Soaking Quotes

Authors: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
Categories: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
If peace comes from seeing the whole, then misery stems from a loss of perspective. We begin so aware and grateful. The sun somehow hangs there in the sky. The little bird sings. The miracle of life just happens. Then we stub our toe, and in that moment of pain, the whole world is reduced to our poor little toe. Now, for a day or two, it is difficult to walk. With every step, we are reminded of our poor little toe. Our vigilance becomes: Which defines our day-the pinch we feel in walking on a bruised toe, or the miracle still happening? It is the giving over to smallness that opens us to misery. In truth, we begin taking nothing for granted, grateful that we have enough to eat, that we are well enough to eat. But somehow, through the living of our days, our focus narrows like a camera that shutters down, cropping out the horizon, and one day we're miffed at a diner because the eggs are runny or the hash isn't seasoned just the way we like. When we narrow our focus, the problem seems everything. We forget when we were lonely, dreaming of a partner. We forget first beholding the beauty of another. We forget the comfort of first being seen and held and heard. When our view shuts down, we're up in the night annoyed by the way our lover pulls the covers or leaves the dishes in the sink without soaking them first. In actuality, misery is a moment of suffering allowed to become everything. So, when feeling miserable, we must look wider than what hurts. When feeling a splinter, we must, while trying to remove it, remember there is a body that is not splinter, and a spirit that is not splinter, and a world that is not splinter.

Mark Nepo
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WE SMELLED THE GREASEPAINT IN THE AIR, THEY STUMBLED INTO TOWN LAST NIGHT, COMPLETELY UNAWARE, CLAD IN SHIRTS OF MESH AND WITH MASCARA ON THEIR EYES WE SAW A KEYBOARD PLAYER AND WE KNEW THEY HAD TO DIE. THEY PLAYED A SHOW AT IVAN'S INN, FROM UNDERNEATH THE STAGE WE HEARD THE CATERWAULING DIN, THEY SANG OF FORESTS, ELVES, AND TROLLS, THE URGE TO KILL THEM ON THE SPOT WE BARELY COULD CONTROL AFTER THE SHOW THEY ALL GOT DRUNK, APPARENTLY TO CELEBRATE A SET THAT REALLY STUNK, TO THE GRAVEYARD THEY PREDICTABLY PAID CALL, THESE LORDS OF CHAOS WHINED ABOUT THEIR TOUR BUS BEING SMALL THEY SPOKE OF NORWAY AND 'THE SCENE' THE SOUND OF LAUGHING GHOULS REVERBERATED THROUGH THE TREES 'WE SHOULD TAKE SOME PICTURES!' THE ONE IN CHAIN MAIL SAID, 'THAT'S IT.' CREMATOR GROWLED, 'IT'S TIME THESE IDIOTS WERE DEAD.' THEY SCATTERED LIKE RATS WHEN THEY SAW GHOUL ATTACK, THE DRUMMER WAS THE FIRST TO GO, A HOOK IN HIS BACK MACHETES WERE SINKING INTO PAINTED FLESH CARNAGE AND GORE SOAKING LEATHER AND MESH THE KEYBOARDIST BEGGED BUT FERMENTOR JUST LAUGHED WE HACKED OFF HIS HANDS AND THEN CHOPPED HIM IN HALF THE VOCALIST WAS STRANGLED WITH HIS VERY GUTS HIS FEMALE BACK-UP EXPIRED FROM HER CUTS SPLATTERING BRAIN PANS AS A MATTER OF COURSE VIOLENTLY MURDERING WITH NO FUCKING REMORSE THEIR BASSIST, TO A BOOBYTRAP, PAID A TOLL HIS HEAD HAVING GAINED FIVE OR SIX EXTRA HOLES THE BLOOD FROM HIS MOUTH MADE A HOT, STEAMY TREAT WE SAVOURED THE MOMENT, THEN SAWED OFF HIS FEET BOTH OF THE GUITARISTS MADE A RUN FOR THE GATE DIGESTOR CUT THEM OFF AND SEALED THEIR FATE ONE OF THEM CRIED WHILE THE OTHER WAS KILLED, HIS TEARS DID NO GOOD AS HIS SKULL WAS STILL DRILLED SLICING AND DICING, OUR FANATIC OBSESSION OF SLAUGHTERING POSEURS, WE'VE MADE A PROFESSION IN OUR FORBIDDEN... FORBIDDEN CRYPTS!!!

Ghoul
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Finding herself on the way to the village center again, she pulled over, intending to negotiate a three-point turn. The cottage was slightly out of the village, so she needed to get back onto the opposite side of the road and go back up the hill. Glancing over Hannah's instructions again, she swung the car to the right-straight into the path of a motorcyclist. What happened next seemed to happen in slow motion. The rider tried to stop but couldn't do so in time, although he did manage to avoid hitting her car. As he turned his handlebars hard to the right, his tires lost grip on the wet road and he flew off, sliding some way before coming to a halt. Layla sat motionless in her car, paralyzed temporarily by the shock. At last she managed to galvanize herself into action and fumbled for the door handle, her shaking hands making it hard to get a grip. When the door finally opened, another dilemma hit. What if she couldn't stand? Her legs felt like jelly, surely they wouldn't support her. Forcing herself upward, she was relieved to discover they held firm. Once she was sure they would continue to do so, she bolted over to where the biker lay, placed one hand on his soaking leather-clad shoulder and said, 'Are you okay?' 'No, I'm not bloody okay!' he replied, a pair of bright blue eyes meeting hers as he lifted his visor. 'I'm a bit bruised and battered as it goes.' Despite his belligerent words, relief flooded through her: he wasn't dead! 'Oh, I'm so glad, ' she said, letting out a huge sigh. 'Glad?' he said, sitting up now and brushing the mud and leaves off his left arm. 'Charming.' 'Oh, no, no, ' she stuttered, realizing what she'd just said. 'I'm not glad that I knocked you over. I'm glad you're alive.' 'Only just, I think, ' he replied, needing a helping hand to stand up. 'Can I give you a lift somewhere, take you to the nearest hospital?' 'The nearest hospital? That would be in Bodmin, I think, about fifteen miles from here. I don't fancy driving fifteen miles with you behind the wheel.' Feeling a little indignant now, Layla replied, 'I'm actually a very good driver, thank you. You're the first accident I've ever had.' 'Lucky me, ' he replied sarcastically.

Shani Struthers
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It felt like being shot with an arrow, and Will jerked back. His wineglass crashed to the floor and shattered. He lurched to his feet, leaning both hands on the table. He was vaguely aware of stares, and the landlords anxious voice in his ear, but the pain was too great to think through, almost too great to breathe through. The tightness in his chest, the one he had thought of as one end of a cord tying him to Jem, had pulled so taut that it was strangling his heart. He stumbled away from his table, pushing through a knot of customers near the bar, and passed to the front door of the inn. All he could think of was air, getting air into his lungs to breathe. He pushed the doors open and half-tumbled out into the night. For a moment the pain in his chest eased, and he fell back against the wall of the inn. Rain was sheeting down, soaking his hair and clothes. He gasped, his heart stuttering with a misture of terror and desperation. Was this just the distance from Jem affecting him? He had never felt anything like this, even when Jem was at his worst, even when he'd been injured and Will had ached with sympathetic pain. The cord snapped. For a moment everything went white, the courtyard bleeching through as if with acid. Will jackknifed to his knees, vomiting up his supper into the mud. When the spasms had passed , he staggard to his feet and blindly away from the inn, as if trying to outpace his own pain. He fetched up against the wall of the stables, beside the horse trough. He dropped to his knees to plunge his hands into the icy water-and saw his own reflection. There was his face, as white as death, and his shirt, and a spreading stain of red across the front. With wet hands he siezed at his lapels and jerked the shirt open. In the dim light that spilled from the inn, he could see that his parabati rune, just over his heart, was bleeding. His hands were covered in blood, blood mixed with rain, the same ran that was washing the blood away from his chest, showing the rune as it began to fade from black to silver, changing all that had been sense in Will's life into nonsense. Jem was dead.

Cassandra Clare
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You're innocent until proven guilty, ' Mandy exclaimed, unable to hide her gleeful smile. She missed the way people used to have normal conversations, used to be more caring for each other than themselves, back in the Seventies and Eighties. These days, she realized, neighbors kept to themselves, their kids kept to themselves, nobody talked to each other anymore. They went to work, went shopping and shut themselves up at home in front of glowing computer screens and cellphones... but maybe the nostalgic, better times in her life would stay buried, maybe the world would never be what it was. In the 21st century music was bad, movies were bad, society was failing and there were very few intelligent people left who missed the way things used to be... maybe though, Mandy could change things. Thinking back to the old home movies in her basement, she recalled what Alecto had told her. 'We wanted more than anything else in the world to be normal, but we failed.' The 1960's and 1970's were very strange times, but Mandy missed it all, she missed the days when Super-8 was the popular film type, when music had lyrics that made you think, when movies had powerful meanings instead of bad comedy and when people would just walk to a friend's house for the afternoon instead of texting in bed all day. She missed soda fountains and department stores and non-biodegradable plastic grocery bags, she wished cellphones, bad pop music and LED lights didn't exist... she hated how everything had a diagnosis or pill now, how people who didn't fit in with modern, lazy society were just prescribed medications without a second thought... she hated how old, reliable cars were replaced with cheap hybrid vehicles... she hated how everything could be done online, so that people could just ignore each other... the world was becoming much more convenient, but at the same time, less human, and her teenage life was considered nostalgic history now. Hanging her head low, avoiding the slightly confused stare of the cab driver through the rear view mirror, she started crying uncontrollably, her tears soaking the collar of her coat as the sun blared through the windows in a warm light.

Rebecca McNutt
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