered theirs to her. Each day she did these things, and soon they became habit. Each day she lived with more gratitude, more acceptance, more kindnesss. And sure enough, the world around her began to change. Because she had decided so, she was single-handedly doing her part to change it

She had the blood of the sun running through her veins and the dust of stars at her fingertips. Her every breath birthed new cosmos and her thoughts were the super moon of the darkest night. Every word was a supernova and every step an inescapable singularity. Her touch though...it was soft.

She is beyond any mortal structure of words, yet she inspires the effort to try anyway.

She kept hoping something would change, but she knew she'd lost him to a world she could never be part of. So instead she pretended. Pretended to be strong. Pretended everything was alright. Pretended for Michael, for herself, but most of all for Willow. Because Willow loved Michael, and he, her – that much was obvious

She knows that stories have the power to change things: the past and the future, even the present.

She looked down at the city. It was changing, and she didn't know what it would look like when it was done. Maybe it would never be done.

She looked stunned. “I feel like I don't know you anymore.” “You never did,” I replied, just as coolly. “You were always too busy thinking about who you would like me to be that you never thought to ask who I actually was.

She knows her timing, always knows. The time to strike or the time to starve. Her eyes as a clock, she watches she waits she learns, and in the second she blinks, she changes her mind just like that.

She looked at Damerel. 'Well, my dear friend?' 'Well, my dear delight?' he returned, a glint in his eyes. 'Do you think you will make me unhappy?' 'I don't - but I will offer you on promises!' 'No, pray don't!' she said seriously. 'As soon as one promises not to do something it becomes the one thing avocet all others that one most wishes to do!' She turned her head towards he uncle again. ' You mean to warn me that he may continue to have mistresses, and orgies, and - and so-on, don't you, sir?' '*Particularly* so-on!' interpolated Damerel. 'Well, how should I know all the shocking thing you do? The thing is, Uncle, that I don't think I ever should know.' 'You'd know about my orgies!' objected Damerel. 'Yes, but I shouldn't care about them, once in a while. After all, it would be quite unreasonable to wish you to change *all* your habits, and I can always retire to bed, can't I?' 'Oh, won't you preside over them? he said, much disappointed. 'Yes, love, if you wish me to,' she replied, smiling at him. 'Should I enjoy them?' He stretched out his hand, and when she laid her own in it, held it very tightly. 'You shall have a splendid orgy, my dear delight, and you will enjoy it very much indeed!

She said the music made her wonder, Does it alter us more to be heard, or to hear?

She's an array of undiscovered words, of feeling beyond my threshold. I'm just a man, trying to hold himself together in her wake.

She thought: How hard it is to change one’s life. And again she thought: How terrifyingly simple to change the lives of others.

She’s told me on multiple occasions that I don’t have to always stay the person I was, that I can change and be whoever I want to be.

She’s upset with the change she didn’t see coming.

She was a mimicry of a facade fashioned from the half-truths of her life. She was a beautiful abomination, patched together from the most pristine and terrible parts she could find. She was a black crystal of many cuts and facets whose dark glow suffocated and entranced those it washed over. There was a pointlessness in her eyes and apathy in her stature, and further in, past the symphonies of nightmarish screams was a blinding light. All the capability she could ever ask for kept in a place she would never reach. She chose the ice rather than the fire, shivering and hard with heat sparse, for while a flicker can exist in freeze's cold, it's heat will not radiate, no matter how bold. She took my face in hands that would make ice seem warm and whispered a blizzard into my ear, a cascading song of fear after fear. The lies she spilled, mixed with regrets and appeal, were cloaked in the inferno of her rage, the anger, the only thing that really made her real. This was her one semblance of life, a bottomless and endless void of proportions vast with a calamity of fusion and fission streaking through, a mindless hue, an emotion with a face, a darling of her race. The cracks spew darkness from within her ever so pale skin. They congregated on her curves and flesh in black and churning rivers and streams. They flooded every dip with blackness. They filled every hollow with unstable curiosity, this is her release, this is when she is free. The faces of deceit always laugh, they never wallow for their lies are a pleasure tool, her insides are contorted in laughter the same way, just as slick, just as cruel. A crude combination of fascination, of animation, of the darkest demons of them all. She was poetry written in pen, scratched and scribbled again and again. Ink splattered across the page, and within those scrawled words, those small, sharp incisions, an image can be seen, and you're left to wonder what, in the end, this all could mean...

She was an echo masquerading as a shadow and she followed me just the same. The night and its moon were her favor while the sunrise and sunlight the daggers that sliced her to ribbons. She looked through half closed eyes at a blind world filled with wide eyes staring at walls. She felt pity with no care while around here steamed a burden too dense to bear. In the hours before dawn her tears slide to her jaw as a soft song escapes from between her cracked lips. A barbed song of glory and woe that hugs her tight and steals her breath, each line a quiver, every word a bind. A cage in her image meant to be broken. Destroy and recreate, scar after scar shallow and deep, her dreams were her life and the nightmares her sleep. Dark circles under eyes that truly see, time while awake moves more slowly. It trickles past her, eroding her being and pulling on her delicate seams. She unravels a little each day, tucking the threads back in every which way. In the night she is flawless and clear, the moonlight dancing in swirls, throwing half formed monograms against her wall. She traces these curves and whispers her story, an imprint in an ocean of churning shadows. Her imagination plays a scene of a teary-eyed embrace on the shores of a former dream, where droplets of her soul fell wildly below, where they and her became a part of a much larger whole. A smile rips her taunt and clenched face, the memory of the feeling of an unreal embrace. She holds herself tightly in a corner with no light and shudders with every pinprick of the downpour of night. Though muffled by the glass of her self imposed flask, she hears the birds singing their song, the natural alarm of impending light. She waits patiently for the sun, counting the half seconds and making time slow, her grey eyes less than aimless and staring at the clouds. With half closed eyes now shining a golden haloed blue, she watches the sky change colors from soft to brilliant hue. The flood of life and color takes her by surprise every day and which way. The rip cuts a little more, her restless thoughts take note and pause. She just wants to scream. To swallow the vibrant light and flood her veins with all the color ever seen, a strange desire to fix what is broken and yet wanting to break. She loses count of the seconds in the wrinkles of her palms, mere dust to wind, ashes to gale. She recites the deadly seven and stops at lust, how different from love while still the same in a twisted way. Her knees press against the worn, wooden floor with no intent to pray, she just wants the numbness and the pain. There are some things right and a few that are wrong, feeling the breath of freedom tapered against the need to belong, The sun now vomits its light across the cragged horizon, illuminating manmade lines and verdurous fuzz, her rip widens in distaste and her mind frowns in disgust. Her heart hangs limp as a shattered mirror reflecting its own cracks, each inaudible beat a glimmer of a glimpse of something more than her created deceit. This is hope. In a fragile and faceted way, the reflects are abyss and ascension portrayed intertwined with no ties holding them together. She is the half second of the transition of the beat, the moment her heart begins to flex and show more than bones and maneuverable meat. She wonders about the subtle difference between spirit and soul and whether she needs only one or both to be whole. Shaking her head as if to dislodge her thoughts, they steer from the tracks and tumble and crash, destruction and turmoil birthing creation and a new path. She thinks about the way she thinks and comes full triangle, it feels right to be so jagged rather than unburdened as a circle. With a sigh and a breath, she stands against the weight of her shoulders and the unbalance of her feet. Her half closed eyes slowly fade to grey as the light and color in the sky changes and decays. She is the moments before the sun rises and sets-1-2-3

She was carmine shadows reflecting from my crimson words. Every pulse sent a velvet ripple through the shade. Every breath, a scarlet pause.

She wasn’t going to sit and wait. She was done waiting, because you could spend your whole life waiting for something to happen. Something big. You could wait and wait, and even if something big happened, even if it finally happened—it didn’t change anything.

She was poetry written in pen, scribbled and scrawled again and again.

She was the half-whispers born from half-thoughts, the half-breaths of dying half-hearts.

she will change the world someday, her cure of love in a world gone mad; is the gentle kind of touch that will teach women to grow and men to rise.

Should you wish to pursue the infinity of truth, you must make yourself humble as ashes and vigorous as the wind. And with that attitude flowing through your veins, bring your novel thinking in action and disinfect the world with a bold, radical and positive change – a change of egalitarianism, a change of globalism, a change of rationalism, a change of humanism.

Show the world you are not here to just pass through. Leave great footprints wherever you pass and be remembered for the change you initiated.

SILENT LIKE SLEEP You appear by my side, silent like sleep. Soft hair, a little wild. No fear, gentle like a calm river. I turn and catch your gaze, before you have time to look away. Your eyes are searching inside mine. Perhaps, they ARE mine. More than nakedness, for there is no cover to take. The fire in your eyes is ringed with water; wide and cool. We are far from the brutal place, but you do not think so. You take my hand and disappear like you were never there, except that I am now somewhere else.

Silence of dissent creates change at the behest of those who do not stay silent.

Şimdi dikenler, şurada, ayağımın dibinde, iri şimşirler gibi güzel, etli, usareyle dolu fakat hareketsizdiler. Yerlerinden kımıldamıyorlardı, çünkü henüz ağustos başlarındaydık. Bir aya kadar onlarla birlikte koşacak mıydık? Nereye götürdüklerini, nereye gittiklerini öğrenecek miydim? Çoğunun bir sobada çatırtılarla yanıp kül olduğunu biliyordum. Ama ya ötekiler? Ya o 'macera yaratanlar?' Onlar bir çocuğun gözlerine hangi memleketleri gösterirlerdi; bazılarının talihlerini değiştirmeyi nasıl başarırlardı? Bana çılgınlıklar anlatacak, yalan söylese de zararı yok, bir parça hayal kurmama, cesaret göstermeme olanak verecek biriyle konuşmayı ne kadar istiyordum! Dikenlerse hayal ve cesaretten, insanı sahip olduğu şeyleri, olabileceği şeylere fedaya çağıran bir davetten ibarettir: Bu şeyler elde bulunanlardan daha beter olsalar da ne çıkar? Bütün yeryüzünü sevenler için, olduğu yerde çürümekten daha kötü ne vardır?

Sincere feelings never change quickly...