In the beginning, I had considered these stops on my journey as interruptions – but I’m coming to understand that perhaps these detours are my journey.
Maybe, if we just accepted our deaths, we might finally start to live.
We are all in motion. Always. Those who are not climbing toward something are descending toward nothing.
The universe is a trillion, trillion threads moving in seemingly unrelated directions. Yet when you look at them together, they create a remarkable tapestry.
We spend our life building higher fences and stronger locks, when the gravest dangers are already inside.
We all arrive on Earth with a round-trip ticket.
We stone our prophets, then build monuments to them after they’re gone.
Magna est veritas, et praevalebit: truth is mighty, and will prevail.
I’ve yet to read a love story that compares with mine.
That which we expect of life is indeed all that it ever can be.
It was the first time that I had ever been romantically kissed. It was even better than the chocolate cake.
Rarely do we invest the time to open the book of another’s life. When we do, we are usually surprised to find its cover so misleading and its reviews so flawed.
Some men see mountains as obstacles. Others as a canvas.
It’s almost as difficult to believe that someone with so many trials could harbor such hope, as that there are those with so much advantage who harbor such hopelessness.
There are two kinds of suffering in this life. That which pursues us and that which we doggedly pursue.
Old friends are memories personified.
It has been a mistake living my life in the past. One cannot ride a horse backwards and still hold its reins.
In your hurry to keep Christmas, you have forgotten Christmas. The truest gift of Christmas is the gift of self.
Can you ever forgive me? I already have. How could you? I don’t deserve it. That’s what makes it love.
Some people deal with their problems by talking them to death. In fact, some enjoy the execution so much they resurrect their problems just so they can kill them again.-Nathan Hurst.
Could it be that to truly love a thing is not to desire it, but to desire happiness for it?