And one day when you wake up, you happen to realise that your battle isn't with the man you had got into a brawl with the other day, it isn't with a friend turned foe, it isn't with those parents who chose to give up on you, it isn't with the bus driver for not having waited until you got in, it isn't with the employer who cancelled the application to your leave, it isn't with the examiner who resolved into failing you, it isn't with the woman who did not reciprocate your feelings, it isn't with child who dropped his ice-cream cone on you, it isn't with your ill fate and it isn't with that superior being above you. Your battle, your fight isn't against the world but against yourself and the only way to come through all of it and beyond, to win, is improvement, self-improvement which needs to be gradual and progressive with the transverse of each day.
Who is he when he isn't Dauntless, isn't an instructor, isn't Four, isn't anything in particular? Whoever he is, I like him. It's easier to admit that to myself now, in the dark, after all that just happened. He is not sweet or gentle or particularly kind. But he is smart and brave, and even though he saved me, he treated me like I was strong. That is all I need to know.
The snapshooter's pictures have an apparent disorder and imperfection, which is exactly their appeal and their style. The picture isn't straight. It isn't done well. It isn't composed. It isn't thought out. And out of this imbalance, and out of this not knowing, and out of this real innocence toward the medium comes an enormous vitality and expression of life.
Whenever you start-give it your best. The opportunities are there to be anything you want to be. But wanting to be someone isn't enough; dreaming about it isn't enough; thinking about it isn't enough. You've got to study for it, work for it, fight for it with all your heart and soul, because nobody is going to hand it to you.
But isn't this a dance? Isn't all of this a dance? Isn't that what we do with words? Isn't that what we do when we talk, when we spar, when we make plans or leave them to chance? Some of it's choreographed. Some of the steps have been done for ages. And the rest-the rest is spontaneous. The rest has to be decided on the floor, in the moment, before the music ends.
Rachel Cohn David Levithan
But isn't this a dance? Isn't all of this a dance? Isn't that what we do with words? Isn't that what we do when we talk, when we spar, when we make plans or leave it to chance? Some of it's choreographed. Some of the steps have been done for ages. And the rest -- the rest is spontaneous. The rest has to be decided on the floor, in the moment, before the music ends.
But here's what I would tell people of my generation. I turn 40 this year. There isn't going to be a Social Security. There isn't going to be a Medicare when you retire. Forget about what your benefit is going to look like. There isn't going to be one if we don't make some reforms to save that program now.
No, it really isn't, but trust me, getting divorced and having to start over is the least in life that isn't fair. I had to watch the parents of a way too young girl realize that their daughter died for no other reason than people can't figure out how to be nice to each other. It isn't that hard, just be nice and people might not have to suffer needlessly, but that isn't the world we live in, so young girls die. That isn't fair, Mom. People falling out of love is vicious and it sucks, but there are far worse things you could be going through. I know that sounds harsh but it's very true.
This isn't television! This isn't a movie! Giles and Buffy aren't gonna appear and show us how to deal with our wonderful new powers! Some fricking owl isn't gonna come sailing in through your window from Hogwarts! There's no Dumbledore! The Cullens aren't gonna show up and invite you to live with them in Forks! There's nothing! This isn't make believe! This is it! It's us and only us.
This isn't a mob, won't need to change the names. Everyone around you has murdered someone, something sacred. There isn't one nail without dirt under it. There isn't any white cotton panties that aren't soaked and stained red. It's better to push something when it's slipping, than to risk being dragged down.
Sometimes we get wrong notions, we think we have to be in a luxurious house, in a large city, with a new car in order to be happy. Happiness isn't there. Happiness isn't in a new car, it isn't in a new and luxurious apartment. Happiness isn't in banks and stocks. Happiness is where you make it, it's up to you. It comes from within, it doesn't come from things.
Spencer W. Kimball
Gamer humor ranges all over the place. What it comes down to is taking a lot of what we see in gaming and we're familiar with in gaming and being like, 'OK, hold on, let's re-examine this for a second. Isn't this funny? Isn't this strange? Isn't this a little bit ridiculous?' That's where it is.
They just talk drivel. Whoever is winning is great, whoever isn't, isn't. It's banal. And also semi-literate at times ... they never criticise in an intelligent way. Anything that isn't banal is said to be an outburst. They've created this cartoon world where everyone talks like Lineker and says nothing.
Stuff Happens.' That's the G-rated version. That's a bumper sticker that only a straight white upper middle class male could have made. Because anyone who isn't straight, anyone who isn't male, anyone who isn't white, anyone who isn't upper middle class knows that stuff doesn't just happen. Stuff gets done by people to people. Nothing is a coincidence. Nothing is random. This isn't osmosis. And so we act as if it's this passive thing, but yet that's not the case.
Isn't telling about something-using words, English or Japanese-already something of an invention? Isn't just looking upon this world already something of an invention? The world isn't just the way it is. It is how we understand it, no? And in understanding something, we bring something to it, no? Doesn't that make life a story?
It's almost funny, isn't it?' 'What is?' 'How some animals are worth more than others?' 'Well, ' he handed Konrad a sugar cube from a tin on the shelf. 'It isn't just the animal; it's the type of animal.' 'Color, shape, size? If people pay for an animal based on what it looks like, what does that say about them?' 'It isn't necessarily what they look like.' He frowned. 'It's about where they come from.' 'That's silly, ' she said.
Yet velvet curtains, soft cheese, compelling work and boys who can run full-tilt-it isn't enough. And if it isn't, it isn't. There's no living with that. The world is made from our imagination; our eyes enliven it, as our hands give it shape. Wanting makes it thrive; meaning is what you put in, not what you extract. You only see what you are inclined to see, and no more. We have to make the new.
The world has done that already - possessed the Congo and pillaged her and dominated her and robbed her of agency and occupation. Love is something else, something rising and contagious and surprising. It isn't aware of itself. It isn't keeping track. It isn't something you sign for. It's endless and generous and enveloping. It's in the drums, in the voices, in the bodies of the wounded made suddenly whole, by the music, by each other, dancing.
But maybe prayer is a road to rise, A mountain path leading toward the skies To assist the spirit who truly tries. But it isn't a shibboleth, creed, nor code, It isn't a pack-horse to carry your load, It isn't a wagon, it's only a road. And perhaps the reward of the spirit who tries Is not the goal, but the exercise!
Edmund Vance Cooke
There's something amazing about this life. The very same worldly attribute that causes us pain is also what gives us relief: Nothing here lasts. What does that mean? It means that the breathtakingly beautiful rose in my vase will wither tomorrow. It means that my youth will neglect me. But it also means that the sadness I feel today will change tomorrow. My pain will die. My laughter won't last forever but neither will my tears. We say this life isn't perfect. And it isn't. It isn't perfectly good. But, it also isn't perfectly bad, either.
There's nothing you can do that can't be done Nothing you can sing that can't be sung. Nothing you can say but you can learn how to play the game. It's easy. Nothing you can make that can't be made. No one you can save that can't be saved. Nothing you can do but you can learn how to be you in time. It's easy. Nothing you can know that isn't known. Nothing you can see that isn't shown. Nowhere you can be that isn't where you're meant to be. It's easy.
People were standing up everywhere shouting, "This is me! This is me!" Every time you looked at them they stood up and told you who they were, and the truth of it was that they had no more idea who or what they were than he had. They believed their flashing signs, too. They ought to be standing up and shouting, "This isn't me! This isn't me!" They would if they had any decency. "This isn't me!" Then you might know how to proceed through the flashing bullshit of this world.
Advertisers like that because they want you to feel their product isn't normal - this perfume isn't normal, this set of lingerie isn't normal. The irony is that they are appealing to normal people to buy the product because they want them to identify with an exotic life that they don't lead.
The light clicks on, right above my head, drawing my eyes to it. The moment I look up, squinting, I know I'm in trouble. There isn't even a guy leaning against the corner, trying to play bad cop. There isn't a guy smiling and offering me a cup of coffee. There's just one man in a suit, with a folder in his arms that he isn't looking at. He's looking at me, raising his eyebrows and looking as if I have a note stuck to my forehead that I haven't noticed yet.
There is such a thirst to be known, isn't there? What is it about being known that would cause us to hunger so much after it, at any cost? I'm afraid too many of us have forgotten that far more noble is the journey that one embarks on to know oneself; than the trip one goes on in the search for fame. Isn't it better to know and to know and to know yourself and if your heart is found to be noble, isn't it better that you know this on your own and truly; rather than for you to chase after the thoughts that others might have of you? To be a true royal in heart is better than to be a false royal with a throne.
C. JoyBell C.
Empathy isn't about you, understanding another person isn't about you, feeling how another person feels isn't about you... step outside of your own skin for a change. Respect another person because they are who they are; not because the other person is just like you. Your inability to understand, your inability to empathize, is not a fault on the part of the other person. It is in fact your own disability that you are choosing to live with.
C. JoyBell C.
The ego isn't wrong; it's just unconscious. When you observe the ego in yourself, you are beginning to go beyond it. Don't take the ego too seriously. When you detect egoic behavior in yourself, smile. At times you may even laugh. How could humanity have been taken in by this for so long? Above all, know that the ego isn't personal. It isn't who you are. If you consider the ego to be your personal problem, that's just more ego.
Art is frightening. Art isn't pretty. Art isn't painting. Art isn't something you hang on the wall. Art is what we do when we're truly alive. An artist is someone who uses bravery, insight, creativity, and boldness to challenge the status quo. And an artist takes it (all of it, the work, the process, the feedback from those we seek to connect with) personally.
Kevin looks at me and I know he isn't seeing the little girl I use to be, all pigtails and gangly limbs. He isn't seeing my mother's daughter or even my mother anymore. As his eyes linger over me, stopping here and there in the most uncomfortable places, I know he isn't really even seeing me as I am. The bloodshot eyes staring out of the alcohol-flushed face are seeing a girl, nearly of age, who owes him a tremendous debt of gratitude.-Rocky Evans
This, ' Alaric explained to Sarah in what he thought was a kindly voice, 'isn't love you're feeling. Only dopamine. Because Felix isn't like anyone else you know. Being a creature of the night, he's new and exciting and activates a neurotransmitter in your brain that releases feelings of euphoria when you're around him... especially because you know you can never actually be together, and he seems complicated, and perhaps even sensitive and vulnerable at times. But I can assure you: he's anything but.' 'How dare you?' Sarah demanded hotly. 'It isn't dopa... whatever! It's love! Love!
The defining character of Steve Jobs isn't his genius, it isn't his talent, it isn't his success. It's his love. That's why crowds came to see him. You could feel that. It sounds ridiculous to talk about love when you are making a gadget. But Steve loved his work, he loved the products he produced, and it was palpable. He communicated that love through bits of steel and plastic.
Real love isn't ordinary. Real love isn't artificial. Real love isn't something you can buy or manufacture, because it's not something you can sell. It doesn't wash away with a rainy day or evaporate when things get too heated. It sustains itself because that's what your heart does, it sustains the rest of you.