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Perhaps not to be is to be without your being,
without your going, that cuts noon light like a blue flower, without your passing later through fog and stones, without the torch you lift in your hand that others may not see as golden, that perhaps no one believed blossomed the glowing origin of the rose, without, in the end, your being, your coming suddenly, inspiringly, to know my life, blaze of the rose-tree, wheat of the breeze: and it follows that I am, because you are: it follows from ‘you are’, that I am, and we: and, because of love, you will, I will, We will, come to be. --Pablo Neruda |
"You have a masterpiece inside you, you know. One unlike any that ahs ever been created, or ever will be. If you go to your grave without painting your masterpiece, it will not get painted. No one else can paint it. Only you." --Gordon MacKenzie |
I don't break the rules, I just bend them - a lot.
Sideswipe-autobot |
"You cannot take the mild approach to the weeds in your mental garden. You have got to hate weeds enough to kill them. Weeds are not something you handle; weeds are something you devastate." --Jim Rohn |
"Your vision will become clear only when you look into your heart. Who looks outside, dreams. Who looks inside, awakens." --Carl Jung |
"Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you." --Friedrich Nietzsche |
What you do speaks so loud that I cannot hear what you say. - Ralph Waldo Emerson
Glynn |
I remember you as you were in the last autumn.
You were the grey beret and the still heart. In your eyes the flames of the twilight fought on. And the leaves fell in the water of your soul. Clasping my arms like a climbing plant the leaves garnered your voice, that was slow and at peace. Bonfire of awe in which my thirst was burning. Sweet blue hyacinth twisted over my soul. I feel your eyes traveling, and the autumn is far off: Grey beret, voice of a bird, heart like a house Towards which my deep longings migrated And my kisses fell, happy as embers. Sky from a ship. Field from the hills: Your memory is made of light, of smoke, of a still pond! Beyond your eyes, farther on, the evenings were blazing. Dry autumn leaves revolved in your soul. -- Pablo Neruda |
The great tragedy of filial love is that the parent always loves the child more than the child loves the parent.
I can't find who said that. I know it has to be that way or else the child would never depart for their own life. Still... my guy is 12 already! :( |
In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life... It goes on.
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“There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are messengers of overwhelming grief...and unspeakable love.” Washington Irving
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- Every great dream begins with a dreamer. Always remember, you have within you the strength, the patience, and the passion to reach for the stars and to change the world. - - Harriet Tubman - |
Because things are the way they are, things will not stay the way they are.
~Bertolt Brecht |
"Fear is a question: What are you afraid of, and why? Just as the seed of health is in illness, because illness contains information, our fears are a treasure house of self-knowledge if we explore" - Marilyn Ferguson |
"The first question here, then, is not "What is best for my soul?" nor is it even "What is most useful to humanity?" But--transcending both these limited aims--what function must this life fulfill in the great and secret economy of God?" --Evelyn Underhill |
"You need to claim the events of your life to make yourself yours. When you truly possess all that you have been and done, which may take some time, you are fierce with reality." --Florida Scott Maxwell |
UN AMOR
Por ti junto a los jardines recién florecidos me duelen los perfumes de primavera. He olvidado tu rostro, no recuerdo tus manos, ¿cómo besaban tus labios? Por ti amo las blancas estatuas dormidas en los parques, las blancas estatuas que no tienen voz ni mirada. He olvidado tu voz, tu voz alegre. He olvidado tus ojos. Como una flor a su perfume, estoy atado a tu recuerdo impreciso. Estoy cerca del dolor como una herida, si me tocas me dañarás irremediablemente. Tus caricias me envuelven como las enredaderas a los muros sombríos. He olvidado tu amor y sin embargo te adivino detrás de todas las ventanas. Por ti me duelen los pesados perfumes del estío: Por ti vuelvo a acechar los ginos que precipitan los deseos, las estrellas en fuga, los objetos que caen. ~ Pablo Neruda |
The smallest act of kindness is worth more than the grandest intention.
- Oscar Wilde |
Politicians and diapers have one thing in common. They should both be changed regularly, and for the same reason.
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offense
"You add suffering to the world just as much when you take offense, as when you give offense." -Ken Keyes Jr.
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