Intellect takes you to the door, but it doesn’t take you into the house.
You don’t have to have it all figured out to move forward.
My heart… It feels like my chest can barely contain it. Like it’s trying to escape because it doesn’t belong to me anymore. It belongs to you. And if you wanted it, I’d wish for nothing in exchange―no gifts. No goods. No demonstrations of devotion. Nothing but knowing you loved me too. Just your heart, in exchange for mine.
In our parts such characters sometimes turn up that, however many years ago you met them, you can never recall them without an inner trembling.
You painted a naked woman because you enjoyed looking at her, put a mirror in her hand and you called the painting “Vanity,” thus morally condemning the woman whose nakedness you had depicted for you own pleasure.
Surely every one realizes, at some point along the way, that he is capable of living a far better life than the one he has chosen.
Henry Miller, Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch
What we say isn’t always how we feel; and how we feel isn’t always what we say.
Other people are not medicine.
With impermanence, every door is open for change. Impermanence is an instrument for our liberation.
I have this vision: That I would finally come and find you. Scattered pieces of distance would not stand in my way. Not needing words; the barest of glimpses would suffice for you and me.
Liberate yourself from being right.