“For a long time it had seemed to me that life was about to begin — real life. But there was always some obstacle in the way. Something to be got through first, some unfinished business; time still to be served, a debt to be paid. Then life could begin. At last it had dawned on me that these obstacles were my life. I was always rolling these stones from my grave.”
—Bette Howland,
I’m a coffee is half-full kind of girl.
There are two sides to every story. Even my own story. Probably every story I’ve ever told myself.
I like people who don’t take life too seriously but who do take very seriously the gratitude for being alive.
If I had a big balloon
Round as any Harvest Moon
And a bully kicked it, say,
With his foot, and ran away.
All the world would comfort me,
Saying softly, “What a shame!”
Well, it wasn’t stamped or kicked,
My balloon was only pricked
With a very little pin
Touched to it, not driven in.
No one came to comfort me
Though ’twas broken, just the same.
—Janet Barton,
“What a miserable thing life is: you’re living in clover, only the clover isn’t
—Bertolt Brecht, Jungle of Cities, 1923, translated by
Saw this trash bin today. Call me crazy but not only does it look kinda pretty, it also seems to suggest many metaphors for the past fifteen years.
I read an article stating that cats don’t understand death the way humans do, so they don’t fear it like we do — I think they understand better than
The stars, like many other things, are only romantic from a distance.
Facts and figures are never the whole story.
All we experience is reality filtered with self.
If your storm has lightning and rainbows —
Be glad, be glad.
If something is just plain red, how do we know that it isn’t actually red with red