Life is about mindfulness. It’s about being in the moment, being aware.
Don’t care for a second what people think of you. In fact, go out of your way to keep them guessing.
What would you call your decorating style?” I asked. “Boring-bachelor? Or messy-loner? He looked over at me. “More like distracted-about-my-detainee-girlfriend,” he said.
I wasn’t born to love you. I was born to lose you. You are my sad song. My melancholy mix. You were my past until you crashed into my present. But you will never be my future.
It’s who we are in the still points that defines us.
When you agree to help one person, you ultimately have to disappoint someone else; it’s like a karmic law.
You weren’t supposed to think. Just feel. You need to drop some of your senses in order to heighten others.
People can’t offer you a piece; they need to offer themselves whole, or you will always be asking for more, wishing for more. A piece is never enough.
I’m inlove with him. Completely. Absolutely. Tragically.
By the way, the other reason I agreed to help you is because I love your eyes. You have the most beautiful eyes. It’s my weakness.
But how far do you go for love? How much of your life do you give up for a single person? And how much do you let yourself change? When you stop being yourself, who will you become?
I studied Jax, becoming more intrigued by him every minute we spent together. He was like a book, where each chapter picks up pace until you can’t put it down. That’s when you know you’ve made a friend – when you want to read more of his story.
Anyone can see what’s right in front of them, but it’s subtle beauty, the kind that takes time to discover, that you have to uncover and dust off, that catches my eye. I find things with cracks and flaws and textures so much more interesting than something polished and perfect and pristine. It’s the same way with people.
It’s hard to accept that you’ve missed out on a person, that all you’ll ever know of them are pieced-together stories. It’s not like missing out on a party or a concert-those are temporary experiences, and you’ll have other opportunities. But this is permanent. It’s like being robbed of something valuable you never had the privilege to own.
Some people steal your oxygen and leave you winded. Some people cut it off completely and you’re left suffocated. But other people, the rare ones, pump oxygen into you, just like a breeze fills a wind puppet and gives it the energy to twist and sway.
Why is it that people who talk the most sometimes have the least to say?
When it comes to technology, humans are as easy to train as rats in a cage.
I want people to have permission to know me, not unlimited constant access to me.
You could read people. Their eyes were chapters and their faces were books. Their expressions were stories.
Sounds are three-dimensional, just like images. They come at you from every direction.