Twirling 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
I have many lovers. Where ever I look, I find them. There is no place devoid of them. They are everywhere: In the enchanting Cottonwood trees, The rivers, the rocky roads, the hills, the mystic trails, The snow capped mountains, The skies, the clouds, the soaring eagle , The blackness of night, as black as the Raven, The absolute brave Cactus, Listening to me, and the whispers I breathe. Where ever I, look I find them. There is no place devoid of them. My lovers are everywhere. They are everywhere: In the rains, the freezing winds, The sun, the moonlight, The darkness of despair, The days of pain and sorrow, They never leave me, or betray me, Or ever forsake me, Even in my unfaithfulness, They remain mine. Am I blessed, crazy, or blind? However much I dare, Even in those careless moments; they care. Where ever I look, I find them, There is no place devoid of them, My lovers are everywhere. They are everywhere: I close my eye's, I see them, They appear to me patiently, like some ancient melody, in my waking dreams, they are like wise prophets, twirling in compassionate dances of forgiveness. Allowing me my mistakes of existence. They give me, 'me'. Reach for my fears, cradle and hold me. They are everywhere: I will regenerate, and shine through their presence. Through their guidance, from their quiet empowerment, I will gather myself, pick up my pride, Understand 'life', and remember reality. Finally, when my 'being' remains not with me, they will once again redefine, re-collect me, recreate the aura around me, find another place to replant me. They are everywhere: No place is devoid of them. Countless lovers. Their love: Omnipresent. Only if one can 'see', These lovers are everywhere.

Ansul Noor
That-this-is Orion's secret. It's not that the ship isn't working, that we're never going to make it. It's that the ship has already arrived. We're already here! There-there-is the planet that will be our home! It floats, so bright that it hurts my eyes. Giant green landmasses spread out across blue water, with swirls and wisps of clouds twirling over top. At the edge of the planet, where it turns away from the suns and starts to darken, I can see bright flashes of light-bursts of whiteness in the darkness-and I think: Is that lightning? In the center, where the light of the suns makes the planet seem to glow from within, I can see, very distinctly, a continent. A continent. On one edge, it's cracked and broken like an egg, dark lines snaking deep into the landmass. Rivers. Lots of them. Maybe something too big to be rivers if I can see it from here. Fingers of land stretch out into the sea, and dots of islands are just out of their grasp. That area will be cool all the time, I think. Boats can go along the rivers, up and down. We can swim in the water. Because already, I can see myself living there. Being there. On a planet that looks up at a million suns every night, and at two every day. I want to scream, shout with joy. But the air is so thin now. Too thin. I've spent too long looking at Orion's secret. The boop... boop... boop... fades away. There's nothing to warn about now. Because there's no air left. My sight is rimmed with black. My head pulses with my heartbeat, which sounds as loud to me as the alarm once did. I turn from the planet-my planet-and start pulling, hand over hand, against the tether, toward the hatch. The ship bobs in and out of my vision as my whole body jerks. I'm panicked now and fighting to stay awake. I try to suck in air, but there's nothing there to suck. I'm drowning in nothing.

Beth Revis
Most people are afflicted with an inability to say what they see or think. They say there's nothing more difficult than to define a spiral in words; they claim it is necessary to use the unliterary hand, twirling it in a steadily upward direction, so that human eyes will perceive the abstract figure immanent in wire spring and a certain type of staircase. But if we remember that to say is to renew, we will have no trouble defining a spiral; it's a circle that rises without ever closing. I realize that most people would never dare to define it this way, for they suppose that defining is to say what others want us to say rather than what's required for the definition. I'll say it more accurately: a spiral is a potential circle that winds round as it rises, without ever completing itself. But no, the definition is still abstract. I'll resort to the concrete, and all will become clear: a spiral is a snake without a snake, vertically wound around nothing. All literature is an attempt to make life real. All of us know, even when we act on what we don't know, life is absolutely unreal in its directly real form; the country, the city and our ideas are absolutely fictitious things, the offspring of our complex sensation of our own selves. Impressions are incommunicable unless we make them literary. Children are particularly literary, for they say what they feel not what someone has taught them to feel. Once I heard a child, who wished to say that he was on the verge of tears, say not 'I feel like crying', which is what an adult, i.e., an idiot, would say but rather, ' I feel like tears.' And this phrase -so literary it would seem affected in a well-known poet, if he could ever invent it - decisively refers to the warm presence of tears about to burst from eyelids that feel the liquid bitterness. 'I feel like tears'! The small child aptly defined his spiral. To say! To know how to say! To know how to exist via the written voice and the intellectual image! This is all that matters in life; the rest is men and women, imagined loves and factitious vanities, the wiles of our digestion and forgetfulness, people squirming- like worms when a rock is lifted - under the huge abstract boulder of the meaningless blue sky.

Fernando Pessoa
?Earn cash when you save a quote by clicking
EARNED Load...
LEVEL : Load...